“Sir, I can’t kill you. My…my mind isn’t working.”
“Your mind isn’t working?” he laughs, and turns. His face is different.
His face is my face.

“Now, whose fault is that?” he asks.

And then he is gone. In his place, my pills.

I wake in a cold sweat. The next day, I call in sick to work. I don’t take my pills. The pills meant to stop me from twitching like a rabbit on ecstasy. It is my hope that these pills were what were holding me back. I believe that these pills have prevented me from reaching my full potential. I slowly come to realise that without pills made to prevent a nervous twitch, you twitch a lot more when nervous.

It’s been seventeen hours since my last pill, meant to be taken every twelve. My shoulder attacks the side of my head like a maniac with a baseball bat, but I know in the end, it will all be worth it. I try to move my butter knife. I think. I concentrate as well as I can with a brick beating against the side of my skull.

The knife lifts into the air.