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It hit me just that fast. After munching on macaroni and cheese, digging crisp lettuce from beneath pools of blue cheese dressing, it hit me. Standing up, putting my cigarettes back in the pocket of my purse, tucking my lighter in my pocket, pulling long, black, pseudo-curly hairs from the back of my white cardigan...like a thousand pellets from a shot-gun blast, it hit me.

I made my way through a corridor of employees, criminals, and grieving families toward the elevator. Push the up button. Wait for the ding. Floor seven. Ding. Lather, rinse, repeat.

"What's wrong"
Go away.

I entered the restroom and closed the stall door. Hang the purse on the bottom hook, hang the sweater from the label on the top hook. Cell phone out of pocket, pants around the ankles. Feel the sting of a thousand puncture wounds to the soul.

"What's wrong?"
GO AWAY!

Tasks, not goals. A compass that is not broken, but spinning wildy, unsure not only of where "North" is, but if that's even the right direction.

I look at the bruise on my thigh. It's not supposed to be there. I stare at it, royal in crimson and red, and I smile. "You're not supposed to be here." I touch it. It hurts. I smile again.

"What's wrong?"
Go away.
"Let me rephrase; are you okay?"
I'm as okay as one can be, when one is simply trying to be okay.