They Chose the Nanny, I Chose to Stop Funding Them

I stepped outside my apartment door, my eyes scanning the area in front of me.

It wasn't even six o'clock in the morning yet, so it was still dark and quiet outside. The world wasn't ready to be awake yet.

I turned and locked my front door behind me, inhaling the wet morning air. It had just turned October, and already I can feel winter creeping in. I loved it.

I secured my key into the front of my sports bra and began walking to the sidewalk that lined the streets in front of my apartment complex. It was one of four at the end of the neighborhood street I lived on. All four were at the end of the road, two on one side of the street, two on the other. All built with dark brown brick with green accents on the trim and window shutters. There were five units in each building, but as far as I could tell more were empty than occupied. 

Once I had reached the edge of the road, I took a deep breath and began jogging, leaving my home behind. I could feel my bones popping, my muscles coming alive with the movement. The goosebumps slowly vanished from my skin as I grew warmer, my cheeks growing pink and sweat forming on the back of my neck.

I pushed my legs, focusing on my route as I turned right at the end of the street. The sound of my shoes slapping on the pavement and my heavy breath sounded extremely loud in contrast to the silent morning.

I ran for almost forty-five minutes before I even began to turn around and head home. My body craved more; it was pouting that we were wrapping up. But I needed to get ready for work.

My morning routine is pretty much the same every day, five days a week.

I would run for at least an hour or go to the gym or quite literally do anything physical before I had to be stuck at work for the next eight hours. I'd take a shower, put on boring grown up clothes, and go answer phones. At a desk. Saying the same script. Every day. Just like I had been doing for the past two years.

But I turned my back on my old life, walked away, banished myself. I couldn't go back.

"Hello, Mr. Turner? This is Cleo Fuller with AutoSure. I was looking at your account and noticed you haven't yet made your monthly payment. Would you like to make that now?" My voice sounded too high, too cheery. Definitely fake to my ears. But pleasant and friendly to customers.

"Oh well, I definitely made that payment." I rolled my eyes. Everyone has definitely made it, or we lost it, or the bank did something wrong, or yada yada. It's not my job to care, it's my job to get your money.

When I first got this gig, I told myself I wouldn't be here longer than six months. I told myself that this was just to keep myself alive while I looked for where I actually wanted to work.

Unfortunately, I had no education. No experience. Nothing. Hell, the only reason I even had a driver's license and social security number was because I knew someone from my youth with a few good connections. So, I got stuck after I was rejected for better jobs time and time again. I had to keep a low profile to stay off the world's radar, and a call center is as low profile as it gets.

Either way, it was this, or fast food. And this paid enough for all my bills, groceries, and even some money left over to save. A little, at least.

I began feeling antsy, bickering back and forth with this old man. I just wanted him to give me his debit card number so I could get up and move. I could feel my muscles tensing up with the desire.

It's funny, most people just thought I had ADHD, and I always just went with that. It was kind of a perfect cover up for why I was really such a nervous uncomfortable wreck all the time. I hadn't even had to come up with it.

"Look sir, maybe the system just hasn't gotten it yet. How about I call you back at this time tomorrow and we'll see if it's gone through yet, okay?" He grunts out okay and hangs up the phone with a loud click.

But his rudeness doesn't bother me, I badly wanted to get off the phone with him.

I almost literally leap out of my chair, walking as quickly as I can down the carpeted walkway between my co-workers' cubicles. I shoot a tight smile at a couple people I pass pay, avoiding hesitating so they wouldn't think I was available for office chit chat. I clench my fists tightly as I slip out our office's door and speed walk down the long corridor towards the stairwell. 

"Come on." I grit as I push through the metal door and quickly start making my way down the concrete steps to the first floor. I had been trying not to draw too much attention to myself, but I can feel my insides clawing at my skin to get out and it makes it hard to be conspicuous. I don't know how much longer I can control myself.

Lately I've been feeling like this more and more often. I can't help but worry that it means something, and that makes me more antsy which makes me worry more. It means it's time to let me the fuck out.

Finally, I reach the bottom of the stairs and my eyes land on the double metal doors that lead to the back of the coworking space my job was located in. I burst through them a little too loudly, drawing the startled gazes of a couple people smoking at the back stoop.

But I don't care.

I can see my car, and I need to get to it.

I walk as fast as I can without running full on. I can still feel the eyes of the smokers on my back, and while I don't mind people thinking I'm a bit odd, but I don't need that kind of attention from my coworkers. The parking lot is less than the size of a football field, but it still feels like it takes an eternity to cross it.

I'm finally able to pry open the door handle to my white sedan and scramble inside its cold interior. I sit down in the driver's seat, placing my head on the steering wheel and trying to calm my breathing down. I can feel my entire body shaking and my heart racing.

I shut my eyes as my vision starts to become hyper focused, pushing my own instincts down inside my stomach. No. No. NO. I chant in my head, clenching my steering wheel.

I almost can't hold it back.

I actually almost lost this battle for the first time in almost four months.

But slowly, my breathing slows down and I can feel my heart begin to calm down. I open my eyes and look up from the steering wheel, and the world is gray and unfocused again. I sigh, looking down at my hands.

I clenched the thing so hard that my handprints are now sunken into the wheel.