by Kristina Grace Gordon

Created on: October 12, 2007

She knew as soon as she woke that today was going to be one of those days.

It was late, already half past nine, and her shift would start in fourty-five minutes. Katie groaned, pulling the blankets over her head, wishing she could shield herself from reality with it's downy soft safety. But after a moment, she threw them back. Nothing could hide her from the nightmare that was her life.

Trembling, she sat up, her bare feet flinching from the cold cement floor. Already her heart was pounding, as if fighting to free itself from her chest. She thought grimly, "I don't blame it. I'd leave my body too if possible." Her mouth was dry, and swallowing just made the lump in her throat seem larger, the space for air to pass seem like the smallest of pinpricks. She gagged briefly, shaking her head and making the room spin.

Her eyes squeezed shut, tears forming at the corners, hot and heavy as lead. Wiping them roughly aside with the swipe of an arm, she steeled herself, stood, and slowly made her way to the bathroom.

Showering, brushing her teeth, fixing her hair as quickly as possible, the dread within her increased. It was a palpable thing, and it weighed her down; as she dressed it felt as if her heart would burst from the exertion, lifting her arms and legs was damn near impossible. A small sound of frustration broke from her lips, a pathetic mewling cry, and it almost broke her. She hated it, hated this weakness, hated herself.

Making her slow, plodding way to the car, she knew she'd be late again. She had explained her situation to her supervisor, but it was inevitable: no amount of compassion could excuse her constant tardiness, and repeated absence. It pulled her down further, the idea that, once again, this condition would rob her of the ability to do the meanest of tasks.

She paused in the car, her hand poised to turn the key. Someone passing would imagine her wondering if she'd left the stove on, or asking herself if she had everything she needed. In truth, she was frozen. Physically unable to start the car, equally unable to remove the key. She was at a precipice, and neither option was a possibility. The feeling of choking, of a heavy hand surrounding her throat, doubled. Her breath came in small gasps as she fought to regain a small amount of control. She was shivering all over, the keys in her hand singing out discordantly.

With the greatest of effort, her wrist turned, bringing the car roaring to life. She collapsed against the seat momentarily, spent

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