She’d tossed and turned all night, tormented by a bout of depression. She awakened Tuesday morning tired from the fight. I thought joy was supposed to come in the morning. Charity couldn’t believe she was here—again. She hadn’t felt this way in three years, since she was with Emmitt. Surely she’d been delivered from this, especially since she gave her life to the Lord the last time it happened. But this time, the voices seemed louder and stronger than ever before. You might as well end it all, a raspy sounding voice in her head suggested. You know you’re tired of fighting. Tired of pretending. Tired of being on the brink of a breakthrough. Go ahead, Charity, do it. “I ought to just kill myself,” Charity said out loud as if she thought of the idea herself. She flung back the warm bedsheets and jumped out of bed as if it were on fire. Usually she couldn’t stand to touch the hardwood floors first thing in the morning.
