And I don't want the world to see me

'cause I don't think that they'd understand.

When everything's meant to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

I turn up the record until I can't even hear myself think. I let the words wash over me like gospel from some holy book. I take a shower. Two showers. I stay in the shower so long they start blending together. I feel bad. My downstairs neighbor probably isn't going to have any warm water by the time they take theirs, but I'll apologize tomorrow. If I see them. Maybe I'll just leave a note. Tell them I needed it for some reason, like my washing machine broke or I was doused in glue or something. I won't think about that now. I just need myself tonight. Just myself and the Goo Goo Dolls and the shreds of that damn pink slip that didn't even have my name spelled right. It doesn't even matter now. My desk is empty, you can't even read my name on the slip anymore and- godammit.- I can feel the water getting colder.

I remove myself from the rapidly cooling water and slip into my fuzzy robe, still listening to the album through the player. I wrap my hair in a spare towel and throw myself onto my bed. I curl up into the middle of a small nest I made out of my pillows by putting them in a circle and covering it with blankets. I then insert myself and cover myself with blankets. Lovely process. I remember reading a fact once- somewhere, I can't remember where- about how if you sleep with multiple pillows you are more likely to have depression. I felt lucky to be one of the ones who didn't. Sure, some selective anxieties and frequent mild paranoia, but I never had depression. I don't even feel like I could call what I am depressed, out of respect for actual depressed people. People kill themselves over depression. Depression was a ruthless monster that didn't stop chasing you until you got tired and it caught up. Sure, I felt lifeless and tired and unwilling to do anything and I would much rather the world forget me at the moment rather than try to forget what happened, and yes, this is the worst feeling of my life, but I will not, I cannot be depressed.

I was a hard worker all throughout high school. I did every assignment, every bonus project, every damn extracurricular I could weasel myself into. Who even wants to join the ecology club? Nobody wants to join the ecology club! Mothers force their children into it so they can say their child is in something and that is why anybody ever joins the ecology club ever. I spent hundreds of dollars paying for applications to ask the top schools in America to consider me as a student. Three of them actually accepted me, and I graduated fifth in my class from one of the most prestigious Pilot schools in the country.

I was going to pilot Air Force one. Air. Force. Freaking. One. I was probably going to shake the president's hand and fly out to camp David and fly around the world to some of the most historically influencing events in the world. I was going to do what I loved and watch the universe before me unravel and re-ravel and look at the tops of cities people from my hometown wouldn't even think of thinking of visiting. I was in the running. I was being trained.

And then I was booted. For one reason or another- My type two diabetes or the fact that I was in the running with four white males or the fact that I was always a bit slower during flight tests. I would always take my time, nervous that one failing lever would end my career. They didn't even give me a sufficient reason, just that I 'had shown from my results in training and testing' that I wasn't 'qualified'.

Now it didn't matter. Now it was a story. Now it was a part of me that couldn't actually happen anymore. I can't go back. I don't even know what I can do now. Become a commercial airliner pilot? Just call me homeless now! I don't just want to see the world, I want to see the world and know there's a difference happening there. I want to be somewhere where I know something is changing for the better.

I'll probably send in some job applications for being a flight lessons instructor tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever I care to remove myself from the nest.

The record starts ticking, which means that it's over. I throw myself out of bed and onto the floor, inching my way there until I can take it off. I may be unwilling to advance anymore for myself, unable to even think about not being able to pursue my dreams again, doesn't mean that I don't care about worn record needles. Those cost more than my first car.

I wrap myself up in one of my fuzziest blankets, like a cape. Here, tis I, Queen Charlotte (with an e, thank you very much.) Nicole Wills of the lazy dynasty, reigning matriarch of unemployment and crying in the shower.

I'm still singing the song in my head when I drift to sleep, surrounded by books and pillows and the unmistakable relief cloud of unconsciousness following a bout of anxiety

Spencer's POV.

Another day, another trip home from a city I won't revisit the skyline of. Another drowsy apartment building buzzing with dying flies and dim incandescent lights. Another novel read in five minutes. Another cold shower.