*bare with me as I've been drinkin' a bit and am feeling quite Hemingway, so there's no editing or spellcheck on this one; just a raw idea that's getting written down**

He felt the bottle press to his lips but the burn of the amber liquid  no longer registered as gulp after gulp of Maker's Mark made it's way down his gullet.  He'd tried to convince himself his desire to puke was the bourbon, but that bastard voice in the back of his head (no, the other one) told him different.

"I...I can't."

"yoU mUST dO IT.  ShE KnOWS...."

"No, she doesn't.  She doesn't know anything.  I...I've just told her about the itching, that's all."

"sHE dOesN'T BEliEVE yoU...sHE wilL TelL."

"Tell who?  Who is she gonna tell? What is she going to tell them?"

"SHe wilL tell thEM ABOUt uS!!!!"

He took another hard pull off the bottle, coughing halfway through and spitting out nearly as much as he swallowed.  Eight days ago his life was pristine.  Now, there was not a word in the English dictionary that described his existance.  It started with an itch and had gone south too fast to register. 

Was he crazy?  He had to be.  There was no other explanation.  Something in his brain had broken and his reasoning no longer functioned.

"Do IT!! tHe sONoFABItch is ComING!!!"

Another drink.  Another wave of drunkeness overtook him. The sonofabitch.  He was real.  And he was coming.  He knew that was true.  But it made sense. She knew. She would tell.  They couldn't have that.

Tears welling in his eye, he reached for the shotgun in front of him.  The sound of the shell racking into the barell sounded like thunder. He wipied his running nose and stood from the table.

"Baby?" he  called out.

"Yeah, sweetie?"

He left the kitchen and began up the stairs.

"We need to talk..."