Chapter 1 #2
But some part of me? The part that can’t let go of my mugging, is dragged back to that night, no matter how I try to claw my way back to reality.
It was dark already, and I was tipsy from the plane ride.
I’d never been good with planes, so I always planned on getting well and truly drunk on the flight from Salt Lake to Boston and then getting a hotel for the night before driving home the next day.
I hated driving in the city, so it had always worked well to park at a station in the suburbs and use the train to get to and from the airport—or in this case, the hotel.
I’d taken the T to my hotel’s station and was walking—hobbling—down the street.
I’d booked a newer, trendy hotel, hoping it would be a good option for my clients, but somewhere along the way, I’d taken a wrong turn.
The air was crisp and humid, clinging in the way that hovered on the edge of snow and chilled you straight through to your core.
It was dark—as dark as it can ever get in Boston—and I was using my phone to navigate me.
I’d taken a wrong turn, and the poor thing was trying to get me back on track.
Trouble was… I was already shit at navigating on foot in Boston, though I’d never let that dampen my confidence.
The streets in Boston never seem to be flat, and I’d always been clumsy.
I tripped, losing my grip on my luggage and my phone, slamming into the ground.
Hissing, I glanced, and both of my palms were scuffed up, and I could already feel a massive scrape on my leg.
I squeezed my eyes shut then, willing myself not to cry. I only needed to get to the hotel, I’d told myself. I was close.
Just then, as I’d been hyping myself to get up again, a hand had wrapped around my bicep and yanked me to my feet.
“Thank you—” I’d started, assuming that they’d been helping me up.
That’s when I saw the gun and the mask.
I shake my head, because frankly, I don’t want to remember the rest. The threats, the horrible Uber ride home because he took my car keys.
Begging my neighbor Tom to go get Henry from the boarder.
The weeks of being trapped in my house, trying to get my car back, my cards back, my identity back.
When I finally did, I found I had several new, massive charges that I definitely hadn’t made, repairs that needed to happen on my car, and an entirely new battle to wage.
My pulse races and my breaths are fast.
I’m here, I’m now.
“I am safe. I am in my home. I am safe.”
I try to forestall the panic attack before it starts, but between suddenly seeing the man in the mask and the reality of not going home for Christmas, it’s no use. My chest tightens. Even my cozy cabin doesn’t feel safe.
“I am safe. I am in my home and I. AM. SAFE!” I’m spiraling, I can feel it.
I abandon my cocoa on my side table by the couch and throw a few logs into the wood stove—I imagine I’ll not be out here again for a while to refill it. Luckily, it seems really efficient, so it can often go all night without me needing to refuel.
Henry’s collar automatically opens and closes the dog door for him, and his food and water are on dispensers.
I only needed to deal with one accident after I couldn’t let him out during a panic attack to make sure he’d have what he needed.
I might struggle, but I need to be sure he’ll be taken care of.
I’m sweating up a storm as I stumble to my room and abandon my clothes—they all feel too tight anyhow—and climb into bed.
Grasping beneath the sheets, I find my sleep pod, a jersey sleeping bag contraption that gives me compression.
I stuff myself into it like a sausage and hope that between that and the weighted blanket I can head off my attack before it really starts.
Unfortunately, now that I’ve done everything I need to do to prep for said attack, I’ve got nothing else to do but sit here and ruminate.
My room is dark because the lights would bother me, but I don’t have the blinds shut since I’d forgotten to shut them between talking to Mom and Dad and getting started on Fae’s presents.
Now, there’s only the palest sliver of a moon left, and it barely outlines the furniture in my room.
It’s all light tones, beiges with earthy accents, even though I personally love deep colors.
I went to the Utah mom school of decor, and so a chic beige house is what I know best. Plus, I think it’s hilarious to see all of my dark-colored fantasy, dark romance, and monster romance books lined up on my shelves against the paleness of everything else.
Right now, though, all of those light colors reflect light from the moon, outlining their edges and deepening their shadows.
Out the window, the last oak leaves shiver in the wind, making a horrible chattering sound that riles my frayed nerves. I pull in deep breaths, trying to slow my racing heart.
I’m not in Boston. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and anyone would be hard pressed to find me here. Not that they want to. The only people who know I live here are my mailman, my nearest neighbor Tom, who gets my groceries, and my friends and family.
My attacker could have my address, but the police assured me that it was highly unlikely, as I’d had my license in my pocket from flying, instead of in my purse. I’m fairly certain that nothing else in my bag had my address on it, but I have never been entirely sure.
During times like these, I remind myself: he was probably just some punk kid. He just needed the money. He hadn’t wanted to harm me. He would never seek me out.
Also, even if he did, I have a huge scary dog to protect me.
Henry hops onto the bed, though I can tell that his joints are bugging him when he does so.
Sure, Ada, Henry is totally going to be able to protect you in an emergency.
Really, though, in an emergency, I’d want him to stay safe instead of getting hurt trying to protect me, which only makes me feel worse, because now I’m thinking about him getting hurt and if I could work up the courage to get him to the vet.
Or worse, if I died, how he’d be all alone for days before nosy Tom came to check on me.
The tightness in my chest escalates to pain, the feeling that causes a lot of people to go to the ER thinking they are having a heart attack, but I know better.
I’ve called the paramedics enough times since my attack to know that I’m losing my shit again.
Well, I guess that means the paramedics also know I’m here—hell, they know me by name at this point.
I’m not about to call them; I know that I just need to ride this out.
My thoughts swirl in my head, warring back and forth between “I’m in the middle of nowhere, I’m safe,” and “I’m in the middle of nowhere… no one could hear me scream.”
My pulse races, my chest aches, and time slows to a crawl.
If I were in a video game, I’d be stuck.
I can hear the boss music, even see him maybe, but I can’t start the fight.
Because this is real life, and even though I am waiting on the precipice, there is no boss.
There’s only me, fighting things that I know aren’t real, scenarios that are definitely not going to happen.
Until I fall asleep, and inevitably return to them in my nightmares.