by K. K. Allen
My right hand falls to the edge of the kitchen counter as pressure builds in my chest and throat. No tears come. They rarely do. Instead, I’m distracted by the whistle of the wind and the whoosh of the trees as I peer out to the rain-battered balcony. I focus on the sounds as I breathe deeply through the darkness, allowing the panic to dissolve naturally. It usually does once I’m able to accept what’s going on with my mind and body, though it’s easier when I understand what triggered an attack. Tonight it’s the storm and any loud or sudden noise that comes with it.
After another deep breath, I feel some of the tension fall away from my body. I turn to the ladder and test the first couple steps before climbing to the top. My father’s bed rests there, still dressed in the neutral tones he wore best. The dim glow of the mostly obscured stars shines in through a floor-to-ceiling window behind the bed. I still rely on my phone’s flashlight to navigate the top floor.
Inside the bathroom in the corner of the room, beside a small closet sans door or curtain, I flip the switch, and in an instant, my dream of a warm shower is shattered. I sigh. If there’s water, it will be cold, but that won’t stop me from washing this grime off after driving for hours.
The shower knob squeaks in resistance, and after a few croaky moans, the head releases several strong spurts before a powerful stream of water splatters against the tile floor. I step into the tub, gasping at the shock of the cold pelting my body. My lungs work hard while I adjust to the temperature, my body quickly coming alive beneath its spell.
Without soap or shampoo, I do my best to wash away the stress of the day, making a mental note of all the things I’ll need to pick up in town tomorrow. I can’t imagine needing much. Without social obligations filling my calendar or a job to dress up for, there’s no one here to impress. I can focus on me.
Freezing cold, I step out of the shower and fumble around in the dark bathroom cabinet, relieved to find a clean towel. After drying off, I change into a loose, faded red The Walking Dead tank top and leggings. Fitting, I suppose. The similarities between my favorite fictional apocalyptic universe and this graveyard of a town are not lost on me.
As the wind continues to whistle and howl, throwing trees left then right, snapping branches and leaves and tossing them who-knows-where, I grab a blanket from the bedroom closet to avoid having to crawl into bed with old, unfamiliar sheets. Another item to add to my shopping list.
A calm begins to settle around me while my mind and heart react with a flutter. What am I doing here? What was I thinking? I had a good life. I was moving on.
And just like that, the doubt creeps in. Doubt I managed to suppress on my drive simply by distracting myself with a goal of getting here.
I could be at home with Scott. Going to the movies. Spending the evening at a nice restaurant with his coworkers in Raleigh.
I let my mind drift back to nights with Scott, us showering in separate showers, meeting in the hall to kiss goodnight, and then padding off to separate rooms to sleep. We’d been friends for so long, I couldn’t seem to get comfortable with the idea of anything more. So, while I felt Scott’s need for me rise, my need for him didn’t. Perhaps our relationship was doomed to stay in the friendship zone forever.
It didn’t help our situation that I’d been in love before. That full, deep, soul-crushing love. I understand how something so powerful, so real, can consume someone. What it’s like to be abuzz with passion and allow all inhibitions to fall away, no matter the consequence.
That’s how things were with Jaxon. It was all dark corners and stolen kisses. Hidden waterfalls and abandoned cottages. Our need increasing with each touch, each kiss. I didn’t feel that love with Scott, and I knew it would never be fair to hold him to some type of fairytale standard based on a forbidden love that ended so cruelly.
I had to face it. With Scott, there are no sparks, no burning from within or pooling in my belly. He’s simply my best friend. Someone to talk to, to laugh with. He’s safety. And unlike with Jaxon, when I laugh with Scott, I don’t laugh from my gut. My words don’t flow in an endless string. It isn’t all Scott’s fault, though. And the numbing effect of my anxiety meds doesn’t help, either.
Shit. My meds.
I rip the sheets off me and jerk to a sitting position. In one leap I reach my handbag. I unzip it and toss the contents left and right. They should be here, but I can’t find them.
I didn’t pack them. No, I refuse to believe that. I wouldn’t forget my pills. I’ve been taking them every single day for over six years. Even if they weren’t on my list, I would have grabbed them and stuffed them into my bag without even thinking. Maybe I tossed them in one of my suitcases. I look out at the rain, knowing there’s no way I’ll be venturing back out there tonight.
My mind backtracks to earlier today when I stopped in the bathroom for my toothbrush and that damn telemarketer called, rerouting me from my mission. My heart sinks, knowing I completely forgot to check the medicine cabinet for my newly refilled bottle. I search my handbag again, checking the tiny crevices and secret pockets, hoping to be surprised.
Nothing.
For heaven’s sake, what is wrong with me? I’ll have a panic attack just thinking about having a panic attack. There’s no pharmacy in town, either, which means I’ll have to drive halfway to Asheville if I can even get my doctor to fill me a new order.
Groaning, I crawl back into bed, blood pumping from my adrenaline-fueled search. A light glows brightly on the nightstand, and I turn my attention to my phone, sitting unplugged with a low battery warning illuminating the screen. Great. It will die any minute. Pulling it to me, I scroll through the messages one final time before shutting it off in hopes of reserving some battery life in case of an emergency.
I am in the middle of the woods. What once felt like home now feels strange. I want to sleep, but every creak and groan is amplified in the midst of the storm, promising little chance of rest.
With a slight pillow adjustment, my eyes find the window behind me, and I stare blankly into the night. Checking my phone again was a mistake. Scott’s name continues to be the blinding force in my thoughts. Leaving him. Coming here. Hurting him. I don’t even have a good reason why.
I smile sadly, imagining the epic tantrum he would throw if he were here to witness this disaster of a night. He’s always been more of the five-star accommodation type. Pressed suits, weekly dry cleaning, and vacations consisting of spa days and fancy restaurants. Never once has he even entertained the idea of a camping trip. It’s like he’s devoted the rest of his life to rebelling against the place that almost took my life.
Balsam Grove is the last place Scott will ever look for me, and I made sure to leave no trail behind. Our bank accounts and cell phones aren’t connected. I’ve never been on social media. I left him information to continue paying my share of the bills. And I quit my job at the law firm after my father’s death, so there weren’t any loose ends to tie up there.
Two years ago, I subtly mentioned visiting Balsam Grove. I was curious. Naturally. But Scott put a firm foot down and refused. I didn’t push the subject. He’d known my father for the length of our friendship. He’d witnessed the change in my father’s behavior from normal, fun-loving guy to paranoid schizophrenic. Scott was in that courtroom with me when my father was convicted after pleading not guilty by reason of insanity. And he remained my friend after my father was sentenced to the mental health facility for ten years, minimum.
Beyond all that, Scott would feel isolated in a place like this. Bored. Restless. He’s been talking about moving to Raleigh for years. A bigger town. Taller buildings. Better nightlife. He’s tired of the commute. Maybe now that I’ve left Durham, he’ll make it happen. Working in the corporate world gives him financial and social rewards he never had growing up. As an accountant for a well-known hotel chain, he loves the thrill of deadlines, after-work happy hours, corporate parties, and travel. But his hustle and bustle is my boredom. His networking is my
hell. And his planning is my anxiety.
I sigh. How I wish my heart was something I could manipulate, to feel for Scott what he feels for me. How I wish my deepest desires weren’t chasing after fallen memories, so I could be free to love again. Is it possible? To love again after losing the love of my life? I was seventeen, for Christ’s sake. Certainly there’s got to be someone else out there for me. Preferably someone who isn’t tangled in my past. Because clearly, Scott wasn’t the problem. He never was. It was me and my obsession with the boy I once knew and loved with all my heart. And if I’m being honest with myself, that’s why I had to leave Scott.
While I’ve never intentionally compared my feelings for Scott to those I had for Jaxon, it was inevitable. Thoughts of Jaxon come as easy as breathing, even now, years later. I can’t even think of what I would do or say if I saw him again. But I’ve already convinced myself that he won’t be here. There’s no chance in hell he would have stayed. Jaxon had other dreams, and once I wasn’t around to hold him back, he would have pursued them.
The same feelings I’ve had for years begin to churn inside me. Emptiness. Numbness. Desperation for something more. Here, there, my reality is the same.
But being here is step one. I don’t know why my father left me the keys to the cottage, or what I’ll do now that I’m here. All I know is that out of all the decisions I could have possibly made, this was the one that felt the most right.
The rest is up to the wind.
I’m somewhere in between dreaming and sleeping.
Water ripples with each heavy bang as a strong force pulls me forward, my body weak against the pressure. I let myself be taken, pulled through deep then shallow water, gasping once I’ve reached the surface. The pounding continues to rip me from my slumber every few seconds. But it’s not a simple knock on the door. It’s as if someone is heaving their entire body into it, shaking the sturdy wood from its hinges.
My mind races, rushing to make something of the noise. The darkness still handicaps my senses as I look around the room, slowly remembering that I’m in my father’s cottage in the middle of—somewhere. I can’t even think straight. Blood pumps through my veins, and I swear I can hear the dull thump of my heart.
Not a panic attack. Please, not now. It’s been so long since I’ve tried to control them on my own, but luckily my meds from this morning should still be flowing through my system.
I’ll be okay.
A heavy thud below jerks me fully awake. My eyes snap to the window at the head of my bed to find the swirl of debris and the whiplash of the trees as wind whistles and screams like a tea kettle’s warning. Wood cracks, then creaks beneath me, like a great force is smashing into it. I remind myself that this little cottage is surrounded by hundreds of acres of trees. If anything is trying to break in, it’s a fallen tree, or a squirrel, or…I don’t know. Clearly, I should have checked the weather before choosing tonight to arrive. If this cottage caves, then my search for enlightenment was a waste.
I slam my lids closed to focus on drowning out the noise. It’s just the storm. I release a long, steady breath and repeat the words like I’m soothing a scared child in my arms. But instead of relief, I feel starved of air. Usually it’s the darkness that helps me feels safe. But tonight, it seems to be making my panic attack worse. I need light.
Ripping the sheets from my body, I grab my phone and take the ladder to the bottom floor, then turn in a slow circle, checking out the rest of the house from here. Everything appears to be intact. I power on my phone and wait, but nothing happens. It’s dead.
A flicker of movement catches my eye from outside the kitchen door’s floor-to-ceiling window. I step closer, squinting and seeing nothing but the trees thrashing in the wind. My heart is pounding so hard and so fast on my retreat into the living room, I think it might explode.
A rumble of thunder shakes the house, followed immediately by a crash of lightning slamming into the ground right outside the cottage. I near the sliding glass doors to check the locks. I’ll feel safer once I double check every window, every door.
There’s nothing to be afraid of, I remind myself. No one even knows I’m here.
But the darkness finds me again, and everything tilts—my focus, my balance. My palms hit the glass door to steady me. My breaths come in gasps as I force my eyes to stay open, my only savior the orb of light exposed between two looming clouds.
The only way out of a panic attack is through it. My therapist’s words filter through the haze of my mind. Doctor Rohls taught me how to control the crippling anxiety as it washes over me. He trained me not to run from it. Running only makes it worse.
Breathe through it, he said. Feel it. Let yourself react to it. Your anxiety is normal, Aurora. Everyone has bouts of it, but what it manifests into is all in your mind. You want to encounter your triggers like you would any other fear. Stand up to it, breathe through it, and one day your mind will become immune.
There’s power in knowing I can take back control of my body when drowning feels so much easier. Once my breathing returns to normal, I give the handle a shake to confirm the latch is secure. There’s even a thick cylinder of wood wedged in the bottom slider for added security. A somber smile lifts my cheeks ever so slightly as a memory comes. A memory of my father securing the house each night before bed. The last thing he would do was check on the sliding window in my room downstairs, safeguarding it with a similar wooden dowel.
I turn in the direction of my old bedroom, which was also my father’s office. I slept on a pull-out couch that I could never pull out because the room was filled with so much stuff my father refused to organize. Every night, I’d wait for my father to go to bed before removing that piece of wood. My body hums at the reason why.
Jaxon Mills.
Here I go again. More thoughts of Jaxon. It’s been like this ever since my father’s death, when the attorney showed up on my doorstep with the gifted deed. Since my first visit to the cottage when I was eight years old, I considered Balsam Grove and Jaxon a package deal. But I didn’t come back here for him. That would be ridiculous. After the way we ended things, the reasons why, and the time it’s taken for me to even consider coming back… I’d be a fool to think there could be anything left between us. He’s probably long gone, anyway.
Another boom of thunder steals my attention, making me jump and turn my focus to the window. A flash illuminates the night, revealing a tall figure cloaked in a navy jacket, his head low with rain streaking down the front of the hood. A dark beard masks his face. I gasp as the man’s head tilts up, and his stormy eyes lock on mine.
Those eyes. I’d remember them anywhere.
“Jaxon?” The whisper slips out on a breath that comes straight from my heart. Could my mind be playing tricks on me? The man doesn’t look like Jaxon. At least, not like the Jaxon I left in that courtroom.
But those eyes…
Nature’s lightshow is just a flickering tease before darkness falls again. The figure backs up from the porch, trips down the steps, and stumbles off into the darkness, leaving me questioning everything I’ve missed over the past six years.
What happened to this small, tight-knit town after my father was convicted? What kind of people live here now? Will I remember any of them? Will they remember me? How long will I be here before I outstay my welcome?
My vision blurs. The pressure in my chest is too strong. I’m beginning to lose my balance, so I feel around to grasp something that can hold me up. My fingers brush against a wood cabinet beside me, but I miss my chance to grip it. I fall backward, my head hitting the floor in a thud.
The ache in my head is nothing. At least I can feel it. And this time when everything fades to black, I’m still conscious. Still aware. That’s good.
I’m not sure how long it takes for my breathing to even out again, but when it does, the storm has calmed and I’m able to stand back on my feet. Shuddering, I make my rounds, checking all the windows and locks before
climbing the ladder and getting back into bed. I pull the covers up to my chin and conjure up the image of the man outside again. A man I desperately want to believe is Jaxon. So desperately, I could have easily imagined him.
Sometimes darkness settles over me like a blanket, quieting the noise and protecting me from exposure. Other times, when there’s too much to drown out, darkness becomes my mind’s prison. Complete solitude. No escape. My thoughts run rampant, chewing away at my peace like tiny insects. And in these moments, I’m reminded of just how alone I am.
In the six years since my father’s conviction, my life has been about rebuilding, settling onto a new path, and moving on. I thought after all this time, I was ready to take that final step and confront Balsam Grove. To ignore the demons dormant within me and stand on the soil of my past. But it’s clear to me now. In the last six years, I’ve been avoiding, and every step has been a step in the wrong direction. I know that now. Hopefully it’s not too late to find my way back, to move forward, and to feel right with myself again.
As I finally begin to sink into the haze of sleep, the man in the storm holds the spotlight in my mind. I can’t get over his eyes. They were the last thing I saw before he tripped off into the night and the last image that flashes through my mind before a yawn pulls me down. Eyes that lit up so clear, so gray, striking me right in the heart and reminding me of everything I once loved and lost.
Only now, I think they should terrify me.
Light filters in through my eyelids, and it takes me a second to sort out my surroundings. The sheets are stiff and colder than I’m used to. The surrounding air carries a rich humidity scented with alpine and a hint of dust, without a fan to soften the heat pouring in from behind me.
I’m in Balsam Grove.
In the cottage.
There was a storm last night.
