Your DNA

Destruction. Neglect. Addiction.

I stack the cards carefully - building, creating. Making something new, something cool. Something worth seeing.

And then they tumbled down, making a mess all over the table. But that's okay. That's supposed to happen. It's just gravity at work.

I cleaned them up carefully, making sure not to bend them. Taking care of the corners, glancing at the floor to double check that I wasn't missing any. I tucked them carefully into the box before closing it properly. I set it on my shelf with the other decks - all carefully organized and kept in one place.

I moved to the fridge to get a drink - water, because I had a soda earlier. I only drink them once in a while, and never more than twice a week. I try not to drink too much caffeine.

While I'm in the kitchen I grab an orange to eat. Every day of the week has a different fruit. Saturday, apples. Sunday, bananas. Today is Monday. That way I don't get too stuck on any one thing, and I'm not eating too much processed sugar. That stuff will mess with your system like you wouldn't believe.

Dishonesty. Narcissism. Arrogance.

I fumble with my alarm clock as I check the glowing red numbers - 9:55 a.m. I'm almost an hour late for work.

My roommate glances at me from the couch. "What's the rush?"

"I'm late." I explain, grabbing a brush and stuffing it in my purse. I brush my teeth hurriedly, worried about the time. Wednesday mornings are usually incredibly busy, and I should be there already.

Sara shrugs. "Just call in sick. You're never out anyway."

"I can't." I call out as I head back to my room. "I'm not sick."

I get dressed as fast as I can, pulling on my jeans and a lightweight sweater. I grab my keys and slide on my shoes, dialing my manager from the car. It would be easier to send a text - less stress, less chance of an angry confrontation. But calling is a little more personal, and I think an apology means more when you actually have to say the words.

My manager, Leslie, answers the phone on the first ring. "Courtney! Where are you? Are you sick?"

I half-smile at her concern, and shake my head. "No, I'm so sorry. I overslept. I'm on my way now." I hold my breath, hoping she won't be too mad.

Leslie sounds relieved. "Thank goodness. I thought something had happened. I'll see you when you get here."

The call ends, and I feel a wave of relief. I'm not fired. She isn't mad. Both of those things are great, because I really need this job. I just hope I can do enough work today to make up for my lack of punctuality.

I smile and greet everyone when I walk in before getting to work, focusing in on my tasks of the day. I manage to get twice as much done as I usually do, and end up with a huge stack of wrapped packages by the time 2 p.m. hits.

William whistles appreciatively at the amount as he passes me. "How long have you been here?"

I shrugged. "A few hours. I had to make up for being late." I glance over at his station. "You've done almost as many. And your wrapping is so perfect. How do you get it to look like that?"

Everyone here has learned how to make the wrapping look nice, but the work William does is next-level good.

William grins at the compliment. "Loads of practice. I have six younger siblings, so I've wrapped a lot of presents."

"Is it fun to have so much family?" I kept working as we talked - I may as well continue while I've got the time.

William laughed. "It can be. My youngest sister, Kim, is having the hardest time with biology right now. She's still in high school."

"I have some flash cards for biology. It's a really good set. I can bring them tomorrow if you think they'd help her." I offer.

"That would be great." William nodded. "She would really appreciate that."

"No problem. Maybe she'll get more use out of them than I did." I joke, feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

I head home with a grin on my face. Any day that I can help someone else is what I consider a pretty good day.

Disrespectful. Nocent. Abusive.

I walk up the steps to my apartment building, hurrying to make dinner. It's already six, and I usually try to have it on the table by six thirty.

Mrs. Perse smiles at me as she digs through her purse. I smile back, pressing the button for the elevator. Nothing happens.

I frown and press it again. And again. And then stop myself from huffing in irritation. It's fine. I'll take the stairs.

"The elevator's out again." I call out towards the main desk. I glance over to make sure Tommy heard me - he did - and then turn hurriedly towards the staircase.

Mrs. Perse drops her purse as she moves out of the way, and her stuff spills everywhere.

The time on my watch is getting dangerously close to six twenty as I kneel down to help her pick up her things. "Here, ma'am. Your phone." I hand it over and reach out to help her up.

"Thank you, dear." She smiles sweetly, and I smile back.

"Anytime, Mrs. Perse. Excuse me, please." I carefully step around her and take the steps two at a time. Maybe if I boil the water and make the hamburger at the same time, I can still get everything ready by six forty.

I unlock the door and rush to the kitchen, turning on the stove and placing the water on the largest burner. I grab the hamburger and a skillet before glancing at the water again.

The burner isn't on. I double check the dials - did I turn on the wrong one?

One at a time, I test the burners. And then I turn them all on, hoping for the tell-tale red ring to appear around even just one of them.

Nothing. I suppress my aggravation and put the hamburger away, picking up the phone. I guess we forgo healthy eating today.

Sara came in twenty minutes later with a bright smile. "Court! You'll never believe - what's wrong?"

I reluctantly meet her eyes from my position on the couch. "Takeout should be here soon. The oven is broken. I got home late today. The elevator is broken. Traffic was horrible. And it's Friday, so the landlord probably won't even answer our calls for the next 48 hours."

"Wow." Sara slumps into the armchair. "You've had one of those days where you just want to shout at everyone out there on the street."

I shrugged. "Nope. It wasn't their fault, really. Just a busy day for a lot of people."

Sara wore a disbelieving expression. "How are you not feeling more violent right now?"

We both looked up as someone knocked, and I stood up to answer the door. "I don't know. I'm guess I'm just trying to avoid all the violence that I can."

Delusions. Narcotics. Alcohol.

Sunday. The day of rest. For everyone who isn't me, apparently.

"I need painkillers. Do you have any?" Sara, still in her pajamas, stumbles into the kitchen.

"No, sorry. I don't use them." I handed her a bottled water. "Try this. Hot tea?"

Sara groaned. "This is not a hot tea sort of headache. This is painful, Court. Painful. Do you understand?"

"I understand." I tried to keep my voice down. "I think raspberry is supposed to help."

"I think I need something a little more serious than some berries." Sara deadpanned. She made a show of kneeling in front of me. "Please, doc. Give me the hard stuff."

I sighed. "I don't have any hard stuff to give you. You know that."

Sara flopped down on the floor. "But why? I need it."

I tried not to wince at her high-pitched, whining tone. "You don't. You need sleep and hydration. And some raspberry tea."

I turned the t.v. to a low volume as she followed me into the living room. "You probably shouldn't watch any screens with a headache."

Sara ignored me as she flipped to her favorite news channel. I shrugged - it's her headache.

We sat in silence for about ten minutes before she perked up again. "You know what?"

I almost didn't want to know. "What?"

"I think I know exactly what will help." Sara got up and headed into the kitchen. She came back a few seconds later with a blue thermos. "Alcohol. Obviously."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. That's exactly what you need."

Sara grinned like a kid with cotton candy. "Want some?"

"No, thank you." I shook my head. I have my own, for when I need it. One bottle of red wine. But I don't need it today.

Sara fell asleep shortly after finishing her thermos, and I turned the t.v. off. Maybe if I let her be, she'll wake up feeling better. I don't know. I'm not really sure how hangovers work.

I moved to the kitchen to grab a snack - a banana. Today is the day for bananas. Even if I'm sort of in the mood for an orange.

I hesitated by the wooden door at the end of the kitchen, debating. I wouldn't drink any. But maybe I should make sure it was still there - not knocked over or anything.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside to look.

The wine is sitting where I placed it two weeks ago - unopened in the pantry, reserved for only the most stressful days. Today doesn't count.

Today is just a day. One day in my routine. One day that I've done before. One day that I'll do again.

For a moment, the thought is so depressing that I consider grabbing that bottle of wine. But then I smile, and shake it off. This isn't any harder than last week. This isn't even a particularly stressful week. This is just a week.

Just one more week, fighting to stay on the right path. Fighting against the curse I was given.

Fighting your DNA.