Igor

The whiskey was doing nothing.

I sat in my office, the glass clutched in my hand, the amber liquid warm from my grip. I'd been holding it for over an hour, staring at the same spot on the wall, watching the shadows shift as the night bled slowly toward dawn. The glass had been full when I started. Now it was half-empty, and I couldn't remember taking a single sip.

The silence was the worst part. After hours of screaming, after hours of that terrible, rhythmic sound of violence and pain, ...