It's four in the fucking morning in May, 2006.

I couldn't sleep cause l kept hearing this damn knocking sound. It sounded like someone was at the front door. I timed it, and it came every 32 seconds. I check the front door but nobody was there. Every time I open the door the knocking stops.

I can't be at the door all the time.

It's only five thirty, and I decided to take my medication for my toe infection. I don't care for the infection much, my feet are always numb. I'm eating cereal but l can't taste it. My left hand is slightly swollen. The knocking is still constant, and regardless of how I laid in bed, the knocking continued.

I wake up at eight twenty, and I call in sick to work. I know something is driving me insane, and it's been like this for the past three weeks. I call my dad and tell him my situation. He says every word I was thinking. I pack my bag along with my medication and close the door behind me one last time. I go to local hospital and ask for some kind of mental therapy. They take me on a three hour drive to a mental institution and set me on talk therapy.

Apparently my dad died eight years ago, and l never had a toe infection. The pharmacy where I took them from is at an address that doesn't actually exist. I look at my hand and ask them why it's swelling. The doctors say it's not swelling. I look back at my hand it appears to be normal. Guess that was fixed.

I tell them about the knocking, and as soon as I finished my sentence, it stops. The doctors say I need to take a break. I ask them what I need to take a break from. They didn't listen, they just looked at me with pity, and as soon as they walk out closing the door behind them the knocking continues.