He had tortured himself to a near breaking point, and here he was sitting in a hot tent, surrounded by poor hopefuls, like himself; Morris, sprouting clichés for all he was worth; and Orelia probably not giving him or his reviews and little pranks a second thought.

He was the one who needed professional help. This vendetta had taken over his life. If he continued, he saw now he’d be forever chasing ghosts and end up like his father. Bitter and lost. If your answer to fate’s twists was anger, violence and revenge, then you would disappear down a dangerous rabbit hole.

This morning, staring into the mirror at a stranger, then the crazy idea of attending this event (correction, stalking at this event) had brought him to this what-the-hell wake-up moment.

The tent had grown increasingly more stifling as if he sat in the center of a hot furnace which piped the air about him. On his forehead, drops of sweat beaded. Even his palms felt sticky and moist. William undid the top button of his shirt but that had nil effect. He looked to his left and right, but nobody else appeared to match his discomfort. They all continued to stare, mouths agape, at Morris like a pack of hypnotized zombies. Lights barely on and only the animals left at home.

“And that’s why… should put… odds in your… favor.”

Morris’ voice crackled in and out as if his microphone was faulty. The fault wasn’t in the mic, it lay in William’s head. The wires in his brain had crossed and tangled. The backs of people’s heads blurred in and out of focus, and his heart hit the super-pump button; next stop heart-attack.

He wiped his hand across his brow and stared at his palms. They were wet and pale. His hands looked sick. He felt sick. Tight bands of pressure wrapped about his chest and squeezed. The air thickened, at least he thought it had because he now struggled to catch his breath.

Get out.

The words smashed into his mind as if someone else had hopped inside his head. Not his muse or his mother or father or that distant subconscious voice who occasionally spoke sense. This voice was a giant, forceful nag who didn’t seem to care that William was already in great distress. Shouting in his head was no help at all and he sensed he’d get nowhere arguing.

Get the hell out of here!

Okay, too bad if they recognized him. If he fainted again (which seemed his go-to response lately) that’d be worse. Maybe that was thanks to the voice; it might have control of his brain like an alien invader.

Should he faint, should he be discovered, he doubted he’d convince Morris or Orelia a mere coincidence had placed him at two events of theirs in one week. No, the game would be up. The sweet irony, that he’d already decided to stop, would be all he would enjoy.

Fate hated him and he needed to accept that.