She tears away from the curb almost before he closes the door behind him and with the slam comes the tears and she can’t stop them just as she couldn’t stop him. Her first thoughts are how much she hates men, then how much she hates him, but they’re quickly erased with how much she hates herself, blames herself. If there is blame to be assigned, it belongs to her. Her car speeds along the road, curving, twisting, turning. How easy it would be to slide up the side, flip it over, crash into a wall. Just a pull of the white knuckled hands and it would all be over, or at least paused. Her teeth tear at her bottom lip in anger, tasting the salt as it hits her mouth and teeth, rolling down her neck. She pulls into her driveway and sits, one foot on the brake, the car still in drive, clutching the steering wheel.
She lies in bed that night, staring at her ceiling, the room black save for the small slats of light that fall in from the broken blinds. She can’t sleep, the feel of his hands on her inescapable. She pulls the covers up higher, trying to get lost in the thick black comforter but it is impossible and when sleep finally comes, it is fitful. She dreams she is on her way to the 7-11 for something to drink, but as she walks down the alley it grows darker and darker. She instinctively grasps her key chain, keys pointed out, ready. A blue black haze falls quickly and her sight fades as she feels her way along the wall, trying to get to the safety of the convenience store. She rounds the corner, her heart racing and runs straight into a homeless man, wearing a periwinkle cable knit sweater and she knows she is in danger. Her keys thrust forward only to become entangled in his sweater. He grabs her easily by one arm, lifts her and roughly carries her back to the alley.
She awakens, adrenaline still flowing, causing her limbs to tingle and her heart to throb. Her T-shirt is almost completely wet with sweat. She looks at the clock. 3:30 a.m. The time she fears most even on nights when she isn’t afraid. She turns over and pulls the covers up even tighter in spite of the heat in the room and her body and prays for sleep to come again while at the same time worrying that it will. It finally does and with it more nightmares. This time she’s locked in a hotel room with high school boys, all of who are drunk and rowdy. They are playing poker and she is the prize. Her arms are tied to a cheap orange and fake wood hotel chair, tears making mascara streaks down her face as she awaits her fate and searches frantically for a way out, any way out. There is none.
And like that, the night continues, nightmare after nightmare, waking from each more terrified than before, until finally the pale blue that is morning is glimpsed between her broken mini-blinds and birds incongruously begin to chirp. She takes her third shower in less than twenty-four hours, letting the steam pile up in the small bathroom, standing face first in the water as it pours over her, taking her tears with it.
The phone begins to ring at ten that morning and she silently curses it being a Saturday with no plans. She lets it ring. What follows the beep of the answering machine confirms her suspicions. He wants to see her. She wraps a long, thick white towel around her tightly and gets back into bed, her hair still wet. At eleven-thirty, the phone rings again. Then at one, then two-thirty, three-fifteen, four, five, his voice becoming more threatening by the moment until finally, she takes the phone off the hook.
The day passes in a blur of shadows and a recorded voice saying, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.” She thinks of unplugging the phone, but somehow, the repetition is comforting. The shadows begin to fade as night comes once again and still she lies there, staring at the ceiling wrapped in the towel beneath the covers. She keeps hearing noises, scratching sounds coming from behind her apartment, from the bathroom, from the closet and finally she forces herself out of bed and checks the small apartment for intruders, knowing, at the same time, that no one is there.
By midnight, she is in her car, in her pajamas, doors locked with all the windows up, sitting in her driveway. She doesn’t know where she is going, but she needs to get out of here. She finally eases the car out of the tight driveway, lights off, hoping not to awaken her crazy neighbor. At every intersection she checks both ways, not for cars, but for him, feeling irrationally that he is following her. Twenty minutes later, she finds herself parked in front of a co-worker’s apartment building. Not even someone she knows well, just someone she works with and whose apartment she once visited for a holiday party. She checks all the mirrors, sees no one, then makes her way to the woman’s door.
If Sandra is surprised to see her at the door at that hour, it does not show. She invites her in and efficiently begins to fold out a futon. Perhaps her distress is evident. Sandra gives her a glass of water in a tall orange cup that is bumpy on the outside and she drinks it slowly so she won’t have to ask for more. There is music playing, different than any she listens to, and she likes it for that reason. Sandra suggests she accompany her on her morning walk the next day. It will be good for her. She nods her agreement, though she’s not sure why it will be good for her or what she will wear. All she has are her pajamas.
They turn the lights out. She is amazed at how light the apartment is. Hers is much darker. She feels safer here already. Sandra’s fan oscillates slowly, calmly, providing relief from the oppressive heat held over from the day. As silence falls over the room, she becomes aware of the trucks roaring past the street, which leads to the freeway. One after the other, and she feels like she can smell the exhaust left in their wake. She’s flat on her back, even though she can only sleep on her stomach. Her eyes are wide open. She forces them shut, but a moment later, they are open again. Her hands find their way to her mouth and she slowly, methodically, starts to bite on the nails that are all one length, strong and healthy. She bites her pinky nail all the way off and puts it in the floor on top of her socks so it won’t end up in the carpet. She does the same with her next nail and the next. She clenches her hands into fists, digging the remaining nails into the palms of her hands. She lies flat, arms at her side, fists clenched, teeth clenched, eyes open. She squeezes them shut again and imagines blackness oozing over her, over her apartment that she has deserted for this unfamiliar place. Blackness pouring over her office, over the market where she shops, the streets where she drives. Evilness, seeping through every crevice, every crack, every corner of her life. She’s biting on the sides of her fingers and can’t remember how they got out of the fists. Her eyes are open again and the trucks are roaring. She thinks she is losing her mind. This is it. She has gone insane. Maybe she should wake Sandra so she can take her somewhere, but she’s not sure where. She thinks about getting up, calling her brother on the East Coast. She could pull the phone into the closet. If Sandra sleeps through the trucks, a phone call won’t wake her. She checks her watch–it’s after 2. Which makes it five a.m. there. What would she tell him? I’m losing my mind? I’ve gone crazy and wanted to let you know? Last night… What would he do about it from there? And what would he think. So she lies still, on her back, biting her nails or clenching her fists, squeezing her eyes shut or letting them fall open, breathing in the black, sickening exhaust from the trucks, watching the shadows playing on the walls.
The fan moves slowly, lifting her hair from her forehead for a moment then falling again as she waits.
