You flip through the pages of the same “What If?” history book for what seems like the hundredth time. Seeing if anything catches your eye. You glance to the side, nodding to the tired library worker passing you by. He greets you under his breath with a “Evenin’ Nena,” as he passes. The campus library staff knows you by name. Although you weren’t there much during your college days, you’ve practically worn a spot in the carpet as an alumni now. You sigh again, looking up at the pile of your favorite books. They couldn’t comfort you now. You know you couldn’t keep these, even if you checked them out over and over again. They weren't the same. You miss the highlight marks you made in your books, the loving wear and tear you put into them.

When Mother took them and sold them to a second hand bookstore, the bitch didn’t even give you a cut. Not that you wanted to sell them. You scowl at the thought of her. You argued with her before going into work today - another exhausting day at the indoor waterpark, sweating your tits off. Going into work pissed. Disappointment stacked on disappointment. And then the ultimate disappointment. You graduated with a degree in your passion: English. “Follow your dreams, the money will come,” you told yourself. Because no one else in your family would. Your hobbies were just that to them. Distractions. Not something to sink your degree in.

Money, money, money. Yeah it’s important. “But that’s rich coming from you, Mom. Marrying into money, not finishing your first year of college, working part time jobs to feed your shopping addiction," you whisper to yourself. You glance about the library. You chuckle at yourself, “that time of the night already, huh?” At least you didn't answer yourself.

The first warning signs then appeared. A set of lights turned off, dimming the massive library. Your cue to begin walking out. You check the time on your phone and see it’s almost 11 PM. Not even a call from your folks, despite the time. You’d usually be home from work about 9:30. Living with the parents still.

You grunt, the strain of the shift still hanging on your body as you stand. Your legs ache after standing and pacing around screaming children in the pools. A nice tall chair to sit and watch the swimmers? Fuck that, you get to pace and scan the pool, bitch. And you bet your sweet ass a micromanaging supervisor will be making sure you’re doing the job by the book. Making sure you weren't in the bathroom for too long. You sigh, gathering your books and returning them to their proper space on the shelves.