She set the pages right in the flames of the burner, hoping to silence the voices, the quiet ones as well as the loud ones. Then, exhausted, she stumbled to the couch, trusting the fire to consume what she had fed it. Fire, though, it might start on one thing, nibbling at first, then gulping greedily, but then might move on, leaving untouched tidbits and strewn crumbs behind.
The firemen would discover her lifeless form on the couch, in the kitchen a melted pill bottle and enough charred remnants of her writing that a small voice could yet be heard.
Written in response to Friday Fictioneers, November 17. 100 words.