The worst day of my life was a Wednesday, a day like any other day. The station I tuned to every morning crackled through the portable radio speakers while I chewed my toast and poured my coffee into a travel mug. I had a whole cabinet full of them, but I always used the same one. It was the easiest to sip from, and dishwasher safe. I buttoned my collar and tucked the back of my shirt deep into my dress pants.

I took the same route to work, sat in the same traffic jam, and parked in the same spot in the lot of my work building. When the elevator doors open, I took a step in and stood in the same spot as the day before that, and the day before that. The paint on the floor had faded where my shoes had spent year after year. I stared up at the emergency box while the elevator crept up to the floor in which I spent 50 hours a week.

The doors opened to the same fluorescent prison cell, lined with burlap covered cubicles and duct taped swivel chairs. The white noise machine hummed just loud enough to mask the murmur of employees on their phones and typing on their keyboards. No one looked up from their screens as I walked by to get to my cubicle which had been moved to the back corner. It had been there for about a year now, but no one seemed to notice.

I reached my desk and set down my coffee. Besides a Meal-of-the-Month calendar, there was nothing hung to decorate. White walls, white desk, blank screen. I turned my computer on and walked to the water cooler by the window. I put my forehead to the glass and looked down. Eleven stories up is a separate world from rational thinking and the call of the void.

I took a plastic cup from the stack pushed the blue nozzle to fill it. Blue was supposed to indicate cold water, but it was room temperature at best. I took it back to my desk and began typing away like the rest of the drones.

The hours crept by and some cheering from the conference room called my attention to my clock. It was 11:30 and my stomach began to tighten. I ignored it. Cheering still echoed from the conference room, so I turned to see no one was at their desks anymore. I pushed my chair back and leaned my head into the walk way to see that everyone had gathered in the conference room to eat cake and celebrate a birthday. I didn’t get the email about that. I hadn’t gotten an email or memo for any kind of celebration since they moved me to the back corner.

My cheeks felt flush. I tried to turn back to my work but couldn’t focus my mind back to my daily tasks. I took the final sip of my coffee and strode past the party to the elevator doors. Instead of pressing down, I pressed up. All the way up. To the roof.

It was a short ride. The elevator opened up to a concrete colored room with a door hooked to an alarm. I pulled the wire out of the alarm so it wouldn’t sound and opened the door. The wind ripped at it and tried to pry it from its hinges. I grasped the handle and wrestled it back. I closed it behind me and took gentle steps towards the sounds of the city below. There was about three feet of concrete ledge to keep people like me in. There was nothing but sky above. I put my hands on the ledge and looked over.

Cars and people rushed passed each other, dodging one another. It was a circus of colors and noise, but no one looked up to enjoy the show. I watched the pattern of the people and cars and cabs and busses. What would happen if I slid off the ledge and into the circus? Would I fall onto a car, or just hit the street, or maybe another person? How long would it take to reach the bottom? Would anyone from inside realize I was gone?

I took a deep breath and checked my watch. I had been starting into the void for far too long. I turned and went back to the door. I reached for the handle and twisted but it did not turn. I shook it. It did not budge. I pulled up my shoulders and let out a great sigh. I grabbed the handle once more and put as much force as possible into my wrenching and pulling. The handle wiggled and mocked me and my stupidity. I walked back to the ledge.

I could jump. I looked down at the circus. I could wait. I looked over my shoulder at the door. Those were my options, so I sat on the ledge and watched the circus. I watched a young woman stroll into the street, unaware of her surroundings. I saw the taxi that came within inches of running her down. I saw a man trip over the laces of his sneakers, then look around to check if anyone had noticed. I watched countless people go through the doors of the various buildings surrounding me. I watched hundreds of other lives; lives that meant something to more than just the one living in them.

I began to sweat and found shade beside the air conditioning unit in the center of the rooftop. I leaned my head against the huge metal housing and closed my eyes. Images began to dance in my mind; of the circus below, of the party in the conference room, of my absolute invisibility.

My boss would notice my absence. He would ask me how I could be so stupid, what possessed me to go to the roof in the first place. Could I manage to explain my need to stare into the void? He wouldn’t understand and he would fire me. The storm would begin to brew there and escalate into a terrible and broken existence.

My eyes snapped open to find the sun dipping below the city skyline and a man in coveralls standing over me.

“Hey man. What are you doing up here?” The man brushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes and offered me his other hand to help me to my feet.

“I got locked up here when the door closed behind me.” I brushed the dirt from my pants and straightened my shirt.

“Oh man! That sucks, dude.” He assured me, in his surfer-dude tone that he had the door propped open and I was welcome to let myself back into the building. I did just that and thanked him.

“No problem, dude!” He waved at me and went back to the air conditioning unit.

I leaned on the railing of the elevator and made my way back to my desk. The office was still half lit in the miserable fluorescent glow. My computer had timed out and shut itself down so I just grabbed my coffee mug and my keys and turned for the elevator again. I passed the conference room to see my boss with the table covered in papers. He was organizing something, so I tried to slip by unnoticed but he looked up just in time to see my heels pass.

I sped up to get to the elevators, but I couldn’t move fast enough to outrun my own misfortune.

“Hey!” He called after me, like he was trying to recall my name but couldn’t. I stopped but didn’t turn around. He circled around me and surprise replaced his look of confusion.

“Oh! It’s you. What are you still doing here?” He didn’t remember my name.

“I’m sorry sir. I just…”

“Hard worker! That’s great. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He patted my shoulder and turned to return to his mindless filing. I had worked for him for a month shy of ten years and he didn’t know my name. I had been moved against my will and missed an entire day while stuck on the roof and he didn’t even notice. No one noticed as it wasn’t brought to his attention.

I rode the elevator down to the car, wondering how it would feel if the cable snapped and it became an uncontrollable metal coffin. I drove my car home and wondered what would happen if I took a sharp swerve into oncoming traffic. The worst day of my life was spent staring into the void, into the circus, and realizing my own invisibility.

I remember the first time I killed a man.  He wasn’t the target, but collateral damage.  The target had been the embassy.  I only had to place two directional charges; one in the basement against the main support beam and another on the first floor by the meeting room.  At the time there wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the building.  The ambassadors were all in Tahiti for a “meeting” that week, so my employer deemed that the perfect opportunity.  Using a particular compound for my plastics and a remote detonator, it would look like a strike from a cartel that was already on rocky ground with the government.  This was sure to push them into a full blown war.  A drug war; the most profitable type.

I got out clean and took my bag to bodega on the corner.  I slipped into the bathroom before the clerk could see me.  She was too busy trying to pick out the cigarettes that the man at the counter was pointing to.  I pulled out my side arm, a flesh colored sleeve with fake tattoos printed on it, and a scruffy wig. My huge sunglasses covered enough of my face that I didn’t need the wig, but I liked it.  I never got to play dress up as a kid, so this was my way of getting back some lost time.

I strapped my side arm to my thigh, pulled the flesh colored tattoo sleeve up to my shoulder and smoothed it out so all the fake tattoos blended into my skin tone.  They looked real.  I would have gotten real ones if it weren’t such an occupational hazard.  The wig came last, I straightened it as best I could in the dirty cracked mirror.  The smell of the bathroom helped me rush along.  I didn’t have a lot of time.  The charges needed to go off at 4:17 and not a minute later.

My employer selected me for this job because he knew I wasn’t such a fan of killing, or maybe because I built precise explosives.  He didn’t need or want the ambassador dead.  The ambassador was imperative to the war.  Years ago he had ties with the Dorajes cartel.  Everyone knew that he had navigated them around customs and lobbied against bills that would harm their business.  When he moved out of the political eye and became ambassador, Barskova became skeptical of his allegiance to the Dorajes.  Barskova had taken over and made millionaires of indigents and he fancied himself the savior of his people.  His drugs funded land grabs, government coups, and many assassinations.  He felt that was validated by the mouths he would feed and the hundreds of people to whom he gave employment.

Barskova had been seen only a few times with the ambassador since his career shift and most of the world knew of the tension that arose between them.  With the Dorajes signature on the charges I set, the ambassador would not need to die, he would go into hiding; sure that his life would end if he were to ever surface again.  His disappearance would then cause suspicion from the government, and then he certainly was as good as dead.

My employer had his own reasons to construct such a scheme.  It always had to do with money.  Everything was always related to money.  Even my part.  He paid me handsomely, so I didn’t ask many questions, most information I could deduce on my own.

I rounded the corner a few blocks from the embassy and walked into the Barrish Hotel.  It was the tallest building within view, so I took the elevator to the roof.  I found a ledge with a view over a palm tree and perched myself on the concrete.  I looked at my stop watch and had two minutes before I needed to detonate.  I straightened my sleeve and took in a deep breath of the clammy air when the emergency exit door opened to reveal two hotel workers trying to sneak a cigarette. I ducked behind the air conditioning unit and held my bag to my chest.  It seemed as though they didn’t see me but I couldn’t be sure. I pulled a folding mirror from the pocket of my bag and stuck it out at arms length.  Their reflections paced and talked to each other while dragging on their cigarettes, but they did not search for me.  I couldn’t see the embassy from where I was sitting, but my watched turned to 4:17 so I hit my detonator.

The hotel roof vibrated as the blast echoed through the streets.  The boom slammed against my ears, then against my chest.  I fell to the concrete and gasped.  Two directional charges should not have caused that.  My explosives were deliberately weaker than whatever had just detonated. My ears rung as I looked over to my now broken mirror lying on the stone.  The hotel workers were gone.  I peeked over the ledge to see the embassy egulfed in flames.  A cloud of smoke clung to the air around the burning embassy.  People on the streets were screaming and running from where the blast had taken place.

I heard sirens, and that was my queue.  I snatched up my bag and flew down the stairs and out of the lobby.  I hopped into an old crown Victoria that was parked on the street and pulled out the wires under the dash.  Once I got a spark the car started moving and I drove it straight to the airstrip, making a call to my employer on the way there.

“I thought you weren’t going to kill him?” The raspy voice questioned me on the other line.

“It wasn’t me.  Send a bird to the field.  Ten minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the air.  My employer sent his smallest plane, but it was his fastest.  I switched on the cabin television and found a news station.  That’s when I heard the broadcast.

“In other news, one dead and five injured in an embassy bombing today.  Police are still on the scene and have not yet released a statement.”

“How can so many indoor cats disappear?” I directed the question to my carnival prize goldfish while I crawled on the floor to look under the sofa and chairs.  That goldfish had lived far longer than I had expected, considering he never ate the flakes of food I sprinkled into his bowl.

A sea of cat toys, feathers and rattles hid beneath the loveseat, but not a cat.  My landlord was strict and forbade dogs, but allowed a cat so I jumped at the opportunity to get one soon after I moved in.  I went to the homeless pet shelter and browsed through sad eyes until one pulled at my heart and sucked me right in.

Tuffy had been the first one.  He was scruffy and missing a small chunk off of one ear. His crate tag said he was five years old and was found behind a Walmart eating French fries.  Something about that spoke to me, like he was my spirit animal.  I took him home and stopped at McDonalds on the way home; we split an order of fries.

I removed the clumps from his fur and, with some hard work, I got him to smell more like a cat and less like a dumpster. He seemed grateful for my affections and would snuggle with my feet at every available opportunity even if I was sitting on the toilet.

One day I came home from work, excited to see Tuffy after a tedious and trying day, but he was nowhere to be found.  I searched the apartment and found no open windows or doors.  I knocked on the door of every other tenant in the building.  No one had seen him.  He had vanished and I was heartbroken.  I spent the next week posting up fliers and talking to people in the neighborhood hoping someone would have seen him.  I spent the following weeks by the phone without any word from a fellow cat loving Samaritan.

A few more weeks had gone by before a friend had called me to inform me that she had found a litter of stray kittens and I was welcome to one.  She was well aware of my heartbreak with Tuffy and was happy to quell my sorrows with a fresh furry face. So, I brought home Bambino, or Bambi for short.

Bambi was a wild little monster. He ran around the apartment at all hours of the night, and most of the day, although most cats are supposed to sleep for eighteen hours a day.  Not Bambi.  He would open and hide in the cabinets, rush into the fridge every time I opened it, and found a fierce enemy in every one of my shoes.  He meowed like a rabid tiger at the ceiling fan and would curl up under the white throw pillows as if to camouflage himself from his prey.  His prey was most commonly the vacuum cord or my cellphone charger.  When he wasn’t acting like a tiny feline assassin or chasing his own tail until he ran into a wall, he would climb onto the window sill and stare at the goldfish until he fell asleep.

Bambi was hilarious although many cat owners would have found his antics rather taxing.  He kept me in good spirits and that’s important for a girl living alone in a big city.  The day Bambi went missing was just as confusing as Tuffy’s disappearance.  No doors or windows had been open or tampered with.  Nothing was out of the ordinary.  A small vase that had sat next to the fish bowl had fallen from the shelf and had broken on the floor.  Besides a few pieces of broken glass, nothing was out-of-place.  Again, my heart sank and I got to work making fliers for Bambino and praying for his safe return home. No one ever called about him. After a couple of months, I was sure he was gone as well.

Then came Clinger. When we first met, I found Clinger in a tree.  Cliché, but true.  As I took out my trash one morning I rounded the corner from the dumpster to find a large dog barking at a terrified little cat hanging from the branch of the cherry tree which hung over the parking lot of the building.  I shooed the dog away climbed up a low branch to reach the shaking little feline.

She was wet and shivering and I could feel all of her ribs.  I snuggled her close to my chest and brought her inside.  She hung onto my shirt and looked around my apartment with wide eyes, as if she had never been indoors before.  I gave her a few chunks of cooked chicken I had left over and she began to relax.

Her ribs began to vanish beneath a healthy layer of fat, but it still took her weeks to venture from my side.  She would shy away from every door that was opened, particularly my front door.  She was terrified of running water, and she seemed very skeptical of the goldfish.

The scent of Sunday eggs and bacon filled my apartment, and Clinger had been laying at the base of the refrigerator baking herself in a direct ray of sunlight.  I turned the radio up to eleven and danced around the kitchen while she napped in the blissful warmth. I took my time to make my breakfast.  I plated my beautiful over-easy eggs and bacon and took them to the table but Clinger didn’t follow.

I finished the last of my bacon and looked around for Clinger.  I switched the music off and noticed she wasn’t at my side or by the fridge anymore.  I put my plate in the sink and called for her.  I called and called her name, looking under every piece of furniture and in every room.  She had vanished, it seemed.

I crawled on the floor to check under the sofa and loveseat.  I checked beneath the TV stand, and stood puzzled in front of the bookcase.  My eyes followed the shelves down from the middle to spot a tuft of fur on the baseboard beside the bookcase.  I knelt to pick it up and saw a shadow move.  I hadn’t expected there to be enough room for a cat to squeeze behind the heavy wood shelving but there she was.  Clinger tucked behind the wood backing, shivering and wide-eyed.  There were drops of blood along the baseboard so I jumped to my feet to pull the shelves away from the wall and help her.  As I stood I noticed some books had blood spots on the bindings, and fur was falling from the middle shelf.

I inched closer to the middle shelf. The goldfish swam in circles in his bowl chewing on something that was not goldfish food flakes.  I moved in closer still.  It was fur.

The goldfish had taken a bite out of little Clinger and now swam with joy around his bowl consuming his catch.  I pulled the bookcase from the wall and scooped up the traumatized Clinger.  She shook in my arms.  I wrapped her in a blanket and stared down the carnivorous goldfish.

For a moment I wanted to flush him, then I imagined having a beast like that living in the sewers beneath the city.  That was even more terrifying than having him live in my apartment.  I nestled Clinger into her cat carrier and fastened the door latch, then grabbed a Ziploc and dumped the fish into the bag.  I would let the veterinarian deal with that little demon after they tended to Clinger.

She had packed up and left at 4am, embraced me one last time with a tear soaked collar. She drove away in the car we shared, but she had bought and paid for. She hired movers to take away the tv, couch, and most of the kitchen, as well as everything else she had paid for which was most of the apartment. She would have packed away my sins and taken them with her, because she had certainly paid for those as well. The movers could only take tangible things.

She had led the team of Mexican men around the apartment and pointed to what they should pack away.

"Si senora" the roundest Mexican with the clipboard said as she gave instructions. I couldn't watch anymore. I left for the bar.

I came back several hours and several whiskey sours later to find the place mostly empty, and her asleep in the bed she was allowing me to keep, even though she had paid for that too.

I took off my pants and climbed in next to her, slipping my hand under the sheets to rub her thigh. She turned over and I kissed her lips.

"What are you doing?" She opened her eyes to meet mine, her brow furrowed. "You said we were through." She stared through me to my soul.

"Stay with me." I implored her.

"Fuck you!" She turned her back to me and ripped the sheets away to wrap them around her body in a protective cocoon.

I slid my hand under the covers again and rubbed her thigh and rested my face beside hers.

"But, I love you" I whispered into her ear and I felt her thigh relax. She didn't answer me, but didn't stop me. I ran my hand from her hip down to her knee, then up her inner thigh. She rolled to her back and brought one knee up to rest on my stomach. She didn't look at me, but didn't stop me.

She let me taste her. She didn't look at me.

She let me enter her. She didn't look at me.

She didn't say a word.

She let me fill her, and didn't say a word.

I rolled over and pulled her into me and kissed her neck. She still wouldn't look at me, so I let go and rolled to the other side of the bed.

I awoke to her dressing in the corner and shoving some toiletries into a duffel bag. I watched without a sound until she began to lace up her shoes.

"Are you leaving?" She jumped at my voice.

"Yes. I'm leaving now."

"Stay with me."

"No. " she turned for the door.

I jumped out of bed and threw on some shorts that were flung over the dresser. I tripped over my boots and several other articles of clothing that littered the floor as I attempted to chase her.

The room spun and I tried to get my footing.

I caught her at the door as she swung her jacket over her shoulders. I couldn't say anything. I just watched her prepare herself for the cold and the long drive ahead of her. She didn't speak either. I handed her the keys after threading the apartment key off the ring. I tossed it onto the counter. I would never find that key again. The counters were covered in junk mail and empty liquor bottles, anything else would be lost in the chaos.

I watched her do her habitual pocket check to make sure she had all of her things, and as she patted herself down, her eyes began to swell with tears. I had broken her and she knew it. I hadn't intend to, but I was careless and she was more fragile than I had ever expected.

I walked behind her down the stairs and onto the frigid street. The temperature hadn't exceeded twenty Fahrenheit for weeks and our cheeks flushed instantly when meeting the icy air.

She hit the remote start and finally looked up to let our eyes meet for the last time. Tears beaded and rolled down her frozen cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away. I reached to wipe one away and she turned her cheek.

"You did this." She looked at me from the side. "You said it's over. You can't take that back." I couldn't answer. She was right, and now she would be gone. I took her hand and pulled her close to me. Her tears soaked my shirt and her mascara smeared on my collar.

"I have to go now," she said from within my embrace. I looked down and she let me press my lips to hers once more. She looked right through me once more and turned away.

I watched her drive away until her tail lights disappeared. I was frozen. I went back up the stairs into the apartment we used to share. It felt more hollow than ever before. I went to the freezer and pulled out the bottle of Evan Williams.

I awoke several hours later, sitting in the tub. It was empty and the window was open. I lit a cigarette and sat on the toilet. The freezing seat woke me enough to check the time. 3:08pm.

I sucked down my cigarette and put on a shirt that smelled clean. I looked around for my coat but gave up and took the final swig of whiskey from the now warm plastic bottle.

I made my way down the street. In the same direction I watched her drive away. It was eleven hours ago that she had left, she was half way home by now. I stumbled into the Tap & Mallet and sat down at the stool that knew my butt quite well.

Candice greeted me from behind the bar and poured me a whisky sour without a word from me. She asked me how I was and I lied and said life was good. She bounced in front of me and tried to make small talk, but I was only interested in drowning.

The bar started to fill and she was too busy to talk. She filled my drinks as needed.

I watched her walk back and fourth behind the bar. Bending for beer glasses and stretching to reach the top shelf (not for me, though).

Her breasts bounced gently as she shook together mixed drinks, and her ass stared back at me when she turned to open a new tab.

I stared down at my drink for a minute and when I looked up she was gone. Another girl had taken over for her. A skinny girl with thin black hair and a heart tattoo on her wrist. I looked towards the back. How long had I been staring into this drink?

"Lookin for me?" I felt gentle fingers across my shoulders and snapped my attention to my left. Candice perched herself on the stool beside me and smiled from the corner of her lips.

"Yeah. I suppose" I answered and downed my drink.

"Ursula! Two whiskey sours here" she hollered to the skinny new girl and the girl nodded. "Don't worry, they are on me." She put a gentle hand on my wrist.

We sat and talked and laughed. I had several more drinks that she paid for before Candice asked me to walk her home. She said she was only a few blocks away, but I wasn't sure I could stand let alone walk. I agreed anyway but pardoned myself to the bathroom first. I managed to walk to the bathroom just fine and went into the stall. I took a piss and held the wall while looking down at myself.

I gave myself a silent pep-talk and went to the sink to splash some cold water on my face. The water smelled and tasted like rust. Wonderful.

We braved the chilling winds to make it the few blocks to her apartment. I hadn't bothered to find my coat so when we reached her door, I was frozen to my core.

"Do you want to come in and warm up?" She kindly offered. Hell yes I did.

She took my hand and led me into her apartment. It was like something out of a Pier One catalog, down to the stupid throw pillows and useless tassels that hung from the curtain rods. She told me to make myself comfortable so I sat in an arm chair by the radiator. She took off her coat and went to her bedroom as though I wasn't even there.

"Can I smoke in here?" I shouted to her.

"I would prefer if you didn't." She poked her head out to answer. I lit a cigarette anyway and opened the window next to me.

I flicked the butt out of the window and closed it as she came out of her bedroom. She was now wearing tiny cloth shorts and a tiny tank top that barely covered her obviously fake breasts. I wanted to put my face between them.

She sat on the arm of the chair I had claimed and leaned down to kiss me.

She wasted no time in foreplay and stuck her hand down the front of my pants. I reached under her shirt and she promptly removed the needless cloth covering for me. She smiled and moved into my lap.

The drink was still hazing my head so I tried hard to focus on the feel of her hands exploring me. She rubbed herself all over me and I could tell she was getting exhausted in her efforts to arouse the more useful parts of me.

Candice was a gorgeous girl, but the days events and the whiskey made her work much harder than she was used to, so she shimmied down my lap and onto the floor where she positioned herself on her knees in front of me. She ran her tongue up and down my debilitated member until she managed some kind of excitement. She turned and dropped her shorts and invited me into an ass that had been freshly waxed and smelled of vanilla and almonds.

I could tell she was well versed in this particular practice, so I took myself in hand and shoved in, still half flaccid.

She moaned as though she liked it, but it wasn't enough for me. It didn't feel like the one I lost and the memory of her tears made me lose all excitement. I thrusted a few more times, in hopes of getting passed the memory of the morning. It didn't work.

I sat back in the arm chair and she got back onto her knees. She was determined. She put her tongue back to work.

I awoke the next morning in Candices' arm chair. I still hung out of my pants, soft and sad. A note sat on my knee. "Let yourself out and please don't come back."

I found her bathroom and took a piss, didn't flush, brushed my teeth with her tooth brush, left toothpaste stuck to the bottom of the sink, and flipped her toilet paper roll so it unrolled from the bottom. I left and didn't lock the door.

I walked down to the street trying to recall the night before. I reached my own block, and in that time had determined that I must have passed out while she was trying to arouse me with her mouth. I could blame her for pumping me full of whiskey. I could blame the miserable events that had unfolded that morning. I could blame myself. Instead I went across the street to the little bodega and got a bottle of cheap whiskey and a carton of cheap cigarettes. I smoked as I walked up to my door and walked into the empty and now loveless apartment. I sat down on the bed and drank, and erased Candice from my phone contacts.