Image credit: Srjstudio6/Shutterstock.com

One the third day of the headache he was beyond control.

He’d had migraines all his life, and he knew what to do about them. He knew what days medication would work, and what ones he’d just have to lie down in a dark, quiet room and give up, yield to its furore till it abated.

But this was different. This didn’t abate. And it was noisy. It spoke to him, shouted really, words he could barely make out. Something was in his head, in him. Soemthing had snuck up and entered him, perhaps when he was weak, or when he drank, or even when he took recreational drugs. He couldn’t even remember now, three days in, what might have been the precipitating event. He just knew the pain.

And the invasion.

No medication helped. How could it get something out that was stuck inside?

He’d tried stumbling to a church, as though it was a demon to be exorcised, but no relief came. He stumbled out as pain ridden as ever, throwing up outside the building before staggering home again.

It kept shouting, shouting at him. He had to get it out, had to dig in, drill in, and get it out.

Madness took him. The madness of pain seeking an end, or even a brief greater pain to encompass it all. Anything, anything to get it out.

In his shed he kept tools, including a drill. Yes, that would do, to drill in, right into his brain, and get it out. Get it out.

And it is true that for a few brief moments the noise of the drill drowned out the noise in his head, and the pain of searing flesh and cracking bone overwhelmed the headache.

And then there was nothing. Blessed peace. Whatever was in had been forced out, but then, so had he.

And there was nothing left.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2017