by Nikki Sex
“Hi,” I reply, bowled over just at seeing him again.
“Did you sleep all right,” he hesitates, “after that bad dream?”
“Strangely, yes, I did,” I tell him.
My eyes travel slowly down his long, lean body, drinking in every inch of his splendor. He's all slim hips, narrow waist and broad shoulders. Everything about Grant is so incredibly hard. I can’t help but be in awe of the sheer male power of him.
Is he going out for a jog? That's real dedication, especially in this weather. Mmm, he’ll come back all sweaty and manly, smelling fantastic… good enough to eat. My mouth waters at the thought.
A flash of white hot lust zips through me. I raise my head to meet his gaze and my heart stutters.
“What?” he asks. One eyebrow arches with a look of inquiry.
“You’re just so damned beautiful,” I tell him.
Shock and surprise register on his features. He snorts, then laughs—a rich, masculine sound. “You need your vision checked, darlin,’” he says.
I think I’ve both pleased and embarrassed him. We stare at each other for a long, long moment. His eyes hunger for acceptance…and something else. Is it love? Damned if I have any idea what mine are communicating to him.
This self-reliant, ultra-self-contained man wants and needs me.
The tension between us grows, sensually charging the air. Grant looks away first, ending the moment.
“I'm going out for a run now,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.”
I watch every long, lean inch of him as he strides past the kitchen and around the corner, out of my sight. A couple of seconds later, I hear the front door open and then shut.
Grant’s gone.
Briley soon falls asleep in my arms. I put him over my shoulder and burp him as I walk upstairs. I carefully place him on his back in his crib and kiss his forehead. He’s still dressed in his baby sleep sack, so he won’t get cold.
I take a quick shower and get dressed. Keeping in line with the sensible nanny concept, I put on a white cotton button-down blouse, coffee colored shorts and a linen drape jacket. I also apply a tiny amount of make-up, brush my hair, don white leather sandals and I’m done.
Just in time, too, as the doorbell rings. I check my phone—it’s only 7 a.m. Who would visit at this hour? Perhaps Grant forgot his key?
Without a care in the world, I blithely open the door.
Several policemen are standing on the doorstep. All except one are in uniform. An emotional tidal wave of terror crashes down over me.
Who died?
Memories of Jamie’s death, the deaths of my baby brother and my mother all slam full-force into my mind. I’m instantly transported to my past in just a heartbeat. My body begins to shake uncontrollably.
Is Grant dead? Prior bullying encounters with men in police uniforms flood my thoughts. Why are they here? What do they want with me?
Someone whimpers and a moment later I realize the sound is coming from me.
Suddenly, I’m terrified.
A full-blown panic attack instantly hits me. Usually, I have some sort of warning before a complete meltdown strikes, but not today.
I have to get out. I can’t be here!
I’m suffocating. I can’t breathe!
My chest heaves. I can’t control it. Panting in short, fast gulps, I gasp for breath.
I’m like a frightened animal. Whatever logical thoughts I had, scatter into jagged fragments of visceral terror.
I want to run away as fast and as far as my feet will take me, but I'm unable to move. My vision tunnels.
Will I live or will I die?
Shut up, stupid!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
This is going to be bad. Something awful is happening! A sense of impending doom takes over my mind.
I hurt! This chest pain is agonizing. Am I having a heart attack? No, of course not. It’s never actually been my heart. This is just another panic attack.
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.
But I feel as though I’m going to die.
My heart races, pounding like a drum in my ears. I clutch my chest and gasp for air.
Someone's talking to me—I try to tune in for a moment, becoming briefly aware his lips are moving, but I can’t seem to understand a word he says. I can’t hear anything other than the wild beat of my racing heart. Every sound is incomprehensible white noise.
There’s a terrible knot in my stomach.
Please, God! Where is Grant? I need Grant!
I haven’t had one of these attacks for ages. I’ve forgotten how painful they are. I can’t think! I can’t think! I’m so frightened! In this horrifying moment, I can barely remember my own name.
Am I going to pass out? My fingers and my toes tingle, my muscles jump and twitch. Pain shoots down my legs.
Am I losing my mind?
I struggle to focus on relaxing my muscles and slowing my breathing. With my hands on my chest, I inhale and count my breaths.
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK, I begin my mental chant.
The words help me focus. I’m OK… one, I’m OK… two, I’m OK… three...
For a moment, I actually see the faces of the men in front of me. This is too funny! I’m overwhelmed by a wild and reckless desire to hysterically laugh out loud.
They look as scared as I feel.
Chapter 27.
“There is no intimacy without vulnerability.”
― Brené Brown
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I’m drenched through and through. A heavy rain beats down on me, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt lighter.
I usually jog but today, I’m so happy I effortlessly sprint. Everything’s so easy. I’m not even breathing hard.
Life is good!
My shoes smack against the wet pavement in a rapid rhythm as I run.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
I take a 5-mile run at least four days a week. It usually takes me 30 to 35 minutes from start to finish, but I'm so full of energy this morning. I’m totally buzzed. Today, at my current speed, I’ll be done in well under thirty minutes. That's great. I’ll get to be home with Renata that much sooner.
Body, mind, spirit—it’s that triangle again.
My mind and spirit are light and free, so this is reflected in my body. I feel as though I could run all the way to the Oklahoma border and not get tired.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
I’ve spent my life being closed off, holding on tightly to my secrets. I buried my emotions, keeping everyone at a safe distance. I never opened up before meeting André.
Today, I’m so happy, I feel as though I could share my story with the whole world.
A little brown dog runs toward me, barking all the way. Usually this annoys me, but not today. I don’t speed up or try to avoid him.
“Good dog!” I yell cheerfully.
This stops him in his tracks. I laugh out loud at the confusion on his cute doggy face.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
I place my hand on my face, feeling my scars. It was after this injury I hit rock bottom. Reaching out to André was the best decision I ever made. Of all of the points of view in the world, André has one of the best. He’s known many who’ve lived through childhoods like my own.
I was my own worst enemy.
André freed me from guilt. I’ll always be grateful to him for everything he's done, but introducing me to Renata? That is a debt I can never repay.
Renata has expanded my world.
I’m learning how to trust, how to be open and bare my soul. André was the first, and now Renata. They both understand my fears. They understand me.
Once I thought asking for help showed weakness. I admired independence and self-sufficiency. To my mind, a man showing weakness was the worst possible sin.
Now, I see it as a strength.
It could only have happened with people I trust. Who would've thought exposing my secrets would set me f
ree? How could I know speaking of my darkest shame would create such soul soaring elation?
My view of the world is changing so fast I can hardly keep up with it.
Renata chases away the darkness that surrounds me. I admire her so much. I can hardly believe the shitty childhood she endured.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
Last night Renata told me I’m the third person to whom she’s divulged her story. André, of course, was the first. Her good friend, Diana, the woman she rents her apartment from, was the second.
I’m honored she confided in me.
It broke my heart to see her shaking and crying after her nightmare. Usually the mere thought of touching someone makes me queasy, yet wrapping my arms around her felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Renata was a battered child and her father was a monster. On her twelfth birthday, Renata’s father beat her mother and her baby brother to death, right in front of her eyes.
What a birthday gift.
Renata’s mom was severely depressed, so Renata held the mother role for her little brother. Irrationally, she blames herself for his death. Just like me, a sense of guilt has rested heavily upon her shoulders from an early age.
Abuse destroys reason, replacing it with senseless guilt and shame.
“Hey,” a fellow jogger says while coming toward me. Drenched by the pouring rain, he passes me on the footpath, giving me a wave. I can barely see him.
“Mornin,’” I say, grinning and waving back. What kind of nut case goes out on a day like today? I’m not the only crazy one it seems.
When you're on the outside looking in, it's easy to see how ridiculous it is for Renata to feel responsible for the horrors of her past. She was a victim. How could she be accountable for her abusive, murdering father? Yet, she still blamed herself.
I did exactly the same thing.
After the murders, Renata was placed in a family in which the foster-father was a pedophile. What the hell kind of world allows shit like this to happen to kids? Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Renata seemed to have skipped the frying pan altogether and just burned, and burned and then burned some more!
When her foster brother died—that was her breaking point. She was committed into a psychiatric hospital immediately after that.
Yet, like the legendary phoenix, she rose from those ashes.
Renata used to have nightmares regularly. Now, she only has them once or twice a year. She thinks that last night's dream was brought about because of being a caregiver with Briley—another baby boy, so much like her lost brother, Timmy.
A crash of thunder rolls off in the distance.
Dark and gloomy, the sky is as black as pre-dawn. Yet, the colors look more vibrant than ever before. Somehow, there's so much light surrounding me. With the mood I’m in, all I see is a perfect day.
For a moment, my mind returns to the conversation we had early this morning, when I woke her from her nightmare. Renata cried, but I’d wept too. I cried for her lost childhood, for her grief and her loneliness.
I’ve never cried in front of another person in my entire life. After years of holding everything in, allowing full vent to my emotions was liberating. Shoulders and chest shaking, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, it had been cathartic to let go.
Renata accepts me. Now, I can accept myself.
I close my eyes for a moment as I run, feeling her hands on my face again, her fingers wiping away my tears away.
“Are you crying for me?” she asked, wonder shining in her expression.
“Yes. For you, for me and for every child who suffers in the world.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“My father taught me only pussies cry. I haven’t shed a single tear since I was a boy. Even then, I was ashamed of myself and I only cried in secret. I’ve never cried in front of anyone before, but—”
“But what?”
“But I don’t need to hide from you. You won’t think me less of a man. It feels safe and right to cry with you.”
Being ashamed of who I am trapped me.
Being able to be myself has set me free.
And to think this seemingly fearless woman has always considered herself a mouse! How ironic. I’ve always seen myself as someone full of hate—a dangerous, perverted monster.
The monster and the mouse.
Who would've thought the two of us would be so compatible?
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
Normal, everyday things others take for granted are a challenge for Renata. She has to work up the courage just to go outside, to look people in the face and to talk to strangers.
I don’t see her flaws.
All I’m aware of is her caring good nature and her humor. All I see is the quiet, capable side of her. Vulnerable, yet resilient, I find her presence soothing. Renata’s healing me… she’s saving me.
Renata’s my hero.
She reminds me of the monarch butterfly. Incredibly strong, yet delicate, the amazing creature flies 5000 miles on its yearly migration. Like the butterfly, Renata has overcome challenges that would destroy most people.
How did she do it?
Was it a choice? A kind of to hell with you or a fuck you decision? Was Renata determined to succeed as a way not to let her asshole father win?
As I skirt around a parked car, a thought strikes me. Could it be that Renata is so caring, understanding and positive—not in spite of—but because of her terrible past?
That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, they say, but does it teach us to be kinder and more understanding too?
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
Tremendous heat and pressure can create diamonds from common coal. Perhaps surviving intense adversity develops a person, improving them in all the important ways.
I laugh then, as I think of André.
To my mind, André has countless super-human qualities. If adversity advances people, making them kinder and more understanding—then his childhood must have been really bad!
I wonder what his story is?
Renata and I both have to thank André. He set us both on the road to recovery. It seems to me, his presence in this world is just about all the proof needed to decide God exists.
Renata is one of the nicest people I’ve ever known, and she had a terrible past. What does that make me?
Grateful, for a start.
I’m so glad to be alive!
Compared to Renata’s history, my childhood issues don’t seem nearly as bad. I never went hungry. No one beat me or killed anyone in my family. I always had a roof over my head.
Renata fills me with hope. She’s going to help me. Together, we’ll work through all of my shit. I plan to tell her everything.
Except I suspect my brother killed our father.
Except for how I earned these scars…
My feet stumble as I trip over flat, open road. A voice in the back of my mind reminds me of the things I still can’t tell.
Never mind, I’ll be open about everything else.
I’m breathing hard now. I’ve never done my morning run so quickly. I should slow down because I’m almost home, yet I don’t want to. I’m on such a high.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
As I round the corner to my house, I see police cars.
What the fuck? What’s going on?
I actually speed up rather than slow down—now I’m running the four-minute mile.
Is Renata OK? Did something happen to the baby?
But then I remember.
Someone killed my father.
But why would the police suspect me?
Chapter 28.
“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.”
— William Ernest Henley
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Dripping wet, I run up to the front door of my house and am immediately stopped by three uniformed policemen
. Men are talking, rain is falling on the roof and loudly running down gutters, and I can hear my cellphone ringing from where I left it on the kitchen counter.
“What happened?” I ask, winded from my mad sprint. I grab the towel I left near the door and wipe my face. “What’s going on?
If the police want to question me about my dad's murder, I assume only one police car would be needed here. Yet, there are four police cars parked outside of my house. Something must have happened and it's got to be bad.
“Grant Wilkinson?” a uniformed cop asks.
“Yes?”
“You are under arrest for the murder of Chester Wilkinson,” the police officer says, while taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“Stop,” I raise my hand and interrupt him in a no-nonsense tone. My voice isn’t too loud and it isn’t too soft. It’s low and confident—the voice of command.
Open-mouthed, every single person I see stops what they’re doing and stares at me.
I’m a sniper—I don’t buckle under pressure. For years, I practiced controlling adrenaline spikes, breathing and heart rate. Such cool detachment comes effortlessly to me. I’d already cut my own heart out when I was a child, so I know how to shut down emotions.
Consequently, I’m the perfect ‘go to’ guy in an emergency. I think fast on my feet, take charge and am able to make rational, quick decisions. I can easily deal with any immediate crisis head on.
It’s after a crisis that I fall apart.
“Where is Renata?” I ask in a dangerously calm voice that barely hides the steel beneath.
I walk further inside the house. When I see her, I freeze and I almost lose it. My dear, sweet Renata! Please be OK!
This gripping emotional response rocks me. Every protective instinct I have flares to life.
A policeman puts his hand on me, as if to halt my forward movement. It would take an army of men to stop me. Even then I don’t think they could.
I shake off the man’s restraining hand and go to her.
Eyes lowered, body trembling, Renata sits on the floor in a dark corner, appearing strangely small and frail. Arms wrapped tightly around her legs, knees pulled against her chest, she’s all curled up into a ball. She looks like a frightened child—nothing like the brave, confident woman I know.
