Every Last Lie

by Mary Kubica

And yet it is natural, human nature, when the stress gets the best of me, to think to myself, I wish I was dead.

A dozen radio stations play simultaneously in my mind, each playing a different genre, a different song, not in harmony but, rather, fighting each other for airtime, the volume turned all the way up so that it’s impossible to think or to hear, and it all becomes one thing: noise.