***

Gerald stared at the little square piece of paper balancing on his left-hand index finger. His depression now worse than it had ever been, and he was approaching the last few ideas on his researched list of potential cures. Traditional medicine had failed him, multiple times, and he wanted to be the best husband, the best father, the best Gerald he could be, to everyone. The isolation started again, and the family suffered… again. The others gave up, long ago, but Gerald pretended he wasn’t alone in his fight for the family.

            “Under the tongue…” Gerald pushed his finger into the warm, soft, wet flesh at the floor of his mouth, while coming to terms with what he just did.

            “Crap.”

            With that realization, he laid his body straight on the bed, hoping to fall asleep before he would have to consciously deal with the effects.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

            Despite his anxiety, Gerald drifted to sleep.

            POW!

            He sprung to his feet due to the piercing crack that woke him. Gerald looked at the digital clock beside the bed, but the numbers swirled around one another.

            “Oh… right.”

            Gerald remembered the LSD, rubbed his eyes, and staggered from the bedroom door to the stairs.

            He tip-toed over the wooden boards that descended below his clammy feet, and clung, for his life, to the banister. That is when he saw his son holding a gun over a small, motionless body on the floor.

***