As Jackson kicked back in the vintage chair that was squished behind the large, antique desk of his office, the tip of his tongue carried with it the acrimonious burn of whisky, and torment walked the halls of his mind. Like uninvited guests, the ghosts of his past had freed themselves of their cage, haunting away at his sanity until he found himself questioning his every single thought.

Darkness clutched him to its breast like a newborn, the four walls becoming a prison of shadows and despair. It carried with it anguish, that darkness; it carried with it a sadistic pleasure.

"So the real question is," he murmured to himself,...