Live or be Safe?
Bronwyn reluctantly opened her eyes and looked at the clock. Damn, she thought, it's 2 pm already. I guess I shouldn't have mixed so many pills with that much alcohol. With all the practice I've had of mixing the two over the years, I should've known better. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
She stayed under the covers for a long time, debating what to do next. I can hide in my apartment and live in fear of everything and everyone. Which is more important—do I go on living my life, or should I hide and be safe? I can rise above this and get on with my life, and deal with it in my own time, my own way.
But what do I do if I see him again, she wondered. How do I deal with that? What if he comes after me again?
Get a grip, girl, she told herself, dwelling on the past is useless—you can't change it, and asking yourself "what if" will make you crazy with wondering if there was something you could have done, should have done, whatever. Enough. It's over and done with.
A large part of her wanted to go back to bed, crawl under the covers and stay there—safe and inviolable. But if I do that, then Smith will have won. He would be controlling everything I do even I'm alone. Screw him. Nobody will make me afraid of my own shadow—especially not that son of a bitch. Ah, to hell with it. I'm going to get on with the rest of my life. And I'm going to start by doing what I usually do at this time of day and go rollerblading.
She threw back the blankets and got out of bed. I don't remember getting into bed, let alone putting the covers over me, she thought. She walked toward the kitchen and stopped short. And I sure as hell don't remember locking my door after I got home. All I wanted to do was get to the bathroom. I don't think I even closed it after I came in. But I must have, because how could the deadbolts be fastened from the inside?
As she thought about it, she had a hazy memory of two people standing by her bed while she was sleeping. Was that just my imagination, or were they really there? And who were they? More importantly, will they come back? If they do come back, she vowed, I will have no qualms about using Daddy's old service revolver in my nightstand. No qualms at all.
She fixed herself a cup of coffee and slipped it slowly, trying her best to remember how she had gotten home, but her memories were vague and distorted. Maybe its better that I don't remember—in my experience, memories only make things worse, especially the bad ones. Besides, you can't deal with it if you can't remember, and forgetting something was really quite easy—if you had enough booze and painkillers, you can make the pain and the memories go away for a long, long time.
It wasn't a permanent solution, only temporary relief, but Bronwyn didn't believe in dredging up the past. Let the past take care of itself, and deal only with today. Speaking of today, it's time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and get on with living. But that doesn't mean I have to be a helpless walking target, she thought, as she slipped a small canister of pepper spray in a pocket.
In very short order, she had gotten dressed, picked up her skates and left the apartment.
Bronwyn reluctantly opened her eyes and looked at the clock. Damn, she thought, it's 2 pm already. I guess I shouldn't have mixed so many pills with that much alcohol. With all the practice I've had of mixing the two over the years, I should've known better. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
She stayed under the covers for a long time, debating what to do next. I can hide in my apartment and live in fear of everything and everyone. Which is more important—do I go on living my life, or should I hide and be safe? I can rise above this and get on with my life, and deal with it in my own time, my own way.
But what do I do if I see him again, she wondered. How do I deal with that? What if he comes after me again?
Get a grip, girl, she told herself, dwelling on the past is useless—you can't change it, and asking yourself "what if" will make you crazy with wondering if there was something you could have done, should have done, whatever. Enough. It's over and done with.
A large part of her wanted to go back to bed, crawl under the covers and stay there—safe and inviolable. But if I do that, then Smith will have won. He would be controlling everything I do even I'm alone. Screw him. Nobody will make me afraid of my own shadow—especially not that son of a bitch. Ah, to hell with it. I'm going to get on with the rest of my life. And I'm going to start by doing what I usually do at this time of day and go rollerblading.
She threw back the blankets and got out of bed. I don't remember getting into bed, let alone putting the covers over me, she thought. She walked toward the kitchen and stopped short. And I sure as hell don't remember locking my door after I got home. All I wanted to do was get to the bathroom. I don't think I even closed it after I came in. But I must have, because how could the deadbolts be fastened from the inside?
As she thought about it, she had a hazy memory of two people standing by her bed while she was sleeping. Was that just my imagination, or were they really there? And who were they? More importantly, will they come back? If they do come back, she vowed, I will have no qualms about using Daddy's old service revolver in my nightstand. No qualms at all.
She fixed herself a cup of coffee and slipped it slowly, trying her best to remember how she had gotten home, but her memories were vague and distorted. Maybe its better that I don't remember—in my experience, memories only make things worse, especially the bad ones. Besides, you can't deal with it if you can't remember, and forgetting something was really quite easy—if you had enough booze and painkillers, you can make the pain and the memories go away for a long, long time.
It wasn't a permanent solution, only temporary relief, but Bronwyn didn't believe in dredging up the past. Let the past take care of itself, and deal only with today. Speaking of today, it's time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and get on with living. But that doesn't mean I have to be a helpless walking target, she thought, as she slipped a small canister of pepper spray in a pocket.
In very short order, she had gotten dressed, picked up her skates and left the apartment.