Page 1 of Endgame

1

DAKOTA

Pain—physicalagony or discomfort prompted by illness or injury.

That checks out.

I’d give anything to rewind time.

To transport me to a moment before my heart exploded into tiny, little pieces. Nothing can prepare you to handle grief after something so sudden and excruciating.

At this point, I’ve accepted that magic is lacking daily, and the ability to rewind time is impossible. But mentally, some days, I feel like my mind is caged in an inescapable prison.

It’s a continuous mental battle.

I don’t know if there will ever be a moment when I don’t let my negative thoughts influence my day. Not that I have much going for me anyway.

Sometimes, I even contemplate running away—more so from myself, in this case. At least it would give me an equal opportunity to pick my head up and trudge forward, or if I lacked courage at the moment, to finally accept that I’m unlovable and everyone truly leaves.

It’s such a dire notion for someone who once had everything.

My inner reprovement is even empty. All I know is that I don’t want to feel like this anymore.

“D54.”

The call reader announces quickly, and truthfully, duller than my current attitude. It takes me longer than necessary to realize that D54 is, in fact, my number, and the lady behind me with an inhaler and a missing front tooth is impatiently waiting for me to get a move on.

Did she seriously kick my heel with her cane?

I could entertain her agitation and walk a little slower, doing my best work at pissing her off. Still, I think better of it and decide I’d rather be out of this place sooner than later—especially if that means bickering with her before I’ve even had breakfast.

I hustle to the next available counter, anxious to finish this task. Dread fills me, knowing I have to be sociable. It takes too much effort—effort I don’t have.

“License, please.” Handing her my license, I find myself laughing under my breath. It's clear by observing every worker here that they hate this place. You know it must be bad when even a bystander takes notice.

Maybe she’s feeling the pain I seem to be too familiar with?

My eyes observe the woman in front of me. She looks to be in her late sixties, but her worn expression suggests that life has taken her on. It’s most likely permanent.

She scans her employee badge over a barcode reader on her desktop and proceeds to ask me what I need without actually askingme.

“How can I help you?” She spits out.

She barely spares me a glance while her eyes train in on the blank computer screen before her.

Karen, I’ve decided. Looks like a duck and quacks like a duck. Although I glance down quickly at her name tag, which reads “Doris,” she is most definitely a Karen.

Handing her my documents, I have to fight the side of myself that thrives off confrontation before I lash out at her. Technically, she’s not doing anything wrong; she's just being rude and apathetic. I know my reaction stems from my own hurt and is proving to be unnecessary because “Karen” still doesn’t care to acknowledge me.

“Here you go. How long do you think it will take to get my license replaced? I need a quick address change.”

I’m killing this whole kindness thing today.

She stares at me like she would rather I ask her to recite her grocery list, which I’d rather not. Actually, I’d rather do anything than be here, so I resolve to keep my mouth shut and do what she says.

That reminds me…I need to stop by the grocery store sometime this week. My fridge is looking pretty sparse.

“Go stand on the black line and take your picture.” She directs me with very little enthusiasm, making it obvious she never intended to answer my question.

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