(First prize in the short story, Butler literary contest, 1948)
The smell of gas was sickening.
"It's all your fault, Jane," he thought he could hear his own voice saying in a distant room.
It sounded so strange that he forced his eyes open, against the nausea, and tried to focus them. The lurid, dirty wall-paper focussed, receded and focussed again. It only increased his nausea. He had been sick when he turned on the gas.
Manuscripts: Vol. 15
, Article 2.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol15/iss4/2