If the voice inside your head doesn’t sound anything like you, you might be a writer.

My insides contract- bad. “who are you?” I ask right out loud. And he says what I’ve been afraid of since I killed Lester’s father. Haven’t you guessed? I’m you. The real you.

I became a writer so that the voices inside my head would become an acceptable occurrence.

My instincts told me that death would somehow be…different. But my rational mind reminded me that I had probably tempted fate one too many times. At least, I thought it was my rational mind. It...