So they slapped some fancy-ass word on me—encephalopathy—like it was some sort of goddamn trophy I didn't ask for, a label to hang on the mess in my skull before they booted me out like I'd been repossessed for being too loud in my own brain.
Bullshit. Pure. Simple.
I already knew the voices weren't going anywhere. They had the permanence of wallpaper in a haunted house, peeling at the edges, creeping into your thoughts, laughing at your attempts at normalcy.
I grabbed Grandpa Woodruff by the collar, eyes probably wider than my brain deserved at the time, and demanded,
"Why the hell am I hearing things no normal person hears?"
He leaned back, hands tangled in wrinkles like they'd been sculpted from shadow and regret, eyes glinting with that mixture of amusement and horror reserved for
