Even now, he still heard the voice. He’d be somewhere—say at a party—having a wicked-good time and it would come, saying things like “The wrong things seem right at the time” or “Say you’re sorry, but you’ve got to go.”

Damn voice. He should have exterminated that thing long ago. What was the point in living large—being real—if you had to answer to a conscience?

He pressed a hand around the woman’s waist and urged her off his lap. “I need to take care of something,” he said.

He lifted the fly swatter and headed outside.

—

100 words

This has been an edition of the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the kind and generous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Shaktiki Sharma.

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