Does Madness run in our blood, or is it injected into our veins by the afflicted who come before us? My mother sits at the table, the teacup in her trembling hands chattering against the saucer, the cold brew yet to be sipped. Though it burns higher than a funeral pyre, my father stokes the fire with another log. No one utters a word. Lost, the ability to communicate, amidst the voices in our heads speaking louder than the silence. We are all that remain. The bitter chill of this empty makes me shiver beneath the swaddling layers of my clothing. I remember the before when humanity existed in our world, and we existed among humanity. Only the madness now, pumping through my veins with each beat of my heart, as I stare out the window at the people and the cars, passing us by, on this warm, bright summers day.