My own fears are not the responsibility of others. Day in and day out, I walk in a shell of my own creation; a hermit crab in a calcified box stemming from my mental illness' extrusions. I hate the thoughts that worm their way into my default mode network, dark and private and something I couldn't share. I'm not even half way to work and I want to turn my car around.

Was that bump actually a kid that had wondered into the street or yet another pothole? If I make a block to go back and check, my asshole boss will consider it the last straw in a week of late arrivals. If I don't, I'll be asking "what's the problem officer?" on my lunch break.

It's not his fault that I have these thoughts; one of the few things he isn't at guilt for. It's not the other peoples' faults at all, just my own. Or my parents. They were the ones who had a kid knowing that they met in a hospital. They were both diagnosed. They knew it was genetic.

Smoke rises in the distance behind me. I catch a glimpse in my rearview mirror. Suddenly, the bump takes second fiddle to the question of whether or not that candle was out; whether the house I can't pay for is burning. I can check the bump on my way back. Of course I have the memory of blowing it out, but it wouldn't be the first time I imagined remembering something that didn't actually happen. Didn't I read something about false memories the other day? Kids in hot-air balloons or something? Hot air. Fire. I need to do something.

I turn on my blinker and flip the car around. It was an illegal move, but a ticket is nothing compared to a house fire. As I turn, I catch a glimpse of a flash in the corner of my eye. It was closer to light reflecting off of a windshield than a traffic camera flash, but I'm not an expert in traffic cameras. There was something in the news about Flock cameras. Do they give out tickets? I push the car faster as I point the car toward the smoke and drive back over the pothole.

It was a full fifteen minutes before I came out of the anxiety-haze. I was in a different part of town, surrounded by dilapidated buildings and homeless encampments. It was one of these buildings that the fire was billowing out from, rolling into the sky as a ladder truck dumped foam on it and the cops drug the homeless squatters into vans. I stared for several seconds before an unnoticed rookie cop knocked on my window.

"Hey! No rubber-necking!"

I nodded and turned around. Another u-turn. More quiet driving. More thoughts.

What happens when I go to court? I bet he has to report what he sees. What happens when the judge sees that I made an illegal u-turn to go get in the way of a house fire? What if I loose my license?

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pull it out to read the screen.

"BOSS DO NOT ANSWER"

"SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT"

It buzed again, then again, then again. I hold it by the edges in a desperate attempt to not accidentally touch the green button. The call timed out. Then he called again. I couldn't answer. I couldn't face him again. What if he's going to fire me now?

The second call times out, followed by a single, lonely buzz.

"This is the last time. Don't worry about coming in now. Your check will be in the mail"

I park in the middle of the street, crying as other drivers honk their horns and pull around me. I knew it was coming. This wasn't the first or fifth or fifteenth time. Tears push their way out of my eyes as I manage to get the car to the curb and lay the seat back. Might as well get used to sleeping in my car anyway. I stare at the car's ceiling as my phone buzzes again.

I hold it to my face to read the notification through the blur of tears. I could just make out a post by an old highschool friend of mine; a picture of a rug on a floor that didn't quite line up with the bookshelf next to it.

"OMG! I'm so OCD LOL!"