Conceal

With each day that passes, my nightmares get worse.

I know the reason too. It’s because it’s been over a month, and I still have nothing. I’m still living my life in limbo and fear. There has to be something I can do.

I need information.

And I need it now.

Without the information, my life will be in a permanent holding pattern. The first thing I have to do is buy a laptop. Then I can start trying to figure out who from back home I can talk to or even trust.

It’s a risk, but I’m running out of solutions.

Go to the cops?

I shake off the thought.

I can’t.

I have no proof. I have nothing.

I stand from the kitchen table and head to the bathroom to shower.

Thankfully, Maggie is no longer here. Another thing I need to do is look for a place to stay. I know she said it was fine, but I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. If I continue to work with her on the weekends, it could cover the rent at a hotel. Not a nice one, but beggars can’t be choosers. Lack of ID is still a problem, but maybe I can find a sublet, off the books of course.

Turning on the shower, I step under the warm water. It feels heavenly. It washes away all the thoughts clouding my brain. I close my eyes and allow myself to relax, allowing my muscles to loosen. After a few seconds, I grab the shampoo and lather it, then wash my body. When I’m finally ready, I shut it off, step out of the shower, and go to buy a laptop.

I think about going to the Apple store. I even make it all the way there, but I stop before I enter. If I have a computer, I’ll be tempted to look at my old social media accounts. I’ll want to look up people from my past. I can get caught.

No. I can’t have the temptation of a laptop. At least not yet. I continue to walk, needing the air to clear my brain, and I make it to the library. There, Jaxson’s words ring in my ear from the other night. I go to a computer and do a Google search.

Jaxson’s words have stayed with me for days.

Every time I thought about what he said about taking a self-defense class, I brushed it off. But today is the day I make a change.

I can’t be afraid.

If I’m going to be stuck in New York for the unforeseeable future, I can’t be afraid of my shadow.

* * *

It took me a full four days to work up the courage to be here. But I’m here, and that’s half of the battle. The only problem as I look around the room is that a part of me thinks I shouldn’t be here.

Don’t make excuses.

Don’t make excuses to hide and not be here. Don’t be scared. You are not some little mouse.

He might not have laid a hand on you yet . . .

Yet.

He wants you dead.

You need to be strong.

You need to protect yourself.

You need to find your strength.

“Hi, can I help you?” a woman asks. She looks at me with sadness and compassion in her eyes.

Looking at me, she can see through my facade.

Through the disguise I present to the world.

Because up close, you can see my roots. My false eyes, my baggie clothes. She might not ask, but she can see it.

Most of all, as she peers into my eyes, I know she can see my fear.

“I want to train,” I whisper. “I want to learn self-defense.”

I want to scream that I don’t want to hide anymore, but I don’t. Instead, my teeth nibble on my lower lip. I’m a work in progress, a story unwritten, coming here merely the prologue.

She nods and gives me a smile.

“Come, follow me. I’ll get you up and running.”

I follow her as she walks over to the desk, but when she pulls out a form, my heart rattles in my chest.

The air in my lungs dries up.

If I have to use my name . . .

No. I can’t.

I can’t show my ID. I can’t have anyone find me.

“This was a mistake,” I say, and I watch as her eyes dart toward a man who’s facing away from us.

She scribbles on the form.

Then hands it back to me. “Here, Sarah, your form looks good.” When she says the fake name she’s provided me for the papers, I feel the tears welling in my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Now that we have that taken care of, join my class.” At her words, I finally look at her. She’s dressed in tight-fitting leggings, a sports bra, and gloves.

“You’re one of the teachers here?”

She smiles. “Yes, I teach self-defense.” She gives me a knowing look, and now I understand. We might not be the same. My story might be different, but she saw my fear and understood it as if it was her own.