I don't know what I hate more: the fact that I can't walk at a normal pace without stumbling over my feet like a drunk girl who just downed a spiked martini, the irony of the factors leading to this disability, or the fact that I have to keep mentally reminding myself to take it easy at the expense of wasting God knows how much time making sure my face doesn't meet the tile before I decide I'm too tired to continue and instead decide to collapse on the ground and sleep there until the symptoms magically wash away like they always do. From what feels like miles ahead of me, I hear Kara ask for the umpteenth time: "You sure you don't need any help?"

"No. I don't."

She sighs, mumbling something under her breath before slowing down her pace in an effort to let me catch up. I press the palm of my right hand against the wall, hoping that having something solid holding me up would allow me to move at least a little faster than the snail's pace I was trudging along at currently. Gradually, still unsold on my coordination, I speed up. Each step slightly faster than the last. My hand slides against the wall, scuffed into a tingling sense of discomfort. My head drifts downward, my eyes pointed directly at the patch of ground in front of my feet to make sure I don't do something stupid and stumble over myself. It isn't long until I catch up with her, as she ground to a not so screeching halt.

"Yeah; somehow, I don't believe that for a second." Her right hand reaches behind her and grabs onto my right forearm, slinging my entire arm around her neck. My pride's telling me to strangle her from this awkward position: thank Christ I'm not an idiot.


My body now supported almost entirely, to the point where I've lost the fear of falling, we continue down the hall. The ubiquitousness of the narrow passageway; the way its beige seemed to tint my entire range of my eyesight with the same tan shade, the barely audible under normal circumstances but because I'm not paying attention to where we're going and focusing more on my entirely mundane surroundings echoes of footsteps on the tile floor seem to pound in the same rhythm of the throbbing in the deepest part of my ear canal. Each step, each echo, each ache that forces me to drive my head further and further into Kara's shoulder and causes my entire body to tense up in pain expectant winces simultaneously makes my face grow hotter and hotter with an unmatched anger. An anger I admittedly haven't felt in a long while; not since the last flare up, anyway.

"So uh, I mean I like you too but not that much," Kara says, laughing.

"Really? That's a surprise," I say, making a joking display of pulling my head away from her, complete with a Mood Whiplash invoking pouting face to boot. As I should've realized a long time ago, putting the symptoms out of mind makes it a lot less debilitating. Wow, I'm an utter genius.

"Fuck you."

"Okay, now you're just sending mixed messages."

"Y'know? I liked it better when you were rubbing up against me. Fuck wait no-"

"I'm sure you did."

"And I'm this close to dropping you flat on your fucking face." In unrelated news, we round the corner at the very end of the hall. Only a few more feet until we're home. Yay.

"You wouldn-" just like that, she grabs me by my hair and shoves me forward. Not expecting this, my body goes with the force of her hand until I drop to my knees. It's right about there where she decides to stop, knowing full well how if she didn't, my face would smash nose first against the dirty tile.

"Psycho," I mutter as she helps me back up.

"Moron."

There's something about this situation that seems almost, familiar.

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

"More times than you can remember. I'm just glad I don't have to worry about you puking your guts out."


"We're here," she says, nudging me far enough off of her to reach into her pocket and pull out her keys. Jamming them in the keyhole, she twists the key to the left and pushes the door open. I almost fall into the room. Figures, the only time I muster up the strength to balance myself out and not land face first on something on my accord is when I'd fall onto carpet.


I make it into the apartment and immediately collapse on the conveniently placed couch. Despite the pounding in my head, my eyelids fall shut like an unfinished simile. Unfinished because as soon as they fell closed, my grasp on consciousness followed.

"Wake the fuck up."


"Ugh, how about no?" I stammer in a still dreamlike, more than half tired state. My eyes open nonetheless, vision blurry before adjusting to the light level. Her face takes up literally all of my vision, allowing me little breathing room not currently already occupied by her heavy, coffee stained breath. I gag. Swallowing a suddenly forming throatful of vomit, I manage to choke out of my preoccupied throat the simple, one worded question: "What?"


"I got you a job interview at some place I used to work at."

"Huh?" My thoughts exactly, me. I rub my eyes and open them up wider than my previous squint. Sitting up proves to be an easier challenge than I thought it would; and it's one I conquer rather easily. The pounding in my head still doesn't want to subside, however. In the silence that once again permeated the room, the pounding in my ear canals amplifies. A recipe for cringing and grimacing with each shallow breath, or whatever it was that caused the hammering in the sides of my skull.

"Was that not clear enough or something?"

"No, I got that part. How?"

"I left on good terms."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. The manager owed me a favor; I called it in."

"That's both cryptic and convenient," I state as I drift off into the beautiful realm of sleep once more. At the last second I come to, long enough to hear her response.

"Yeah, making friends can help people. You should, oh I dunno, try it sometime."

"Really? You were just professing your undying love for me in the hallway..."

"Oh, shut up!" she says with a giggle before shoving me with one hand backwards, further onto the couch. It didn't take much coercion to make me lie back down, that's for sure. The last thing I catch before fading back into the world of dreams is the date for my interview.

Tomorrow.



I couldn't tell you the name of this company if I even racked my brain to remember the acronym or name that this company holds near and dear. From as far as I could tell, this was your standard office building. Standard jobs for sure, but at the same time paid a lot better than doing nothing, if only by a little bit. Still, money was money and if it didn't come out of the hands of the government, I wouldn't care how I earned it. This seemed a much better alternative to prostitution or drug dealing, and came without the risks of guilt laden self loathing.

More of boredom induced self loathing.

However, this was an office building, and certain criteria needed to be met. For example, my choice in clothing normally would probably serve to get me kicked out of most buildings like this. Instead, I had to ditch anything I would wear normally in favor of a business formal look. Perhaps a little too formal.

I feel almost glued to my seat as the seconds tick by. I'm early. Like, really early. Seven minutes, twenty two seconds early. Who's counting?

The pounding in my head from yesterday found its way down my body, ending up in my heart. In the silence of the interview room, the only two things I can hear are my heartbeat pounding out a steady, speedy rhythm against the soft metronome of the second hand. A look around the room, familiarizing myself with the surroundings wouldn't hurt, would it? My hands tighten around the arms of my chair, my nails dig deep into the fabric covering it. My eyes dart back and forth around the office as I try to make sense of the room I'm going to spend what'll no doubt feel like seven eternities in.

An imposing dark brown wooden desk in front of me.

A bookshelf on the right, filled with books on business and self help manuals.

Lots of open space. The blinds pulled up to reveal a bright, sunny day.

A chair in the left hand corner of the room, by the window. I don't know what purpose that serves.

My eyes scan those objects in this lightly furnished room for what feels like an eternity on its own before at long last the door swings open and in steps my interviewer. I look behind me to see an unfortunately familiar face: