I storm out of Stacy's house, ignoring her pleas for me to come back inside. It's the same as always, one thing after another; I'm useless, I need to get a real job--because writing doesn't count--I need to stop wasting time with a literary arts degree, I need to move back in with her so I can help her pay the rent and she doesn't have to live alone, I need to stop being such a stupid, unobservant, self-involved goth chick, blah blah blah.

She doesn't care about me. She doesn't care about how I feel or what I want.

My big sister only cares about herself, and the thought makes me both sad and furious as I stomp down the street. She only lives a couple blocks from me so I don't bother to call a taxi; I could use the walk, anyway. I need to cool my head.

Even though it's midnight, this part of the city is usually bustling, since the 24/hour market is just around the corner--but something's off tonight.

I frown, a sense of... wrongness, echoing in the back of my head. My heart beats a little faster as I round the corner and see everyone gathered around a television, a huge crowd of people staring up at the tall, rectangular screen.

I stop, blinking in confusion at their horrified faces and the pale newswoman on the television. Her careful blonde bun is coming down but she's trying to be composed, trying to pretend that the microphone between her manicured nails isn't shaking.

"And, as you can see here," she says, her voice shaking as she gestures to her right at the remnants of what used to be a building. The White House, I realize vaguely. It's nothing but rubble now and I gape, mouthing hanging open as I stand on the street corner, glued to the screen and the stuttering news anchor just like everyone else.

"It came crashing down just an hour ago but already reports are saying--" she stops, coughs, her voice unnaturally high, "--saying that they've caught the perpetrator. We don't have any footage for you as of yet but I have here with me," and the camera pans to the left to show us a tall, muscled man in a black suit, "Mr. James Daws, the head of President Terivista's secret service. Mr. Daws, ca-can you tell us what's happened?"

Mr. Daws looks shaken, and the translucent coil of wire at his right ear quivers when he swallows and looks at the camera. "Yes, Ms. Neils, I'm afraid it's true. At 11 PM this evening President Natalie Terivista acquired the case holding the nuclear launch codes and locked herself in the basement of the White House. She then--" he pauses, takes a deep breath, and straightens his shoulders. "The public is advised not to panic, but Congress believes this is information the world needs." He takes another deep breath and I wish he would just get on with it, because we are all waiting on pins and needles, shocked and afraid and confused.

"After locking herself away," Daws says, and he takes the microphone from Ms. Neils because she's shaking it too much for him to speak, "the president released nuclear missiles on the Middle East, on Russia, and on parts of Brazil and other South American countries. She then detonated a bomb within the White House, demolishing it and most of its surrounding structures. Civilians are warned to make their way to bomb shelters as retaliation from the affected countries has already been set in motion. Congress is doing everything possible to prevent further catastrophes, and we ask that you please remain calm and do not panic. Everything is under control."

Everything does not look under control.

Doesn't feel that way, either.

In the street, people are panicking. 

It's chaos, there's no other word for it; screams pierce the air, car alarms and sirens war for prominence, Ms. Neils and Mr. Daws are still talking but no one's paying attention anymore and then there are sparks, a fizz and a pop as someone throws something into the screen and it fissures, cracks, turns to static.

Everyone is losing their minds.

Everyone except me.

I'm strangely calm. It's like there's nothing surprising about this, like I've seen it all before. And, too, it's as if there's a curtain in my head, one that's been pulled down and is hiding me, hiding the world from my sight.

There's something wrong here. Why is everyone panicking?

It doesn't matter. I have to get home. Have to sleep to keep up the cycle.

The cycle? Where did that thought come from? I sigh, shrug, make my way casually between writhing bodies. I don't understand why everyone is screaming. Why so much noise? Everything's fine. I was watching the news, wasn't I? There was something important... but no. Everything's fine.

This is normal. It's just a normal day.

The words are on repeat in my head and I'm fingering the Book of Unhappy Endings through the canvas material of my laptop case because it's the only thing keeping me grounded, the only sure thing as I unlock my apartment door and slip inside. I'm exhausted but the Book is calling me, begging me to open it and surely just one chapter won't hurt...

I crash into bed without undressing, lay the Book of Unhappy Endings out on my pillow. I feel anticipation shiver inside me as I flip it open, my eyes going to the words written on the first page.

But there's nothing there, nothing but darkness that consumes me until I am nothing too.