Nights were the worst. Caffeine caught up, jittering his limbs, bulging his eyes as raw sewage gushed from metaphoric bowels, untreated memories he thought he’d repressed. Bloody flashes and screams kept any rest for the wicked far beyond his grasp.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
That would be the day.
Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by his blog any time: www.milo-inmediasres.com.
