I closed the door to my apartment and sighed. It was only three in the afternoon, but I felt exhausted. The interview had taken almost two hours, and the beforehand primping and prepping had taken three. All I wanted to do was curl up with a good book.
I grabbed my e-reader and headed toward my favorite spot: the armchair by the window. It afforded a great view of the ocean. The sky was currently a steel blue, but without clouds. It was early September and the weather was still warm. Bay weather—not too hot and not too cold. In the mornings, the marine layer would cover the sky, causing a slight chill, but nothing like Seattle. I loved it here. From my window I could see the waves crash against the sand.
I turned on my e-reader and was about to delve into some romance, when I realized I hadn't talked to my dad in a while. I'd been ignoring his calls for weeks; it was easier that way. Well, it was easier for me. I didn't want to tell him his little girl had upped and vanished into thin air and wasn't going to see him for a while—maybe never again. He loves to forward emails. I used to delete them without a glance, but now, being so far away from him I wanted to read one.
I set my e-reader down and made my way to the desk. Sure enough, there was a forwarded email waiting from dear old dad. It was a dancing goat video from YouTube. I rolled my eyes, but inside I was laughing. I could picture his smile as he watched the video and decided to forward it to me.
I was about to turn off my laptop when I noticed another email, this one from an unknown sender. Curiosity got the best of me and I opened it.
My eyes widened at the first word.
I kept reading.
I gulped, instantly regretting reading the message. He didn't sign it, but I knew who sent the email. Dean, my psycho ex-boyfriend.
It was half past nine and I was late. Everything had gone to shit this morning. My alarm didn’t go off. My suit didn’t survive the move. My straightener broke and I had to bobby pin all my crazy curls in to an updo. Excuses, excuses, excuses—That’s all my morning was to a new employer: Excuses.
I ran into the coffee shop, hoping there was no line. A sane person would have skipped their morning coffee, but I wasn’t sane. And skipping my coffee would make me borderline homicidal. Heaving the coffee shop door open, I collided with a departing patron, knocking his coffee all over his chest.
A stream of curse words ran through my head. Seriously, can the morning get worse?
“I’m so sorry!” From the nearby counter, I grabbed a fistful of napkins, ignoring the incredulous looks of a man trying to make his coffee. Sorry dude, but you’ll just have to wait to put extra cinnamon in your drink, I need napkins.
Turning away from the counter, I rushed back to the patron who still hadn’t moved since I ran into him. My eyes firmly fixed on the caramel stain, I furiously dabbed at the coffee on the man’s shirt. The stain was setting.
“I’m so, so sorry!” I repeated.
This morning was utter shit! I was starting to wonder if there wasn’t some bigger force out there purposefully fucking with me.
By now we’d gained an audience, the whole coffee shop was watching my frantic cleaning. I kept patting at the soaked shirt, my efforts doing nothing in the way of helping, when two strong hands gripped my wrists.
“Stop,” a familiar voice said. I stopped, not really by choice but because the grips on my wrists tightened. I looked up to see a familiar face accompany the familiar voice: Vic. I swallowed.
The day was just getting better and better. I desperately wished we were outside. The State was doing construction, and I’m pretty sure there was an open manhole into which I could fall.
He stared at me, face blank, fingers still tight around my wrists. Distantly, it registered that my hands were sticky and warm. The coffee I had knocked on to Vic had been hot. Really hot. He hadn’t even flinched.
I wanted to say I was sorry again. Sorry that I ruined his shirt and sorry that I undoubtedly burned his chest, but I couldn’t. Vic pierced me with his eyes and commanded my silence. With one quick jerk, Vic released my wrists. He pushed past me and walked out of the shop. I was left to pick up the dirty napkins and empty coffee cup. What a brilliant morning.
My first day on the job was hectic. Bethany demands perfection.
I was filling my water bottle at the water cooler—yeah, a water cooler—when I felt a presence behind me. I tried to steady my shaking hand but it was no good. All I could focus on was the presence behind me; looming and menacing, it wanted me. My water bottle began to overflow and cold water trickled down my wrist. I couldn’t remove my finger from the spigot button. I couldn’t move. I was trapped. I felt it touch me. I screamed.
All sounds and senses came flooding back to me as if a wave crashed over my head.
“Jesus, Nox, what’s wrong?” That was Lissie. I recognized her voice. I’d met Lissie briefly when I came out of the interview.
I turned around, my hand freezing from the water, and faced her. She wasn’t menacing or looming, she wasn’t Dean. She was just Lissie: long, bleached blonde hair and blue eyes, tits that were huge and fake. She was beautiful in a Marilyn-Monroe-meets-this-month’s-Playboy-bunny way. It had taken me a bit to warm up to her; I had been spurned by those like her before. She was friendly, though. I liked her even more that she gave me a nickname—Nox—no one ever gave me nice nicknames.
Today, wearing a pink cardigan and beige slacks, she looked straight out of a J.Crew catalog. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t. How do I explain what just happened? Instead I smiled, said something ubiquitous, and walked away.
I sat down in my ergonomic chair and stared at the gray, crisscross pattern on the walls of my cubicle. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I Googled it last night when I woke up in a sweat from a nightmare. PTSD develops after a terrifying ordeal that involves physical harm or the threat of physical harm. It is characterized by repeated nightmares, flashbacks, avoidance—the list goes on and on. Yep, that sounds like me alright.
Realizing that I was still thirsty, I took a sip from my nearly overflowing water bottle. The liquid felt nice as it went down my throat. It was about the only thing that felt nice right now. I lived with an intangible terror that was always there. It was like a ghost. I’d dealt with stuff like this before, back when I was suicidal. Feelings take root inside of you but they don’t give themselves a name. Then, I had walked around in a haze, my eyes glazed from too much emotion. The tricky feelings refused to show themselves though, and one day I couldn’t handle it. I tried to kill myself.
This time, however, I knew the feeling: terror. I just didn’t know how to rid myself of it. It had hidden itself behind my organs and inside my blood. Certain things made it come out to play. All I could do was wait. Not being able to control my own body is the worst feeling in the world.
My eyes unfocused and the pattern of the cubicle walls started to blend into one blob. I took another sip of my water and contemplated my options. I didn’t want to live in fear forever. After years of therapy, group and otherwise, I had barely learned how to grapple with everyday emotions. This newfound fear was a little too much.