Bridge

Spanning chasms and offering safety, the bridge stands year after year.  It's strength seems effortless, taken for granted by those upheld by it's engineering.

Time, neglect and chaos take their toll.

At first it's just softness underfoot, spongy.  The small, slow deteriorating of wood and the quiet rust of metal a warning.

They all want to say it fell suddenly, but they never listened to the rust and the softness of the wood until they were tumbling through the dark waters beneath it.



♦

Drafts

I was just in my "Manage Posts" area of my blog and saw a few draft posts that never got published.  I can't even remember why I wrote this draft or what the rest of the story was in my brain... too bad... but I thought it was fun to read.  Mac was sitting here while I read it and he read it too.  My ten year old son pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and said, "Huh.  Pretty good, Mom.  I think you should write a book."

I'd love to, Mac.  But first, I've just got to get myself writing again.

Here is my never-published draft of something unknown.... I wrote it on June 10th, 2009.

Kate saw him on the train that day. Cold air rushed past her as the doors opened, carrying the din of the commuters as well as the scent of his cologne. Sam's cologne was, as usual, too strong and she felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch him. 

He hadn't seen her. Kate's fingers twitched toward him and then fell still as her mind played out the outcome of taking action on her urge to feel that soft spot below his earlobe. Sighing and biting her lip, she attempted distraction by looking out the window at the streak of scenery that flew by the oblivious commuters.

Who's Kate?  I have no idea.  But I think I'd like to figure it out.

Dots

She's always called it
a constellation. 
A mural of her indifference.

Connect-the-dots,
a picture
of the deeper places.

Her weakness revealed
on this map
of her self-inflicted turmoil.

Missing Manic Monday: Noise

Every night it's the same. 

'Ridiculous,' I tell myself.

'Why do you do this?', I question.

'Sleep should be a priority,' I reprimand.

But it isn't.  Night holds freedom from the demands of the sunlit hours.  The noise of responsibility is sleeping, blanketed by the darkness.

And I just never quite want it to end.

Apparently

Apparently I'm not writing the important things, so I'll blather.

Apparently I'm not doing the daily tasks, so I Facebook.

Apparently I'm not keeping straight, so I visit my chiropractor.

Apparently I'm not keeping my dishes washed, so I shrug.

Apparently I was trying to be poetic but I keep falling on my face again and again and the backspace button is my new best friend and apparently I decided to forget about being poetic and, rather, write one big run-on sentence about nothing in particular while I notice the clock and think to myself that it's time to go pick up Ella and why am I still sitting here and then I answer myself and say that it's because I actually FEEL like writing something and that hasn't happened in so long I almost forgot how to do it and so I reply again that it's ok and Ella is fine to wait for two minutes with her friends outside the school under the supervision of teachers while I spew a bit of useless information in a run-on sentence but realize that it may be useless to the casual reader, but vital to my own mental health because apparently useless information is dripping from my brain like a leaky faucet and it must come out. 

Apparently I'm not finished with my blog, so I smile.

Check It Out

I got published again!  Some of you have already read this, but check it out if you wish... it was supposed to have a blurb about the poem that went something like this:


There are times in life where I've felt like I'm floundering... bobbing along with no direction and accomplishing very little. It was during one of those times, a January in my life, that I realized, as I walked past my flower garden wherein lay the frozen roots of perennial flowers and shrubs, that something happens to those roots in those cold, dark times that cycle through every year. I don't understand the physics or biological processes that occur, but the results, when the weather warms, is the beautiful conclusion of that process that I don't fully understand. From that life-metaphor came this poem which helped me have the faith to get through my own dark, cold cycle in life.

Somehow that got left out, but that's ok... you get the idea, I think, through the poem.

That Kind

~~~~~~~~~

One of those times when you can't make sense of it.

One of those spots on your heart that's all worn and threadbare.

One of those songs that feels all the feelings for you so you don't have to.

One of those prayers where you scream at God.

One of those afternoons when your shoulder aches because you're carrying the mad world across it like a purse full of all the garbage you've forgotten why you even put in there in the first place.

One of those moments where you explode all over the place and wonder at the people who've told you they can't imagine you losing it.

One of those trips you take down the guilty road of Lost Self Control.

One of those looks that blows right through the threadbare spot like tissue paper.

One of those carefully composed posts that stitches up your heart a little bit.

One of those days....

Ole!!

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote one of my favorite books ever... Eat, Pray, Love. If you have time, watch this astounding talk she gave. Inspiring, insightful and motivating, her words yank me out of my fear-place and into a place of love regarding what I want to do with my life. Ole'! https://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_your_elusive_creative_genius?language=en&trigger=15s

It's No Wonder

Last week my heart metaphor was a washing machine full of water and clothes, but no churning. Still. Silent.

That was last week.

Today, I'm churning. Crying. Aching.

Sometimes there's no visible explanation, but the washing machine load is on heavy and it's churning up crap I don't really want to see.

But it's time.

Time for me to do a rinse cycle. Time for me to pull my head out of the sand and deal with some realities I've been ignoring. Time for me to plan. Time for me to stop being scared of the word "plan".

Time for me to change the load. Dry this one out. Fold it. Put it away.

Moving Through

My heart-state always has a metaphor. Always. My mind conjures them like a washing machine churning clothes and if I watch long enough, the one I want will surface. Except lately the water feels still. I can't think of a fitting metaphor. So, would that mean I'm a blank slate? A vacant lot? An empty chair? Or perhaps a stripped bed? No. I think I just pegged it with the washing machine. Full of water and clothes, but no churning. Still. Silent.

Whatever it is, I can't seem to think of much these days. It could be the allergies that I'm battling, making my head feel as though it's stuffed with cotton. It might be that I'm just too tired to care. It's possible that I'm burying my head in the sand so I don't have to do any digging into my own psyche. It may be just me crawling into dormancy, temporary shut down, laying fallow, awaiting the spring when I feel like growing again.

Whatever it is, I'm up for it. Apparently it's my time to stare off into space or at least feel like I am staring blankly, even when I'm busy. It is my time to avoid looking deep into the recesses of my heart. It is my time to learn the routines of keeping a clean house. It is my time to play the guitar every night. It's my time to allow myself to go to bed if I'm sleepy. It's my time to teach my children that there are cycles in life and we need to listen and love.

It's also my time to love myself even when I don't feel like I'm moving forward.

Screaming

Sometimes you have so much to say that you can't say anything at all. "Create New Post" stares at you with one big rectangular eye. It screams at you, "FILL ME! MOLD MY WHITE BLANKNESS INTO SOMETHING GREAT!" and you scream back mentally, "I WANT TO, BUT MY EYES ARE BUGGING OUT OF MY HEAD BECAUSE OF YOUR BLANK-RECTANGLE-EYE SCREAMING TO BE FILLED!!!"

And then your shoulders and the new calluses coming on your hands, and your lower back and most of the rest of your body scream at you, "YOU SPENT MOST OF THE DAY SHOVELING SEVERAL THOUSAND POUNDS OF DIRT!!! WHY DON'T YOU GO TO BED!!!!"

And then you stop screaming and you say in reply, "What a good idea." and, "Goodnight."

And your body smiles, every inch.

Late

I was late. Very late. Images of my exasperated children popped in my head. I could just hear their little voices as they opened the car door. "Mom! Why are you always late?!" In the way of internal conversations, I answered their ghost-question with a mental sigh, "I don't know, my little loves. I don't know. I ask myself the same thing all the time."

As my mind continued conjuring these images, my foot pressed a little harder on the gas. Not that the ten or so seconds gained by going faster would make my children have a mother that was on time, but it made me feel better.

With all that brain-chatter interference, my normally acute cop-radar was not functioning at peak performance. I saw the cop car with my eyes, but it did not register in my brain. Well, it did, but my brain said, "No, Clancy... no need to stomp on the brake. It's parked in front of a house, meaning that the cop lives there." My brain forgot to mention that I've driven this route every day of the week for three years (excluding summers) and never before has there been a patrol car in that spot. I simply continued at my illegal speed, distracted as I was, coming up fast on said police car.

Thinking the car void of inhabitants, I was shocked to suddenly see an arm shoot out of the window, skeletal structure in a straight line to the wrist, ending in a single pointed finger aimed at the ground. The shoulders along with pectorals, lats and countless other muscles unseen by my eyes, forced the prostrate arm and pointing finger up and down in a very exaggerated, very clear message. SLOW DOWN.

It's a rather amazing thing, the adrenal system at work. Before my brain really registered what the signal meant, my heart was pounding and it felt as though it had jumped to my throat, leaving a watery feeling in my arms and stomach. Then my brain (so slow!) finally said, "DUDE! That's a cop sitting there waiting for unsuspecting speeders like you!!!" and it proceeded to send a little message down the pipe (which pipe, by the way, brings to mind those drive through bank teller tubes) causing my foot to stomp on the brake. I slowed down to the speed limit before I reached him and waved in gratitude as I passed without turning my head. After all, I can be grateful without having to show the shame in my eyes to the owner of the warning arm, right?

As I passed and waved, I started giggling rather hysterically. I was suddenly a child, eight, maybe ten years old, caught in some act of stupidity by an adult who rightly gives me a silent but firm rebuke, thus sparing my embarrassment from everyone save myself and the chastising adult. It must have been the combination of that mental image and the blood surging quicker-than-normal through my veins, but I couldn't stop the laughter. The giggling was accompanied by an ear-splitting grin.

I can't explain it, but as I drove to my children, slightly under the speed limit, I was rapturous. Joyous. Happy beyond measure. My insides felt warm, like a cheery fire had been lit in my lower abdominal cavity. The smile on my lips went bone deep and I marveled at this simple gift of sweet exuberance wrapped in the very strange and surprising package of warning and adrenalin. It makes no sense to me, even now. But for reasons unknown, I was unequivocally happy this day.

Edge of a Knife

It's a hard line to walk.
And all you can do is walk it and wait.

Ring-Around-The-Rosie in whispers and giggles.
Duck-Duck-Goose in tears and anguish.

The longing coupled with complete aversion
Gnaws at every moment,
Both exhilarating and nauseating.
The unseen, unknown and unfathomable flood
Of unfounded fear and potential joy
Swirling in an incessant current,
Drowning it's succumbing victims.

Looming day whispers a promise of the Whole World,
Or one drop in the Ocean of Time,
But there's only the waiting.
For now.

Vacant

It's like this.

No shovel touched the snow in the driveway all winter long. No footprints. No mail in the mailbox. No light cheerfully spilling out of the windows at night. No squeals of elation, or cries of frustration were absorbed by walls, furniture or consciousness. It sat cold. It sat dark and empty.

I stared at it. I wondered at what it held in the past and what it's future would be. I walked it in my mind, living there, laughing and singing there, smelling the charcoal of the barbecue in the backyard, leaves filling out the now naked trees. I explored the vacant places in my own heart, the places, once occupied but now locked. I tried, yet again, to guess at the connection that houses have with souls, but I came up short.

All I know is that house has been in the back of my mind all day. That house wants to sing, like me.

Safe Places

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This particular post had a soundtrack while I wrote it. If you'd like to hear, push play here.
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There are times where life brings you a sanctuary. A haven. And sometimes it's not a place in the literal sense of the word, but a home for your heart all the same.

Life moves, a river. A current carrying forward the past into the future, bringing the Now to every moment.

Like driftwood, you can let the current take you. You can drift. And in drifting, laying on your back mesmerized by the clouds, your sanctuary might recede into your mind's horizon, losing definition, engulfed by haze until it becomes unrecognizable.

At times like that, Panic can grip your heart. Where is your safety? Who are you? Why are you here, floating on this river? Was it always so wide? What is unseen below you? Did the river change, or did you change?

And then comes the choice. Drift again, ignoring questions, and see what the river will bring? Or swim hard for a safe place, be it the same place or a new and undiscovered haven, a resting spot on the journey?

There's always the choice.

Sleep Deprived

An all access pass to raw feelings, walls down, she's checked in when depleted completely.
But, Dead of Night married to Passing Years eventually fall out of love and drive head-on toward Divorce...

A problem for another day.

For now, a stinging film rests on her eyes like contacts that she doesn't wear.
Her shoulders clench like acrophobic arms wrapping themselves around substantiality.
Fingers continue to fly and she wonders at this, her mind's backstage pass accessed through lidless doors.

Worked Up

I just got off the phone with my biggest opponent and I'm left with trembling hands and weak knees. But this time I didn't cry. Not once. Standing up for myself and putting the people-pleasing in my pocket for a time leaves me feeling like I ran a marathon. Each cell in my body feels jittery, almost nauseated. Can individual cells feel nausea? Well, mine do.

Three cheers for backbone!

Hooray! Hooray!! Hooray!!!

But the real champion and unsung hero is my blog, and the way writing calms my quickened heart-rate and stills my shaking hands. God bless Blogger and my sweet readers who always encourage and love.

Yeah, Write... Chapter 4

Here we are with the fourth chapter of our story. This has turned out to be a very fun game and I thank you all very much for playing and reading! Thanks to Polly for writing this week's chapter and also for giving our characters names and bringing things some closure! You did an amazing job, as did Ginny and Maria! I thought it might go on past here, but once I read it, I decided I like this as an ending. So, enjoy this, the final chapter of our game! :)

If you're just joining us, click here for chapter 1.... chapter 2.... and chapter 3. :)



The sense of terror might not have come to anyone else that looked through that door, but I had always had an unnatural aversion to them. Only now, with so many before me, did I realize that this was beyond personal preference.

Lucy, my best friend in second grade, who showed me jump rope rhymes and handclap games, was the first victim of my relationship with them. Her Max always sought me out, his hateful and hurtful eyes glowering. I postponed and curtailed my visits with her, and because I could feel him near her when she visited me, asked her over less often. I lost my first, and only, true friend in just a few months of Max's arrival. She became a casual acquaintance at school, finding friends who made time for her and trusted her with their secret crushes.

Mrs. Evans, the crazy old lady next door, had a piece of her heart (and probably her sanity) plucked away each time I refused her afternoon tea. I really didn't mind her incessant rambling about her daughter who moved too far for a job, her granddaughter, whose mother forced her to participate in every sport, activity, and community event, her cousin's son-in-law who had an opinion about everything, and scandalous chatter about Mrs. Riley on the corner and her tiff with Mrs. Barker down the street; it was all I could do to nod politely, but mostly because I didn't know what she expected me to say. I assumed she was happy to just do the talking. But after she found Sam and his knowing stare bore through me, I never entered her house again. Even as a child I knew it was wrong for him to react to me so harshly. I didn't understand it, and so, filed it away in the 'inexplicable moments in my life' section of my mind. I will never forget it. It was a look that pierced my mind and soul - stifled my words and choked my breath.

And here I stood staring back at dozens of them. Even without their seeming hatred for me, and I for them, I never understood cats, or their cat people. The sickly sour-sweet overpowering aroma wafting around this man was reason enough. Since I avoided all contact, I never had to experience the hatred that consumed me now. Once again, I was stuck; as much as I told my feet to move, they wouldn't. I angrily met each icy brow, every menacing frown, with a rage that exploded within me. The year that I had spent experiencing Collin's somber intensity, and then his anger, had finally become a part of me. Or had it? Was this his reaction to the threat, or my own? Such intense emotions were new to me, and I realized, as I stared into the faces of malevolence, that something within me was just awakening!

Through the suffocating wave of new emotions and confusion, I heard a small sound. It was door number three, finally! With a loud breath, I instinctively spun with enthusiasm at my reprieve. The face that I saw there brought tears to my eyes; my anger flared and was joined with terror. Panic and horror overcame me as I struggled to breath through pain that this new presence brought. His face flashed a thousand images through my mind with a pain that was so intense I couldn't scream, I couldn't run, I could only watch the slide show playing inside my head.

So this is why I chose this door. Zane. In all his monomaniacal glory. I knew everything in an instant. I had seen him every year for his research, except I had forgotten that until now. Now it was all clear. His project, his testing, his study, his monitoring. Me. Project Me, courtesy of 'Doctor' Zane.

"I've been expecting you. I knew that you would return. It is too much a part of you."
"Nice security," I spat, tossing my head across the hall.
"I knew you'd appreciate it. We have work."

Until this day, this moment, standing before a mad man with venomous stares at my back, I had always felt the strength of others. I gravitated toward them. I needed them to guide me as I blindly fumbled my way through my life. I was doing what they wanted, and now, I was doing what Zane wanted. Even my rebellion was under his control. The helplessness that this knowledge brought fueled new emotions inside me; not just emotions, a new voice. My voice. The intimidation I had felt was washed away with determination, which brought strength and direction.

I didn't need to listen to Zane anymore. I didn't need to listen to my friends, to the dagger thoughts from across the hall, to the 'mom' voice inside, or even Collin. My voice was all I would hear now. Zane was the reason I couldn't hear it before. Now something deep within me awoke.

I thought I knew the meaning of the word, 'relief', but the peace that I settled upon me when I finally felt Collin's presence again overwhelmed me. Peripherally, I saw him, hesitating in the opening of the building. My mental awareness made me understand everything he was thinking and feeling, and a new intensity in my senses caught the whisper of a smile that almost escaped his sedate face. Even after I ran from him, twice, Collin willingly came to my aid. I felt his pride and confidence in me, which is what I had always felt for him. I also felt his fury directed at Zane.

I wanted to destroy Zane. I wanted be sure he would never control me again.

And then I heard a voice. My voice. 'Put your hands in your pockets and walk away.'

And I did. To Collin. Not really to him, but with him. I was walking away from Zane. I was walking away from the fear and pain. I was going with Collin because I knew now that he was right. I had been with him, waiting. Waiting for something great from him, but really, he was the one waiting. Waiting for something great from me. He would allow me to listen to my own voice. He would help me. This is what he was waiting for. I was the one with the answers now.

Manic Monday: Cloud

Cloud Idioms found on Dictionary.com:

in the clouds, in a condition of absent-mindedness; lost in reverie.
This is me in the shower. The shower is a place where my mind goes somewhere else. I think. I pray. I am lost to my surroundings. I go through shampoo and conditioner at an alarming rate because I get so "lost in reverie" and "absent-minded" that I forget whether I've put either one in my hair. I can't even guess at the number of days that I've shampooed and/or conditioned my hair twice, possibly three times, but, such is the price for having my mind "in the clouds", my thinking place.

on a cloud, exceedingly happy; in high spirits.
This is me after a great writing moment, painting several rooms at my duplex, cleaning and making things look all shiny, sewing something pretty for myself or my kids, working really hard in my yard, or playing with my children. This is me in accomplishment instead of lethargy. The mere act of ACTING puts me on a cloud. I, therefore, make a "New Day's Resolution" to ACT this day. To experience my perch on a cloud.

under a cloud, in disgrace; under suspicion:
This is how I felt about blogging after asking a friend if she blogs. Eyes darting to her husband, she said something to the effect of, "No. I don't blog. I don't do Facebook or MySpace or any of those things. My brother warned me to NEVER, NEVER put so much information about me on the internet. People can use it against you and steal your identity and [blah blah blah]. So, I don't do it."

Then MY husband looked at me and said, "YEAH!"

What's a blogging girl to do when information like that is thrown in her face? It hurt me. I was thinking about this very conversation in the shower this morning as I was duly thinking about the word cloud, trying to figure out what I would write on it. Last night I had found these idioms and I liked them, but that's all that came to mind was how much I liked them. I still didn't know what to write.

As I was thinking these multiple things in the shower, I squirted conditioner on my hand and, as I looked at it, I wondered if I had even put shampoo in yet. So, I washed the conditioner off my hand, got shampoo and washed my hair, for perhaps the second time. I then grabbed conditioner, squirted it on my hand, rubbed it in my hair while saying out loud, "I am now putting conditioner on my hand- and now in my hair- and now I've done conditioner." (That's often the remedy to my problem, speaking out loud.) I chuckled to myself at my forgetfulness and then I remember the idiom and realized I was "in the clouds" at that moment!

I also realized that the conversation with my friend had put blogging "under a cloud" in my mind. Her words crumpled something in me and I didn't even realize it until this morning in the shower. As I sat and thought about it, I got angry. Yes, it's true, there are risks with blogging. Should I stop blogging because of it?

I've got news for my friend who unintentionally and unknowingly made me spittin' mad... there are risks in this life. There are risks with driving. You might wreck, break down, get a flat tire, get hit by someone else... or even DIE! People get killed all the time in car accidents! There are risks with investing your money. The economy could go south and the stock market could tank... oh WAIT... it already did! You could invest in rental properties and be a really nice person who would actually listen to certain people's excuses and then they might walk all over you causing you to lose enough money to buy your own car all over again! There are risks with buying things online. There are risks walking down the sidewalk. There are risks with falling in love. There are risks with bearing and raising children. There are risks with simply being alive on this earth.

But you know what? With the risk come the reward. With driving comes convenience and efficiency. With investing comes hard-earned education and prosperity. With online shopping comes convenience and a broadening of options. With walking, an appreciation of the beauty of the trees, of a fellow walker's smile and the joy of moving joints and muscles. Falling in love brings a sharing of a life, making joys a little sweeter and pain a little easier to bear. Children bring love and learning to an extent that's hard for me to fathom right now as I can't see the forest for the trees. And being alive on this earth brings the melding of physical, emotional and spiritual in a symphony of growth and change, heartache and jubilation.

I am not going to let the risks hold me back. I LOVE blogging. I love the freedom it allows to say what I want to say and to express myself and grow through my favorite outlet, writing! I will take the risks and let go of the fear. Fear calls to you what you are afraid of and what we focus on, we bring more of into our lives. I choose to focus on the joy. I choose to tuck the fear in and kiss it goodnight, and when it wakes up again, because it always does, I will repeat the process. It can have it's place in someone else's heart if they choose, but my heart lives in faith and love today, or in essence, on a cloud.

Yeah, Write... Chapter 3

Welcome to Chapter 3 of our game. Excellent job, Ginny! Next week, we will hear from Polly with the following prompts...

...put your hands in your pockets...

and

...I thought I knew the meaning of the word relief, but...

If you're just joining us, please go here for an explanation. And to get caught up, click here for chapter 1 and chapter 2.

Chapter 3

Despite his encouraging and pleasing reaction, the first step was definitely the easiest. I laboriously worked to put one foot in front of the other as I battled the dichotomous truths before me. Was turning back the right thing to do? I had tried without success to run away, and although going back was proving to be almost as difficult, I was at least able to get my body to respond to the commands from my brain. Each step brought me closer to the threat and security of his presence and I tried to get my mind around the awful truth he had revealed. Where we would go from here? Things would, obviously, never be the same, and yet, I was intrigued at the possibilities that lay ahead. I always believed, at least at some level, that we make this world our own heaven or hell, and with each step I was trying to convince myself that there was a heaven to be found in all of this. As I continued to watch my leaden feet, my shoulders curled in exhaustion and grief, arms hanging limp, swaying like an ape's with the physics of my lumber, I realized that I was muttering aloud in conversation with myself as I contemplated the consequences of going back. I didn't really have the energy to care. It's not like there was anyone around to hear me.

Suddenly I snapped out of the magnetic trance that had been pulling me somewhat reluctantly toward him. Why wasn't there anyone around? Why hadn't even one of the hundreds of cars that had passed us on the highway stopped? Or even slowed down? It was almost as if no one had even seen the smoking car or either one of us looking pathetic and helpless as we sat on the loosening gravel of the shoulder of the road. In the mere seconds it took to have all of those thoughts run through my head, I heard a voice that so clearly sounded like my mother's. It wasn't an actual voice, but one in my mind, and it was perfectly clear as it shouted to my subconscious, "Get out, NOW!

It's amazing the motivation that comes upon hearing your mother's voice yelling at you, real or not. My once curled, sagging shoulders rolled back as my spine straightened. My head whipped up with a determination I never knew I had. As my eyes leveled off from the dramatic motion, I realized I stood just feet in front of him. Our eyes met, and yet didn't. He seemed to be staring through me rather than at me and I could feel that almost magnetic force trying to pull me in again, only I was aware of it this time. An ominous feeling of fear swept over my body and a wave of cold moved through my every limb. My stiff, clammy fingers moved up to my cheek where I could now feel the outline of the two black marks. His gaze didn't abate in the slightest. I turned my emancipated body around as if to catch sight of what it was he was looking at, and I ran. I ran with more energy and determination than I had ever remembered feeling. I thought I heard him yell something, but I couldn't be sure for the blood pounding in my ears. I crossed the same road for the third time now and practically flew over the playground's gravel that had once proved my captor. I was getting close to the apartments now and knew I couldn't stop until I was safely behind one of those doors. What I would do next, I didn't know. I couldn't think about that now. All I could afford to do in this moment was keep my feet moving as fast as possible. I feared if I slowed down he might be able to extend his controlling influence over me again.

Finally my feet moved from the uneven softness of the grassy lawn to the concrete of the breezeway between apartment doors. I quickly looked at the four doors within sight as my brain scrambled to decide which to pound on first. Did it really matter? Why was I even taking the time to be selective? After seconds that felt like minutes, I saw the clear, clean lines of a brass three centered perfectly on a door. It almost looked as though it was glowing, begging me to select that door. I am sure I felt this way because three has always been my favorite number, but something about that door called to me. And so I lunged for the door, pounding with the side of my fist. I yelled pleadingly, "Please, open the door, please!"

My clenched fist tightened as I continued to pound and plead, and I could feel my fingernails digging into my palm. I was about to give up and try another door when the hairs on my neck stood on end as I got that eerie feeling of being watched. I continued to pound while I quickly sent my gaze in both directions to calm my adrenaline-filled senses. I first looked toward the direction of the car. I couldn't see the car around the corner of the building, but I also couldn't see him, which caused me to let go of my bated breath. However, the feeling of being watched persisted as I flipped my head around my other shoulder, my hair whipping me in the face with the action. When my hair fell away from my eyes I noticed the open door to apartment number four directly behind me. In the doorway stood a very large silhouette of a man. My arm froze, still raised at a right angle, my hand pulsing in pain from the incessant pounding. Instead of feeling relieved to finally see an actual person, I felt a different sense of terror in my new situation. What I saw behind the silhouette was too horrific to be real and the smell emanating from that open door was nearly powerful enough to bring me to my knees.