Authors: Victoria Sawyer
I turn my sightless eyes away, dragging toward the back of
the house, groping blindly, not yet accustomed to the dark. With listless,
heavy hands, I swing open the door to the basement letting it bang against the
wall and descend, zombie-like, into the cooler air, the rigid grey walls, the
cement floor. I drag my fingers across the stubbly cold wall and find my way to
the farthest darkest corner piled with old household goods and crouch down, an
overpowering weariness suffusing my exhausted muscles. Finally I give in and
sit, hard. Warm flesh against cold cement. An overflow of moisture floods my
eyes and I blink once, sending a stray burning hot tear sliding down my cheek. It
stops just under my chin.
I can’t help but think that this curse is both
internal
and eternal
, something I will never escape.
How can I rid myself of this crazy fear that throttles me? How
can I live this way? How can I go on? How can I spend the rest of my God
forsaken life in constant body-shaking, mind-blowing, soul-wrenching,
irrational fear? It is every moment now, every second, and with every thought
of leaving the house, every single activity.
The answer is that I can’t continue on this way. I can’t
stand it for one…more…moment.
I lie back slowly on the cold hard cement floor, placing my
heavy balled up sweatshirt at my side, tears pouring down my face. I am sick,
distraught, tense, tight, bone tired, literally drowning under my own
craziness. The mantra is constant now, a constant thrum, a vibration in my
body.
I turn my head toward the wall, grey on grey. My body is
twitching, somehow I am never still now. I crave peace. I seek the sleep of the
dead. I imagine sleep is what death is like. Quiet, peaceful, not aware of the
body, like a freedom I have never known.
Death is the only way to quiet the thoughts, to stop my
body, to end my constant nightmare.
#######################
I’ve lost myself behind the panic. I cannot see my
reflection any longer. And as it takes over my brain I know I am helpless to
argue. I try to fight this losing battle. I thought I was stronger than the
monster, but the monster is eternal, it will never die. It lives within me; it
is a parasite and I am the host. I feed it unknowingly and in return it
consumes my brain. There will be no escape. Ever. I am doomed to a life of horror.
An unending game of cat and mouse, but who will be the victor has yet to be
determined. Will it kill me or will I kill myself first? Either way, the
outcome is the same.
Sitting in my car at the traffic light, my annoyingly loud
blinker ticking away, I look over at the large brick one story building to my
right.
Work. Dread
. As I turn into the busy car filled parking lot, the
store looms in front of me forebodingly, its windows hung with large colorful
posters advertising sales on fruit, canned goods, cereal.
Today this place
is my prison
. The one place I want to avoid when I’m feeling on edge. My
stomach contracts and I’m sure I am about to be sick.
Damn
. I really
don’t want to be going in to an eight hour shift on a Saturday.
I pull into a parking spot in the employee section and
slowly get out of my disastrously dirty car. The day is sunny and cool and the
trees have all changed colors: reds, oranges, yellows, and the drive to work
was a visual pleasure, but not a mental one, since I spent the entire trip
worrying myself into a frenzy over another long day stuck in the courtesy booth
at work.
Now hell is about to begin
.
Saturday afternoons and nights are usually pretty busy and I
don’t feel like dealing with cranky customers and the hectic end of night
closing procedures. With an exaggerated frowny face and tears pricking behind
my eyes, I reluctantly pull my name tag out of the glove box, close the door
with a bang and slowly make my way through the parking lot and inside the
bustling store. I’m trying not to think about my nerves or the fact that my
stomach has been acting up all day. It’s aching now, just enough to remind me
that I have issues.
#######################
“Hey, Victoria,” says the skinny young manager with greasy,
slicked-back hair as I swipe my card through the time clock.
“Hey, Mr. Johnson,” I reply with a weary smile as I turn to
knock at the locked door to the courtesy booth. Tonight I’m working with Michelle,
someone I like and have worked with many times before. We always joke around
together, chiding each other, sharing stories, so I’m usually able to keep the
knife edge of terror out of my consciousness.
“Hey, girl,” says Michelle, pulling open the door to let me
in to the tiny cream colored 10x10 booth.
“Hey yourself,” I say with a grin, specifically remembering
a story she told me last time about one of the managers in the store flirting
with an employee. Michelle grimaces back. “What’s wrong?” I ask, gossip
forgotten, because the plump brunette usually has a huge smile for me.
“Not feeling so good tonight, Vicky,” she says, leaning
against the counter in front of the glass between customer and booth attendant.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with a frown.
“Something with my stomach,” Michelle answers, pulling an
unhappy face.
“Oh not good, that sucks,” I reply, “Hope you feel better.” Suddenly
a thought occurs to me and my belly tightens, what if Michelle wants to leave
early tonight, leaving me alone in the booth? I don’t even want to think about
being trapped in this tiny cage alone on a busy night. It happened once before
and had not been pleasant. I had just barely kept myself from literally going
crazy for the hour and a half I had been alone. It’s nerve-wracking because the
booth is locked and you can’t leave without someone to take over and watch the
counter if you need to go to the bathroom or take a break.
I shake my head trying to dispel my fears and look around,
already there’s a lot to do. Michelle is helping customers in her line which is
getting longer by the moment and there are several cashier tills to count,
refill, and put back into the large safe against one wall. The cashed checks
are also overflowing and need to be added on an adding machine, and the 20’s
and large bills are spilling over in our cash drawer and need to be banded
together into larger amounts and dumped in the safe. Shit, best to get started
and try to get my mind off going crazy. I move my Next Window sign, motioning
to a customer in line that I can help them.
A little later, during a lull in the line of customers, I’m
focused on counting cashier tills. As I pull out the checks to begin adding the
totals on my adding machine, I just happen to look up and catch sight of a guy
making his way to my window. Here I go again, damn nerves. I steady myself,
pretending to look down at the cash drawer I’m supposed to be counting, but
secretly looking up under my eye lashes as he approaches.
When he’s close enough and I get a better view, I hope he
isn’t just here to shop because he looks damn fine. I study him discretely, my
heart tripping along a bit faster. He’s tall, maybe a little over 6 feet, with
dark brown hair, just long enough to see that it curls, but still short. Broad
shoulders, broad chest, nicely defined pecs even through the shirt, and biceps
that bulge just a little out of the sleeves. He’s wearing darkish jeans that
are more fitted than baggy and his t-shirt is dark blue with the words “New
York Bird Society, Support the Swallow” in bright white lettering and an image
of a bird etched in white against the dark background.
I suppress a smirk at this shirt. Very interesting,
someone’s got a raunchy sense of humor.
My kind of guy
. Just when I
think he might turn to start shopping, he doesn’t; but saunters up to the
booth, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.
Now that he’s closer I can see that he has olive colored
skin, dark brows that are nicely shaped, soft hazel eyes, and lips that are
full, but masculine. He’s here now, at my window and I look up shyly, always
nervous around good looking guys. I can tell he’s definitely a bit older than
me, more of a man than the guys I was in high school with just a few short
months ago.
He smiles dazzlingly, revealing perfect teeth, straight and
white against the dark stubble that covers his chin. He is really really good
looking, rugged and rough, oozing masculine sex appeal. Definitely my kind of
guy, cause I love everything about how he looks. But I smile back shyly, trying
not to actually appear shy even though inside I’m quivering with giddy nerves.
Silly
skank!
“Hi, can you cash this for me?” he asks, holding up a check
that features his scrawled signature on the back, but that’s not what catches
my notice. It’s his large hands which are stained black in the crevices of his
palms with half-moons of something dark under the edges of each of his short
fingernails.
Shit those are sexy hands
. I take the check from him, my
eyes reluctantly but also gratefully leaving his beautiful face to study it. It’s
from his job, some kind of mechanic business which probably explains the
stained hands. His name on the check is Jared. Jared McKinley.
“Sure,” I reply, flashing him what I hope is a cute smile. He
smiles back and I move away to begin gathering the money. I keep peeking up at
him through my eye lashes just to look, just to see. He’s the kind of guy that
sets my pulse on fire, the kind who makes me imagine his hands on my body,
kissing, sex.
I try to control my wildly racing sexual thoughts so I can
concentrate on counting out the correct twentys, tens and ones. I don’t want to
mess this up in front of him and end up looking like an idiot. I notice as I
look up that he’s also looking at me, casually, his eyes moving over my close
fitting red button up shirt. I flush.
I’m so fucking glad that I dressed up
tonight
. Finally I’m finished counting out the bills and scoop them up and
carry them back to the window, butterflies rattling around in my stomach,
feeling just a bit turned on, low in my belly, by his undeniable hotness.
“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty and ninety-one, two, three and
75 cents,” I chant, counting the change back to him, the bills moving through
my stiff fingertips. I’m almost holding my breath, glad that I didn’t screw up
and this part of the transaction is over.
“Thanks,” he says with another smile, turning away from me,
folding the bills into a wad and shoving them into his pocket.
I exhale. I wish I wasn’t so damn pathetic and shy. I wish a
guy like him might ever find me interesting. I turn back to the drawer in front
of me and just as I pick up the discarded stack of checks, I notice out of the
corner of my eye that he has stopped, turned and is now walking back towards my
window.
Holy what… what could he want, why is he coming back? Damn, is he
fine
! Tall and somehow perfectly proportioned, his shoulders wide, hips
narrow. I shiver and then gulp as he arrives back at my window, smiling again.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks, looking a bit sheepish. What
could he possibly want to say to me I wonder, stunned into immobility for a
second, waiting breathlessly for him to go on. “This is kind of embarrassing
but I have to pick up a few things here and I’m not sure where to find them,”
he says as if he’s apologizing.
“Oh sure,” I reply, realizing that like a fool I have barely
said a few words to him even though my internal monologue has had lots to say. He
smiles, his eyes crinkling a little and I’m thrown off guard again by how
awesomely attractive he looks when he flashes his little boy grin.
“My mom asked me to pick up some mushroom paste and some
yeast, but I have no idea where to find that stuff in the store,” he continues
with another small grin. I laugh. Actually I do know where that stuff is,
thank
God
.
“Actually I know right where you can find everything,” I say
with a smile. “The directions are a bit complicated, so let me come out and
help you.”
Very professional Victoria
, I think, trying not to grin with
guilt as I side-eye Michelle. She throws me a knowing smirk, waving me out of
the booth. I open the locked door and curve around the corner to meet him. He
smiles at me, motioning that I should lead the way.
I’m walking a bit in front of him and the thought running
through my head is,
I have a damn huge ass
.
Oh God, is he looking at
it?
My ass is so damn large and especially noticeable in the entirely too
tight black pants I’m wearing. I knew it was a mistake to wear them tonight!
Hmmm…truth
though, is it a turn on, or a turn off to guys?
I honestly have no idea,
although I do remember that Nick seemed to be pretty in to my ass.
I turn to smile at him over my shoulder, trying not to walk
too fast so that I won’t be too far ahead, but not sure what to say at the same
time. He’s bigger up close and he smells sort of spicy, fresh and clean despite
his stained hands. I turn to ask something inconspicuous since I‘m not sure
what else to say.
“Why does your mom need mushroom paste?” I inquire, trying
to make conversation. He blindsides me again with the contrast of white teeth
against dark stubble.
“I think she’s going to make her famous home-made pizza for
my brother and I tonight and she was all out of her secret ingredient for the
sauce,” he explains as we walk down a brightly colored aisle, side by side.
“That sounds really good,” I say,
I am so
lame!
“Both
items are in this aisle,” I instruct, not sure how far I should take him, not
sure if I want to walk away after our encounter is over. It’s as if there is
something familiar about him, or some kind of attraction between us. Maybe it’s
all one sided, maybe I’m imagining that he’s checking me out too, his eyes
roving over my body and back up to my face, lingering there for a moment.