Jake Brennan

If you go on stage, you'll just let them all down because you're nothing.

You better run, George.

You better run while you can.

George closed his eyes to shut out the voice, but it kept growing louder while Rick droned on in the background.

George had to stop this intrusive voice.

He had to make it go away.

George let out a loud squawking noise that sounded like a duck call.

Rick stopped talking in mid-sentence and stared at him.

George excused himself, said he needed to hit the head.

Rick looked at him strangely, but just nodded.

Now, sitting in the bathroom, George was looking out the window with a flask and plane ticket in his hand, trying to decide his next move.

The windowsill was old but in good condition.

The white paint was slightly faded where some of the wood grain peeked through.

It reminded George of the window in the last apartment he lived in with his parents in Beaumont, Texas.

He remembered lying in bed, staring at the windowsill, waiting for his father to come home.

Some nights, the door would open gently and click shut and he would hear his father's feet shuffle across the floor, pick up the guitar he had given George for Christmas, strum a few chords, and then head to bed.

Other nights, it felt like an entirely different man came home.

This man still looked like George's father, but his eyes were wild and his breath burned and his voice turned raspy and mean.

He would slam the door open, sometimes with three or four friends behind him.

and he would pound his feet across the living room.