by Adam Kunz
Crack!
The sound of the ax slamming onto the floor makes me glance back over my shoulder to see how close his swing came to hitting me. When I jump to my feet, I hear the wooden ax handle drop to the floor followed by heavy grunting and footsteps nipping at my heels. He slams into me from behind, clutching his strong arms around my upper body. We tumble over the back of the couch and roll across the cushions before crash landing onto the floor on the other side. I feel a burning sensation across my cheek from scraping my face against the fabric on the couch.
“Let me go,” I screech while thrashing about, but his arms are like a Boa constrictor-the more I struggle, the tighter his hold on me becomes.
He tries to work his hands up my chest in order to reach for my throat, but I manage to push them away. I attempt to roll off of him toward the fireplace, but have only minor success. His large hands squeeze around my waist as I try to claw my way toward the assorted fireplace tools nestled in their gold-plated holder. My fingertips graze the fire poker and I see it sway back and forth, but can’t reach it. Clenching my hand into a tight fist, I swing back wildly, trying to connect with his face. A few solid smacks to his head cause him to lighten his grip enough for me to spring forward and grab the shaft of the fire poker. I rip it from the golden stand, making it and the rest of the tools topple over with a loud clang against the brick fireplace as they bounce around in every direction. Spinning around, I swing the fire poker at the same time and drive it into his shoulder, making him release me in order to try and block my attack. I rear back again and put more force into my next swing using my hips that are now free from his grip. He throws up his hands to block this attack too, and when it connects, he groans in pain while pulling his wounded hands to rest near his stomach. Wrapping both hands around either end of the fire poker, I thrust it forward into his nose and hear a sickening crack, like a bone breaking, when it connects. The man rolls onto his heels before crashing back into the couch. I lean forward and take one more swing, sending the piece of metal right across his temple. He slumps to the side after my onslaught and seems to be knocked out cold.
The momentum behind my last attack is enough to send me off-balance, and I stumble back to lean against the hard and unforgiving bricks comprising the fireplace. I sit there, my breathing labored and my heart about to leap from my chest. My mind is hazy as numbness overtakes my body while I just stare at the man lying there motionless on the floor. I don’t think the reality of what happened has truly set in quite yet. When tears begin welling up in my eyes, a crying fit ensues shortly after. I feel like I’ve been hit by a semi-truck full of emotions as I release every single one I had been holding inside.
Present day...
The tapping of my shrink’s pen on the clipboard resting in her lap pulls me from my thoughts and brings me back into the room. With this being only our third session, I’m still getting used to her office, with my mind easily wandering from one visual distraction to the next, which is terrible for my ADHD (self-diagnosis). The one item I always take note of is the degree hanging on the wall behind her desk from Blackburn University-the college I attend.
I’ve had three therapists up to this point, and Dr. Danielle Marks is easily my favorite. I’m thankful every day she came to speak at one of our University Women’s Crisis Group meetings. Otherwise, I’d still be listening to Dr. Shaffer tell me this is all in my head, and I can get over it anytime I choose to. He was absolutely terrible at his job. Unlike him, she seems to actually sympathize with my situation. She isn’t just wasting time with filler questions to get me to gab on and on about my feelings until the timer runs out on my appointment. Speaking of timers, she doesn’t even have one. I used to hate seeing those damn things count down until the end of a session, but my last two shrinks swore by them.
Dr. Marks clears her throat before she begins to speak. “So, today’s December fifteenth. That makes the four-year anniversary of your incident only a few days away,” she says, raising her eyes from her lap to look up at me.
“Huh ... I hadn’t realized,” I lie, trying to appear more in control of my emotions than I really am. She sends me a knowing glance as if she realizes I’m not being honest. It suddenly feels like a stifling one hundred degrees in this room, and the scarf that’s still draped around my neck isn’t helping any.
“Well, since we just began our sessions, we haven’t really had a chance to discuss how you handle this time of year. If you’re up for it, I’d like to get a gauge of your current state of mind.” Danielle pauses, peering down at her notes, and when I start to respond, she says, “Actually, before we get to that, may I ask you something?”
“Uh ... sure,” I reply, tugging the scarf away from my neck in order to let it breathe a little.
“I’ve noticed that at every session, you walk in, take off your coat, and hang it on the rack by the door. But you always keep a scarf around your neck. Why is that?” she inquires, leaning to rest her chin in her hand while staring intently at me.
I begin to feel self-conscious, like I’m stripped bare and vulnerable in front of her. Some people use different things to mask their insecurities, or try to cover up visible reminders of things they’d rather forget. Well, I use scarves to conceal a past I don’t really enjoy explaining to anyone. I have one heck of a conversation starter hidden under this fabric.
Danielle continues to watch me twiddle the ends of the scarf between my fingers, and I finally cave under the pressure of her query. Pulling the light green and blue knit fabric from around my neck, I drape it onto my lap without uttering a single word.
A strained smile parts her lips. “I see,” she says, and then sets her pen and clipboard onto the desk behind her. She rises from her seat and hikes up her skirt a little to reveal a medium-sized scar across her lower right thigh. “I’ve got one too.”
While looking at the gash on her leg, I forget for a moment that mine is still uncovered. I lean back in the chair and keep the scarf in my lap, feeling a lot more relaxed. The desire to hide my scar has all but left my mind for now.
“I told you that we have a lot in common, Laney.”
“I guess so.”
“I used to look at mine the way you probably see yours. I’d try to hide it from the world and pretend it didn’t exist, but you know what? That doesn’t work. You have to own your scar, Laney. Mine has become a sign of empowerment for me, and a reminder that no matter how hard life seems to get, it will probably never get as bad as the night I received this.”
There’s a sense of passion and fervor in her voice that leaves me speechless. No one has ever spoken to me like this before, and I’m finding it kind of uplifting that I can relate to someone on this issue. Up until now, none of my family or friends could understand exactly what I was going through, no matter how hard they tried. Until someone lives it, breathes it, touches it, they can never truly comprehend how it feels to survive something like this.
Danielle takes a seat again after retrieving the items she placed on her desk. “So, how did you get yours?” she asks, gesturing to me. “Mine was from a curved blade and a lot of aggression.”
I reach up and run my fingertips across the scarred tissue that extends from below my ear to halfway around my throat. Touching it is like a trigger object that takes me back to the night my life changed forever.
“An ax,” I say, almost in a daze as my mind relives how the sharp, cold metal edge felt against my skin. “I probably wouldn’t be here in front of you right now if it wasn’t for Brent’s little brother. I told you about Brent, right?” Hearing myself say his name out loud causes a lot of emotions to spring up in me-both good and not so good.
“Yes, you mentioned him in our first session,” she replies.
“Well, his brother distracted my attacker long enough for me to break free from his grasp,” I say, replaying the attack for a brief moment in my mind. It’s almost like I can still hear Cody yelling, while my attacker’s cold gloved hand is wrapped around my mo
uth. “As you can see, I suffered some injuries ... but at least I’m still here to talk about it. The same can’t be said for his other victims.” That last statement really resonates with me, and my mood takes a sudden nosedive because of it.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she says in a somber tone. “That must’ve been quite terrifying for you.”
“It was,” I reply softly. “I was so close to becoming a trophy for that sick bastard.” I pause as I begin to get overwhelmed with thoughts of that night. After taking in a deep, soothing breath, I continue, “The lead detective said I was lucky to be alive, and that I didn’t end up like the other five girls he had his way with before he got to me.”
“I remember hearing about this case on the news. It was absolutely terrible what happened to those poor girls.”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted, thinking back to the trial. The first time I took the stand I couldn’t stop glancing over at the rolling bulletin board filled with pictures of the five victims. My picture could’ve been up there too, was a constant thought running through my head while I was being asked questions by the prosecutor and the defense attorney. It took every ounce of strength in my body not to break down and cry right there, especially with my attacker’s glare fixated on me the entire time.
“Speaking of your attacker, you mentioned in our last session that he was released from prison. You really weren’t up to talking about it then, but I’m curious if things have changed. Would you like to discuss it now?”
She just had to bring that up.
I had prepared myself for a chat about how I’m dealing with the upcoming anniversary of the attack, but Robbie Jameson’s release is another issue altogether. Breaking and entering combined with assault were the only charges brought against him. The fact he had murdered five women before attacking me didn’t stick due to insufficient evidence, but I knew he did it, and so did the lead detective. The verdict made national news because many were convinced they had finally caught The Prowler, and that I brought the sick fuck to justice.
After months of trial delays, which interrupted my senior year of high school because I had to take the stand more times than I wanted to, I began to wonder if the State of Oregon was on Robbie’s side. I felt like the criminal being punished. It seemed like the judge was only biding time for the defense until they could find a loophole to get him a lighter sentence-and that’s pretty much what happened. For the whole case to come down to not enough evidence to convict him of murder was absolutely maddening. A man who killed five people went to prison for only a few years because of the lesser charges. The whole process was draining and really tested my confidence in our judicial system. The only good thing to come out of the trial was Robbie being locked far away from me for a while, but now I don’t even have that anymore.
For a few days after the verdict was delivered, I was absolutely mortified. I found myself holed up in my dorm room like a hermit. What a way to start your freshman year of college. I became obsessed with the thought of what would happen to me when Robbie was eventually released-a free man. Now, almost four years later, I find myself reacting the same way after learning he’s been let out early due to good behavior.
Good behavior? Really? What the hell does that even mean?
I take in a deep contemplative breath, mulling over how I’m going to answer Danielle’s question. I’m finding it hard to express my feelings in a coherent fashion, even though it’s been almost two weeks since I got the notification of release letter dictating why Robbie was let out early. I’ve gone through all the emotions ... fear, outrage, depression, frustration, and helplessness, among other things, but I haven’t really discussed this in detail with anyone yet. Not even my roommate, who’s like a sister to me. So, to say this is difficult would be a major understatement.
“Can we actually talk about something else right now? I’m still not really up for chatting about this,” I reply while shifting in my seat. It’s a plush and cozy leather recliner, but for some reason, every position I try to settle into feels uncomfortable.
“Of course, Laney. We can discuss it whenever you’re ready.” The smile lighting up her face is genuine and has a slight calming effect on me.
When I find myself getting even more restless, I decide to get up and stretch my legs. Spotting the water cooler, I make my way over to it, thinking a cold beverage will soothe my nerves. I pop out one of the flimsy paper cups from the dispenser attached to the side, fill it up with water, and then down it like a shot of tequila. I continue to pace back and forth as I baby my second cup of water, only taking sips every few steps.
My mind is overcome with so many thoughts at once. Fear and paranoia trickle their way in at the thought of Robbie being out there, and possibly trying to find me to finish what he started.
“Laney, you’re fine. Please come sit down and relax.” Her soothing voice flows through the room, and I feel compelled to listen to her.
The room falls silent for a moment as I return to my seat. After I settle back in, my eyes move to Danielle’s desk. There’s a purple glass mosaic vase filled with a bouquet of bright yellow tulips sitting near the edge of it. I’ve been glancing at it periodically during the session.
“Those are really beautiful,” I say, motioning to the flowers.
“Aren’t they, though? My husband, Parker, is so sweet. He surprised me with them this morning for our anniversary.” Her deep love for him is evident in her inflection and huge smile.
I sigh. “I wish I could say I had someone like that in my life.”
“You could, you know ... have someone in your life,” she says, which causes me to laugh to myself.
Who’d ever want to date me with all of this hanging over my head? I’d actually feel sorry for the poor bastard, and probably break up with him because I wouldn’t want to drag him through the big pile of crap that is my life.
Brent crosses my mind again, and I think back to the phone call I received from my mom a couple weeks ago. She said Brent asked about me and how I was dealing with Robbie’s release from prison. My first instinct was to call him right away, but then I realized I’d have to face what I did to him all those years ago, and I was just not ready to do that yet.
I’m really starting to miss him.
“Well, there was someone a while ago,” I say at last.
“Who was the lucky guy?” she inquires, breaking her professional demeanor and creating a more casual atmosphere.
“I wouldn’t exactly say lucky, especially after how I dealt with things at the time,” I reply with a hollow laugh.
“Brent, huh?”
“Yeah.” My face falls as my eyes peer down at the ground, a deep sadness now replacing the other emotions I was feeling earlier.
“Well, maybe we should put a pin in that one and move on to another topic,” she says, clearly aware of how this is affecting me. “Is there anything you’d like to discuss during our session today?”
“Uh ... well,” I begin, but then waver as I dodge her fixed gaze. I shake myself out of my moping and realize there is something I want to talk about, but I’m scared that if I mention it, she might up my medication or something.
“You were saying?” she asks, looking even more intently at me.
“The nightmares have started again,” I reply after combing a few strands of my red hair behind my ear.
She flashes me a concerned look. “Oh, really? When was the most recent one?”
“Last night. My poor roommate has had to deal with me waking up screaming for the past three nights in a row. Before that, I hadn’t had one in about a year and a half. I thought I was done with them, but apparently not.”
Danielle scribbles something down onto her notepad and then turns her focus back to me. “Are you still taking your meds?”
There’s the question I was waiting for.
“Yeah, but only when things get really bad. It’s just that the medicated lag I feel when I wake up almost makes the damn pills not
even worth taking. I’m practically useless for an hour or so after I open my eyes. I usually only take them when I begin to have hallucinations.”
“Hallucinations?”
I exhale a deep breath. “Yeah ... every once and a while I’ll see Robbie like he’s really there, but he isn’t.” I sound absolutely crazy to myself as I say it out loud.
“Huh. Well, I know the pills probably aren’t your ideal situation, but I think if you start a strict regimen and take them every day like you used to, the nightmares and these hallucinations will ease up,” she explains in a gentle voice.
“I guess I could give it a try and let you know how it goes.”
“That’s all I can ask of you, Laney.” Danielle takes a moment and seems to mull something over before asking her next question. “Do you think maybe these visions of Robbie and your night terrors have returned as a result of your reaction toward his release?”
And there’s the second question I was expecting after mentioning these issues.
She’s just doing her job. She’s supposed to get me to open up to her and express myself. I can’t blame her for trying, even though I did say I wasn’t ready to talk about this.
“I’m not really sure, but maybe they are. I’ve felt an extreme range of emotions these past two weeks, so anything’s possible.”
Danielle makes a note on the clipboard and then begins twirling the pen between her fingers. “So, what exactly happens in these nightmares?”
I take a moment before I respond, and then sigh. “They’re always about the night of my attack, but they’ve never seemed this real before,” I explain and can hear my voice tremble with the passing of each word through my lips.
“Interesting,” she replies before jotting something down. “Do you think if you take me through that night’s events, it may help?”
“It might, I guess. I don’t really talk about it much these days. Usually when a therapist asks, I just tell them to read my file. Most of it’s in there, probably the CliffsNotes version, but it’s still there.”
