Post by Ceil on Aug 6, 2007 5:34:46 GMT -5
Step one.
Pull down the covers.
It shouldn't have been that hard, she knew, it was just a simple motion. Take up a handful of blanket and pull it down over her face. Open her eyes and look around her room. Outside she could hear the birds singing, outside she knew the sun shone, outside she knew it was a bright new day. But right here, right now, under the dark mask of the blankets, she was sure she was safe.
The darkness hid her from whatever was waiting outside of the warm cocoon of her bed, the warmth and clinging closeness of the blankets kept her comfortable and protected. She didn't know, after all, if something was out there in the unknown of her small apartment – even in the daylight, the sunlight didn't fully touch the shadows in the corners or the tiny kitchen and bathroom, cut off from view. Something (someone) could have tripped the four locks during the night and slipped inside her home. Someone could be waiting there for her, with a knife of a gun, just waiting for her movement, just waiting for her to show some sign of life, just waiting for her see him-
She whimpered and pressed the heels of her hands to her closed eyes, trying to will away the sudden onslaught of an overactive imagination. The visualizations of her gory death by an unknown assailant slowly, slowly wound down, though the fear pressing a lump against her lungs didn't stop pulsing and throbbing.
Step one. Pull down the goddamn covers.
That's what her therapist said. Take it a step at a time. Master the fear, work through it. Focus on her breathing, calm and slow. Think of her safe place, of that imagined cove where nothing could hurt her, nothing could harm her. Know the world isn't a safe place (of course she knew that, wasn't it stupid telling her to know it? The worst had already touched her, the brutality and danger of the world, she knew it so well, too goddamn well now) but realize that the possibility of something terrible happening to her again was low, that she was safe now, here, in her own home.
With a frustrated sound something between another whimper and a growl at herself, she pulled down the covers. She tried her best to ignore the fearful voice screaming at her, tried to ignore the knowledge that the last thing she would see would be the man standing above her with the knife, the man who had been waiting all this time just to glimpse her frightened face before he ended her life.
There was no man, there was no knife, there was only the peaceful quiet of her small apartment and the muted sound of the world outside her closed blinds and heavily locked door. She let out a slow breath, trying to let go of the knot of anxiety that was still a sharp, prickly feeling some where between her stomach and heart. She sat up and glanced around her home, but everything looked as it always did. Nothing was out of place, ransacked and stolen while she slept.
Step two.
Get out of bed.
This part was difficult, but the therapist was right insofar that step two was easier than step one. Getting out of bed was a less frightening, as she could already see most of her apartment – there was nothing that could easily ambush her, nothing that could grab her and throw her to the ground, intent on doing with her what it (he) wanted.
Her bed wasn't so much of a bed, but a simple mattress, dragged of her bed and onto the floor, where it lay flat on the ground. She had dragged it onto the ground on her first night back from the hospital, when she had spent a terrifying few hours convinced that something (someone, again) lay waiting for her in the darkness under her bed. She was so certain, so sure, so perfectly aware that when she tried to get out of bed, he would grab her ankles, pull her to the ground and then be on her.
When she had safely and finally gotten out of bed, she'd dragged the mattress onto the floor, where no shadows and darkness could conceal the monster under her bed. That day she'd had a few friends come over and pack up the bed frame and box spring and take them away. The mattress wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was safe. Safe was all that mattered.
Step two.
Get out of bed.
She rose slowly, her back creaking a bit at the movement, her arm, broken not that long ago, ached. Again, she looked intently around the small apartment, assuring herself it was empty except for her. She walked into the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain to make sure nothing hid there, waiting for her to be vulnerable, before she relieved herself. Next she brushed her teeth, waiting to see the glimpse of some one behind her in the mirror, to see her own fright reflected on her face before her throat was slit.
Living alone was lonely a good deal of the time, but at least she didn't have to worry about some one forgetting to lock the door, or leaving the blinds open at night. She had had a cat, back before the incident, but when she began getting too scared to leave her apartment, she asked her parents to take care of it. While she was too frightened to leave the apartment to go grocery shopping, she couldn't bare to let her own fear starve the cat to death. Living alone was lonely enough, but at least the
only one she had to fear for was herself.
Fearing for herself was one thing, she had learned, but being terrified and horrified for your loved ones and friends was another. It was worse, almost – saying goodbye to a friend when they walked out of her front door, and being so sure that she would never, ever see them again.
The last time she'd spent any time with her friends, they'd insisted she walk to the overnight diner down the street with them at a bit after midnight. Beset by terror at the idea of walking in the dark, with only a few street lights to ward off the dangers outside, she had refused. The tone in their voices was exasperated and she knew she sounded like a fool.
The high voice, the one in her head told her how silly she was being, told her that she would be safe in numbers, told her it was only a short walk, only a few blocks to the well-lit diner sure to be full of people. The voice in her head was reasonable, sane, very certain and very self-assure.
The low voice, the one that lived in the knot of fear just around her lungs, told her that the most common place for accidents and injuries was within a five mile radius of the home, when one's guard was let down. The low voice told her that just because the worst had happened once, it certainly would happen again. It had a mark on her, had her scent, could home in on her fear like a marker.
The low voice was always louder than the high voice, these days, and she refused, despite the sighs of her friends, despite the exasperation in their tones, despite their assurances. When the three of them had walked out her door, she knew she would never see them again. She knew the next day she would open up the newspaper to a full front page story about three young women set upon as they walked down a dark street, robbed, beaten, raped, murdered. Then she knew whoever set upon her friends would be upon her next. She knew it. She was sure of it.
Step three.
Check the locks.
This was both an easy part and a hard part. She liked checking the locks – though she was sure every time she went to check them that they would be undone and the door would go flying open to reveal some horror waiting for her. That was the scary part.
The nice part about it was when she evidently found the locks still secure and she knew that if some one had been in her apartment, or waiting for her, they at least had the common courtesy to lock the door after them – though she also knew (or at least the high voice knew) that it was impossible to lock the chain and the bolt from the outside, that no one had been in her apartment but her.
Approaching the door, she squinted at the locks – all four seemed secure. The little button the doorknob was still pressed down. The deadbolt was still flipped closed. The chain was still stretched across the frame and so was the thick bolt her father had installed the day she came home.
This all, at least, gave her a small smile, though she avoided looking at the peephole in the door. The tiny little piece of glass was the worst part about checking her locks, she knew if she looked out it she'd see it waiting there on her front step, the danger, the fear, the horror, the thing she was expecting. If she didn't see it, she wouldn't know it was coming. If she didn't see it, maybe it didn't exist, or it couldn't get to her.
She reviewed her checklist. Step one, pull down the covers.
There the covers lay in a heap on her mattress.
Step two, get out of bed.
Here she stood, in the middle of her small room.
Step three, check the locks.
All four were safely secured, her door closed tightly.
Step four.
What was step four? She was safe for the moment. She was secure. She was alone.
“Step four,” a voice whispered in her memory, the voice of her tired therapist, “Step four. Go outside.”
She considered the idea and glanced at the door. The peephole waited for her there, a dark void on the white door, a black ringed hole in her safety. Outside that white door lay the world and all of the dangers in it. Outside that white door awaited people who wanted to hurt her again. Outside that white door, terrible things would happen to her. Taking the thoughts, her mind ran with them and began to imagine every horror that would surely take her if she walked past that secure white door.
She sank to the ground in the middle of her room, clutching her arms, nails digging into her skin. Every thought was mixed with a memory – new horrors, new fears mixed with the old memories, the things that had already scarred her and the things that waited to scar her anew. She had survived once, that was more than most people got. The next time she was certain not to survive. The next time she wouldn't get away.
The tears were hot on her cheeks and she could feel her whole body shaking. She tried to focus on her breathing as her therapist had instructed, she tried to imagine her safe place, she tried to breath out the fear and anxiety gripping her in it's fist. But step four tormented her, the next step, the step that she was paused on, the step that she was sure to go falling helplessly into, victim of fate and a dangerous world.
None of the tricks worked. None of the exercises her therapist had labored over with her worked. She was breathing too quickly now, hyperventilating. There was pain in her arms where her nails were close to breaking skin in her panic. Her chest hurt, the anxiety and fear expanding, strangling her lungs, choking her throat, making her heart pound in terror. It was coming, the danger was right outside, she wasn't really safe from it, she would never be safe. It waited there, just outside, crouched and ready to spring on her.
She jumped to her feet and leapt for her mattress, for the dark and comforting solitude of her blankets. She huddled under them, a child again, waiting for the nightmares to go away, for the monsters to go back to the closet. Slowly the darkness closed about her and her panicked breathing slowed. The imaginings of her mind played out, the visualizations of her mangled body, her dead body, her hurt body, her raped body, faded away as the fist of fear relaxed it's grip.
She lay under the covers, in the warm cocoon of their clinging closeness. It was safe, for the moment, even though something surely waited for her outside her bed. When she pulled down the covers it would be there, with knife or gun, with fists or claws, just waiting to see her frightened face before it struck.
Step one.
Pull down the covers.
Pull down the covers.
It shouldn't have been that hard, she knew, it was just a simple motion. Take up a handful of blanket and pull it down over her face. Open her eyes and look around her room. Outside she could hear the birds singing, outside she knew the sun shone, outside she knew it was a bright new day. But right here, right now, under the dark mask of the blankets, she was sure she was safe.
The darkness hid her from whatever was waiting outside of the warm cocoon of her bed, the warmth and clinging closeness of the blankets kept her comfortable and protected. She didn't know, after all, if something was out there in the unknown of her small apartment – even in the daylight, the sunlight didn't fully touch the shadows in the corners or the tiny kitchen and bathroom, cut off from view. Something (someone) could have tripped the four locks during the night and slipped inside her home. Someone could be waiting there for her, with a knife of a gun, just waiting for her movement, just waiting for her to show some sign of life, just waiting for her see him-
She whimpered and pressed the heels of her hands to her closed eyes, trying to will away the sudden onslaught of an overactive imagination. The visualizations of her gory death by an unknown assailant slowly, slowly wound down, though the fear pressing a lump against her lungs didn't stop pulsing and throbbing.
Step one. Pull down the goddamn covers.
That's what her therapist said. Take it a step at a time. Master the fear, work through it. Focus on her breathing, calm and slow. Think of her safe place, of that imagined cove where nothing could hurt her, nothing could harm her. Know the world isn't a safe place (of course she knew that, wasn't it stupid telling her to know it? The worst had already touched her, the brutality and danger of the world, she knew it so well, too goddamn well now) but realize that the possibility of something terrible happening to her again was low, that she was safe now, here, in her own home.
With a frustrated sound something between another whimper and a growl at herself, she pulled down the covers. She tried her best to ignore the fearful voice screaming at her, tried to ignore the knowledge that the last thing she would see would be the man standing above her with the knife, the man who had been waiting all this time just to glimpse her frightened face before he ended her life.
There was no man, there was no knife, there was only the peaceful quiet of her small apartment and the muted sound of the world outside her closed blinds and heavily locked door. She let out a slow breath, trying to let go of the knot of anxiety that was still a sharp, prickly feeling some where between her stomach and heart. She sat up and glanced around her home, but everything looked as it always did. Nothing was out of place, ransacked and stolen while she slept.
Step two.
Get out of bed.
This part was difficult, but the therapist was right insofar that step two was easier than step one. Getting out of bed was a less frightening, as she could already see most of her apartment – there was nothing that could easily ambush her, nothing that could grab her and throw her to the ground, intent on doing with her what it (he) wanted.
Her bed wasn't so much of a bed, but a simple mattress, dragged of her bed and onto the floor, where it lay flat on the ground. She had dragged it onto the ground on her first night back from the hospital, when she had spent a terrifying few hours convinced that something (someone, again) lay waiting for her in the darkness under her bed. She was so certain, so sure, so perfectly aware that when she tried to get out of bed, he would grab her ankles, pull her to the ground and then be on her.
When she had safely and finally gotten out of bed, she'd dragged the mattress onto the floor, where no shadows and darkness could conceal the monster under her bed. That day she'd had a few friends come over and pack up the bed frame and box spring and take them away. The mattress wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was safe. Safe was all that mattered.
Step two.
Get out of bed.
She rose slowly, her back creaking a bit at the movement, her arm, broken not that long ago, ached. Again, she looked intently around the small apartment, assuring herself it was empty except for her. She walked into the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain to make sure nothing hid there, waiting for her to be vulnerable, before she relieved herself. Next she brushed her teeth, waiting to see the glimpse of some one behind her in the mirror, to see her own fright reflected on her face before her throat was slit.
Living alone was lonely a good deal of the time, but at least she didn't have to worry about some one forgetting to lock the door, or leaving the blinds open at night. She had had a cat, back before the incident, but when she began getting too scared to leave her apartment, she asked her parents to take care of it. While she was too frightened to leave the apartment to go grocery shopping, she couldn't bare to let her own fear starve the cat to death. Living alone was lonely enough, but at least the
only one she had to fear for was herself.
Fearing for herself was one thing, she had learned, but being terrified and horrified for your loved ones and friends was another. It was worse, almost – saying goodbye to a friend when they walked out of her front door, and being so sure that she would never, ever see them again.
The last time she'd spent any time with her friends, they'd insisted she walk to the overnight diner down the street with them at a bit after midnight. Beset by terror at the idea of walking in the dark, with only a few street lights to ward off the dangers outside, she had refused. The tone in their voices was exasperated and she knew she sounded like a fool.
The high voice, the one in her head told her how silly she was being, told her that she would be safe in numbers, told her it was only a short walk, only a few blocks to the well-lit diner sure to be full of people. The voice in her head was reasonable, sane, very certain and very self-assure.
The low voice, the one that lived in the knot of fear just around her lungs, told her that the most common place for accidents and injuries was within a five mile radius of the home, when one's guard was let down. The low voice told her that just because the worst had happened once, it certainly would happen again. It had a mark on her, had her scent, could home in on her fear like a marker.
The low voice was always louder than the high voice, these days, and she refused, despite the sighs of her friends, despite the exasperation in their tones, despite their assurances. When the three of them had walked out her door, she knew she would never see them again. She knew the next day she would open up the newspaper to a full front page story about three young women set upon as they walked down a dark street, robbed, beaten, raped, murdered. Then she knew whoever set upon her friends would be upon her next. She knew it. She was sure of it.
Step three.
Check the locks.
This was both an easy part and a hard part. She liked checking the locks – though she was sure every time she went to check them that they would be undone and the door would go flying open to reveal some horror waiting for her. That was the scary part.
The nice part about it was when she evidently found the locks still secure and she knew that if some one had been in her apartment, or waiting for her, they at least had the common courtesy to lock the door after them – though she also knew (or at least the high voice knew) that it was impossible to lock the chain and the bolt from the outside, that no one had been in her apartment but her.
Approaching the door, she squinted at the locks – all four seemed secure. The little button the doorknob was still pressed down. The deadbolt was still flipped closed. The chain was still stretched across the frame and so was the thick bolt her father had installed the day she came home.
This all, at least, gave her a small smile, though she avoided looking at the peephole in the door. The tiny little piece of glass was the worst part about checking her locks, she knew if she looked out it she'd see it waiting there on her front step, the danger, the fear, the horror, the thing she was expecting. If she didn't see it, she wouldn't know it was coming. If she didn't see it, maybe it didn't exist, or it couldn't get to her.
She reviewed her checklist. Step one, pull down the covers.
There the covers lay in a heap on her mattress.
Step two, get out of bed.
Here she stood, in the middle of her small room.
Step three, check the locks.
All four were safely secured, her door closed tightly.
Step four.
What was step four? She was safe for the moment. She was secure. She was alone.
“Step four,” a voice whispered in her memory, the voice of her tired therapist, “Step four. Go outside.”
She considered the idea and glanced at the door. The peephole waited for her there, a dark void on the white door, a black ringed hole in her safety. Outside that white door lay the world and all of the dangers in it. Outside that white door awaited people who wanted to hurt her again. Outside that white door, terrible things would happen to her. Taking the thoughts, her mind ran with them and began to imagine every horror that would surely take her if she walked past that secure white door.
She sank to the ground in the middle of her room, clutching her arms, nails digging into her skin. Every thought was mixed with a memory – new horrors, new fears mixed with the old memories, the things that had already scarred her and the things that waited to scar her anew. She had survived once, that was more than most people got. The next time she was certain not to survive. The next time she wouldn't get away.
The tears were hot on her cheeks and she could feel her whole body shaking. She tried to focus on her breathing as her therapist had instructed, she tried to imagine her safe place, she tried to breath out the fear and anxiety gripping her in it's fist. But step four tormented her, the next step, the step that she was paused on, the step that she was sure to go falling helplessly into, victim of fate and a dangerous world.
None of the tricks worked. None of the exercises her therapist had labored over with her worked. She was breathing too quickly now, hyperventilating. There was pain in her arms where her nails were close to breaking skin in her panic. Her chest hurt, the anxiety and fear expanding, strangling her lungs, choking her throat, making her heart pound in terror. It was coming, the danger was right outside, she wasn't really safe from it, she would never be safe. It waited there, just outside, crouched and ready to spring on her.
She jumped to her feet and leapt for her mattress, for the dark and comforting solitude of her blankets. She huddled under them, a child again, waiting for the nightmares to go away, for the monsters to go back to the closet. Slowly the darkness closed about her and her panicked breathing slowed. The imaginings of her mind played out, the visualizations of her mangled body, her dead body, her hurt body, her raped body, faded away as the fist of fear relaxed it's grip.
She lay under the covers, in the warm cocoon of their clinging closeness. It was safe, for the moment, even though something surely waited for her outside her bed. When she pulled down the covers it would be there, with knife or gun, with fists or claws, just waiting to see her frightened face before it struck.
Step one.
Pull down the covers.