The number of nights he hasn't slept has gradually turned into months. He's tried. They won't let him. If his eyes close for more than a few minutes they move in, starting a nonsensical chorus that bashes his skull like the sharp end of a hammer. Their mouths don't move, but he always hears their garbled words. Traveling out of nowhere. Cold; the sounds snake into his bones, squeezing until the sweats blanket him. 'Please,' he's begged them again and again and over and over. 'It's not my fault. It's not. It wasn't personal. I swear. You want the people who hired me to kill each of you. You don't want me. It was just about the money for me. ... The ones that paid me. They're the ones that killed you. They're the ones you want.' But they never listen. They keep talking in some cryptic tongue. He makes out a word or two but can't make out the statements. Just the feelings. All coming at once and in different cadences. Jumbled and soft, angry and dispaired, puzzled and knowing. The words racing through a chilled wind from the back end of the darkest tunnel. Cascading into his ear easily before stabbing at nerve tissue like a rusted screwdriver... He doesn't go out anymore. He can't. It's gotten too hard pretending they're not there. He's stopped playing the televison really loud. Stopped singing at the top of his lungs whether the radio's on or not. Stopped running from hotel to hotel to shack in the woods to basements to closet corners. He's even stopped screaming... He just sits here nowadays. And he drinks. And he listens. And he begs. Sometimes he cries. Far too often, he regrets... Mostly though, he wishes he had the balls to pull the trigger. It's not that he's afraid to die. Heavens no. He's afraid that's what they want. What makes the hairs on his arms stand tall and hard every ten minutes is that they're waiting... That they want him to come to their side... That maybe they're waiting their turn...