My fingers flew over the keys now. Somehow, turning the events into what I insisted was fiction allowed my brain to explore them in a safe fashion. The sheer size of the wolf I’d deemed in my story a werewolf didn’t frighten me as it should have, even as I let my frazzled mind bring back the attack. The spot where the gun had been pressed into my back started to ache where I leaned back against my pillow. Each scratch seemed to start to sting again as I wrote every one into being in my story.
I gave myself creative license to let the werewolf speak to the heroine. He reassured her that he would take care of her attacker. He begged of her to get in her car and go home to safety. She’d agreed, but once in her car, she’d watched the attack I saw in her rearview mirror. Locked safely in her car, I let my mind rehash the worst of the night. I let the blood flow, though she couldn’t hear the bones crack. I wrote it into what I could tolerate. Still, this would be no cozy mystery.
If the bottle of whiskey had been in my bedroom, I’d have added it to my coffee. Instead, I wrote about each gulp I’d taken of the alcohol once I’d gotten home. By the time the character in my story had reached the safety of her house, slamming the front door closed, the sun had started to shine through the sheer curtains.
Before I closed my computer, I tried to think out where I wanted the story to go next. I had the liberty here of writing myself my own happy ending. In fiction, especially werewolf fiction, the fierce predator turned into a gentle giant, once a man again. I grinned as I thought of trying my hand at a paranormal romance.
Why not? I mused. You don’t let anyone read them anyway.
Still, I held onto the possibility that one day someone would. I stared out into nothing as my mind searched for options. Maybe it didn’t need to be finished. Maybe I’d chalk it up as a journal entry. No, I needed it to be fiction. Yet, even in fiction, the whole damn romance thing scared me. Without making a single note on the page, I shut my laptop and curled up under the covers. Holding my eyes tightly closed, I attempted to clear my mind. I prayed for the gift of sleep to take me, and get me away from myself.
Chapter Three
Chloe had called around the middle of the week to ask if I wanted to go to another club this coming Saturday. Just a mere week after the attack that still had me losing some sleep this week, I agreed with no reasonable excuse not to. I wouldn’t be walking to my car alone, though, I could swear to that. I might not even stay if I couldn’t find a place in the parking lot behind the place this time. I wanted one real close to the door. Thinking it through, I wouldn’t even leave my car until I spied someone else walking in at the same time. I wanted someone nearby who could hear me scream.
By this time, having had days to fight through my thoughts on a daily basis, I relegated the incident down to a hallucination brought on by the stress of being mugged. As far as my co-workers were concerned, I’d come up with an excuse for my cut up hands and legs along with the bruised body and slight limp. Apparently, I’s taken a nasty fall in the parking lot of my building.
Determined to keep the whole horrible experience to myself lest I get confused in the lies I even told myself, I kept it a complete but simple fib. Luckily, no visible marks ended up on my face. I didn’t know how. My jaw ached with every bite I took. It shot a pain that radiated into my head when I yawned. Behind my desk, with me busy at work, many never even noticed I had anything wrong with me at all, save for some scraped up knuckles. I was often a klutz, so many didn’t even inquire about those.
By Saturday night, I was near healed. I planned to keep my parking lot fall my story. This club, Underground Asylum, was known for its local bands that played original music. It felt a bit more comfortable than the dance club we’d been to last week. There wasn’t nearly as much motion going on. With no dance floor, the customers basically sat and listened as they had their drinks. Although, the place seemed packed. The three of us, Chloe and I along with one of her work friends, Sarah, had walked to the back and then the front of the place searching for a table. We’d gotten lucky, then. A crew who’d just come in for a few drinks, deciding to go elsewhere, offered us their table up front.
Once seated, Sarah offered to go for the first round. I’d ordered a cosmo, like them, tonight. While sweet, this place made weak drinks I soon found out. More cranberry than vodka, they didn’t have the punch of a Jameson and Ginger. Yet, I knew from experience that they went down easy and could just as easily sneak up on you. I sipped even though I was parched from latent stress rather than true thirst. I wanted hold of my full faculties.