Wanting to scrub myself clean as if the bubbles could cleanse my mind of the attack, I was forced to be a bit gentle with the scratched-up parts of my skin. My hands had trouble even gripping the towel, though I feared it had more to do with the contents of the bottle I’d ingested rather than my injuries. Just minutes ago, I’d been holding onto it so tightly you’d think I feared it would jump out of my hands and I’d lose it.
By the time I had my hair washed, I had talked myself out of trying to shave the raw skin of my legs. I’d dulled my senses enough, encountered liquid relaxation enough, I hoped, to dry off and go to bed. I needed a dreamless sleep, hours of my mind focusing on nothing.
Yet, minutes later, with a warm dampness pervading over my body, making my nightgown stick to me, I laid in bed, under the covers, scanning the room. Light still on, I still sensed shadows and someone watching me. Curtains closed, still I expected to see those eyes, those golden eyes with amber flecks, staring at me through the sheer fabric.
Could he be out there? I wondered as I bit my lip. Would he still protect me no matter where I was? Or, had he planned to eat me second? Was I just lucky enough at that point to be the one on bottom? Maybe he hadn’t intended on being my savior, and I’d merely gotten away.
Stupid thoughts, really. I lived a good ten minutes from the club. Even though I’d kept my eyes peeled to the road before me on the way home, I didn’t think the beast would drop his probably dead prey and follow me home. More fear than comfort should have come from just the thought, but it didn’t.
Sick of myself and my errant wonderings, within minutes, I climbed back out of bed. As I went, I turned back on every light in my tiny apartment. Padding to the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. Who was I kidding? I was never going to sleep anyway. While the amazing smell of chocolate flavored grounds being brewed filled the small kitchen, I spied the latest novel I’d been reading, sitting on the counter where I’d left it in my rush this morning. As usual, before work I’d read for too long, forcing me to scurry along to get to my lame secretarial job on time.
My books brought me an escape from my current reality. A dead end job for a low grade investment firm I endured on a nine to five basis. That misery allowed me to pay the bills as I daydreamed of another life. An avid reader, I’d had hopes of being a writer myself someday. Still did to some degree, besides the harsh realities life provided. Now, the job just allowed me time to indulge in my stories, writing or reading them.
Stories had kept me from my sadness after I’d lost my mother. Today, they still did the same, and sheltered me at times from the brutal truths of life. While I read anything I could get my hands on, from paranormal to horror and romance to suspense, I wanted to write cozy mysteries, myself. I left creation of the tough worlds to those gifted at the job.
I’d gotten out quite a few short stories in my day, but doubted my own ability to produce a whole novel. I’d never shared them with anyone, in avoidance of possible negative feedback. They amused me, my stories, but others I couldn’t be so sure about. Or maybe it was the fact that one shot of confidence, one kind and encouraging word, might just make me do something rash and stupid like quit my job to write the great American novel full-time.
Either way, I loved my books no matter who wrote them. I fingered the cover of the latest horror I’d been devouring. Probably not the best genre to read tonight, but ghosts were the least of my worries at the moment. I just needed to lose my thoughts. With a large cup of coffee poured into my favorite mug, a gift from my father that boasted quotes from the literary great Jane Austen, I squared my shoulders as I grabbed my book. Walking into the living room, I looked out my sliding glass window to the beautiful skyline of New York in the distance.
Emboldened suddenly, I decided to grab the comfy throw on the couch. I had it in my head to sit outside on the balcony, read my book, and sip my cup of coffee. My practical side told me that no one, man nor beast, could get to me four stories up. Still my hand shook as it unlocked the door. With slow steps, I moved to the railing, each throw of a leg forward a conscious movement. The rain had finally let up, though the world here remained soaked.
I glanced at each empty balcony I could see, before I took in the street. Completely quiet at three on a Saturday morning. Odd, yet not impossible, I wouldn’t think on it. I definitely wouldn’t consider it some silence before a storm. No, it was just welcome peace. Cars, washed by the hand of nature, glistened. With only a few street lights actually working, even the rusty heaps like mine looked decent.