Courtesy of the return of Wordsmiths, my second time out... Be nice..especially you, KF.
The running stopped years ago. She was finally able to walk down the street without looking over her shoulder, no longer jumping at every loud noise, and years since she stopped feeling haunted by the past, by the memory of his hands, his fists.
She ran to one of the nondescript square states in the middle of the country, to a nondescript town filled with nondescript houses on nondescript streets. She changed her hair, lost weight, changed her speech pattern. She was a librarian now. No busy Wall Street firm. No business suits or cappuccinos or happy hours in trendy Manhattan clubs. No more high priced personal trainers and nutritionists. Instead, she had stacks of musty books, gum-smacking teenagers, mind-numbing hours using the crumbling “overdue” rubber stamp; she had diner coffee, an occasional glass of grocery store wine and a ratty pair of running shoes waiting by the back door.
She grew vegetables. She made apple pies for the church bakes sales. She went to church and pretended to pray for the sick elderly parishioners, the newborns, and the recently widowed lady that lived across town near the school. She pretended to pray for them, and not for just that he wouldn’t find her again.
Then it came back. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The cold shiver running up her spine, someone walking across your grave, the kids would say. Then one day, she knew. As surely as if he had reached across the room and touched her hand. He was there, in her little town. Watching.
She packed a small bag. She left in the hour just before dawn. She held onto the hope that she was wrong. It was just a trip to the coast. . She’d walk in the sand, taste the salt air, eat taffy.
She hoped. She drove.
She reached the coast two days later.
She checked into a little inn with a pretty view. She took a shower and ate a light breakfast with the innkeeper. She checked her lipstick in the mirror over the little table by the door. The silver handled letter opener banged noisily on the hardwood floor as she pulled on her overcoat. She bent to pick it up and without looking at it, slipped it into her coat pocket.
It was beautiful here, clear sky, clear water, everything she’d imagined. She walked into the twilight, watched the families pack up their belongings and head for their cars. She turned back as the dark settled in.
She felt him fall into step behind her.
He reached for her shoulder. She spun and stepped into him, sinking the pretty letter opener to the hilt. She watched him fall, his mouth silently opening and closing like a goldfish suddenly missing his bowl.
She reached down, removed the blade, wiped the pretty silver clean, and sidestepped a baby turtle as she walked to the water’s edge and threw the opener out into the ocean.
She ran to one of the nondescript square states in the middle of the country, to a nondescript town filled with nondescript houses on nondescript streets. She changed her hair, lost weight, changed her speech pattern. She was a librarian now. No busy Wall Street firm. No business suits or cappuccinos or happy hours in trendy Manhattan clubs. No more high priced personal trainers and nutritionists. Instead, she had stacks of musty books, gum-smacking teenagers, mind-numbing hours using the crumbling “overdue” rubber stamp; she had diner coffee, an occasional glass of grocery store wine and a ratty pair of running shoes waiting by the back door.
She grew vegetables. She made apple pies for the church bakes sales. She went to church and pretended to pray for the sick elderly parishioners, the newborns, and the recently widowed lady that lived across town near the school. She pretended to pray for them, and not for just that he wouldn’t find her again.
Then it came back. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The cold shiver running up her spine, someone walking across your grave, the kids would say. Then one day, she knew. As surely as if he had reached across the room and touched her hand. He was there, in her little town. Watching.
She packed a small bag. She left in the hour just before dawn. She held onto the hope that she was wrong. It was just a trip to the coast. . She’d walk in the sand, taste the salt air, eat taffy.
She hoped. She drove.
She reached the coast two days later.
She checked into a little inn with a pretty view. She took a shower and ate a light breakfast with the innkeeper. She checked her lipstick in the mirror over the little table by the door. The silver handled letter opener banged noisily on the hardwood floor as she pulled on her overcoat. She bent to pick it up and without looking at it, slipped it into her coat pocket.
It was beautiful here, clear sky, clear water, everything she’d imagined. She walked into the twilight, watched the families pack up their belongings and head for their cars. She turned back as the dark settled in.
She felt him fall into step behind her.
He reached for her shoulder. She spun and stepped into him, sinking the pretty letter opener to the hilt. She watched him fall, his mouth silently opening and closing like a goldfish suddenly missing his bowl.
She reached down, removed the blade, wiped the pretty silver clean, and sidestepped a baby turtle as she walked to the water’s edge and threw the opener out into the ocean.
