The Man and the VoiceHe opened his eyes upon waking and was met with darkness. And yet, that did not bother him. He sensed that he was utterly alone in the darkness. And yet, that did not bother him. He looked inside his mind. That bothered him. Wrinkling his nose, the man inhaled a deep breath of stale air tinged with the sour scent of alcohol. He'd always thought that alcoholics became accustomed to the stench; apparently not. He delved into his mind again, this time lingering a little bit longer, but he inevitably retracted, repulsed.
What if I wanted to break
Footsteps echoed. The man tensed. He liked to be alone. It felt somehow safer. "Fancy meeting you here," a voice called, the tone neither accusatory nor sympathetic. Hardly even caring; indifferent. The man smiled to himself and took a swig from the bottle in his hand, the liquid bringing to light a new-found vigor in his body.
"What? A drunkard such as myself, here, in an alley?" He smirked, a laugh pl