The Crittenden Chronicles

The first thing you notice is the taste. It enters your nose and settles on your tongue like a bad memory made of bleach, metal, and despair. You try to swallow it down as you take your seat, but it only gets worse. The blue recliners are cold and hard. The blanket they give you is scratchy...

(Trigger warning: this story mentions suicide) My Dearest Elaine, This letter may be short, as I am unsure of my remaining hours. Even now, my desire for death is so great that it seems inevitable. I’ve locked myself in my quarters in hopes of staving off these impulses, but I know that these...