Chapter 4

Nightmares and java

 

“Please don’t do this,” Meadow begged.

“You think because you’re so pretty you can have whatever you want. Take and take. Steal what doesn’t belong to you.”

“I don’t. I promise. I didn’t steal anything. Please don’t,” Meadow cried out in agony as her flesh was pierced. A rush of searing heat bloomed in her stomach and radiated outward until it engulfed her entire body. The rough cement scraped the skin on her back as she tried to escape the anguish that threatened to pull her under.

“You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours, you dirty bitch.”

“Please,” Meadow begged and tried to blink to clear the haziness.

The flash of a knife blade reflected the light from overhead and Meadow gave in to the pain; everything went dark.

The scream that filled the room was involuntary as I scrambled out of bed, landing on the floor with a thud. My legs were twisted in my sheet, which now was pulled clean off my bed, wrapping me in a sweaty cocoon.

Why was this happening again?

I’d gone almost a year with a nightmare. No, not a nightmare. Nightmares are scary dreams invented by your imagination. These were memories, my reality. My living hell.

A shower did nothing to wash away the lingering effects of my nocturnal torture. I hated I still couldn’t stop myself from remembering what happened. Well, that wasn’t true. I couldn’t remember, not the most important part anyway. The police had interviewed me dozens of times, both in the hospital and the weeks after I’d been released. They couldn’t understand how I couldn’t remember my attacker’s face. I couldn’t even remember his voice. Nothing. Just the pain. I couldn’t forget any of the pain. Not the stab to my stomach, not the weeks of fever and infection, and not the ache I’d felt when the doctor told me infection had severely damaged my reproductive system and I’d never have children.

I fucking hated remembering.

I yanked the rest of the bedding off the mattress, dragging the bundle to the tiny laundry area, and tossed it in front of the stackable washer and dryer. I’d deal with it later. The lingering smell of fear filled my small apartment and threatened to choke me.

I had to leave.

The trendy coffee house on the corner of my street gave me a measure of comfort. I’ve been coming here for years, ever since I’d moved to Virginia right before my attack. Strangely this shop was the one constant in my life. I waited in line, ordered, and took my creamy, vanilla-flavored yumminess from Becky, the purple-haired barista. Coffee in hand, I moved to the back of the small space to the table in the corner, all the while thinking how sad my life had turned out to be. I thought I’d be married by now, maybe have a baby on the way. I would’ve finished my degree and the only worry I’d have was whether I’d give up my career to be a stay-at-home mom. I totally would’ve. I had wanted kids, wanted to be a mother. Now that was gone, and what was left was nothing short of a tragedy. Instead of a man and a family, I had a coffee house and Becky. The girl had been working here since the first time I’d come in. The only thing about her that’d changed over the years was her hair color. She’d never treated me differently, even when I’d come in with the bandage on my face. The only comment she’d made was, I hope they fry the bastard that hurt you. Then she took my order and smiled.

The bastard that did this to me would never fry. He was never caught. He was free to walk around while I lived with the reminder of his brutality. I didn’t need to look in the mirror to recall what my face looked like; I had the ugly scar committed to memory, every depression of my skin, the zig-zag where my flesh was sewn back together, the puckered edge near my ear. Worse than my face was the three-inch souvenir my attacker left on my belly. He’d left me barren, stolen my dreams, and made me half a woman.

A laugh from the table next to me pulled me from my miserable thoughts. Two men sat facing opposite each other. Both looked to have just finished a workout. The man laughing was the epitome of a Hollywood movie star. I’d seen him plenty. Sometimes he was in a suit, others in jeans and tee, I’d even seen him in his work-out clothes before. It didn’t matter what Nick wore; he was absurdly good looking. I felt like a creeper sitting in my corner studying the man, but he was that hot. I couldn’t look away; I never could. I even felt a little weird that I knew his name. But come on, it’s a coffee house, when your order was up the barista called your name, and you picked up your order at the counter. I even knew he favored a Macchiato but sometimes ordered a frozen Vanilla Chai if it was warm out.

Five years ago, I’d almost talked to him. He was standing next to me waiting for his coffee and right when I had the nerve to say something his phone rang, and he answered it with a “hi sweetie.” Of course, a man as sexy as Nick would have a wife or girlfriend. His voice had softened when he spoke, and I wished I had a man that would talk to me that way. Even before my attack, I’d been shy around men. Now? I avoid them like the plague. But that didn’t mean I still hadn’t studied Nick over the years. Each time I saw him I ached for a man like him - strong, handsome, and sweet. But I’d never have that. Who’d want a woman like me?

My phone chimed, and I looked at the screen. Smiling, I swiped it to display a message from Veronica Venus.

VV21: Happy Sunday.

The meme attached had me giggling. The picture was of an angry cat and the caption read: When the coffee house changes staff, and they don’t know your order.

Me: LOL. How’d you know I was at a coffee house? Creeper. hehe

VV21: It’s Sunday, and you’re predictable. You always visit the famous Sam’s on the weekend.

Me: No, I don’t. I visit the famous Sam’s EVERY chance I get. The vanilla flavored goodness is the only happiness I have in my life.

I’d meant that as a joke, kinda. But Veronica Venus was too perceptive.

VV21: What’s wrong?

Me: Nothing. Same ol’ same ol’. Work was insane this week. Sorry I’ve been MIA.

VV21: Bullshit. Are you dreaming again? Dammit Meadow, why didn’t you message me?

Sigh.

I didn’t know Veronica Venus real name. She knew mine but didn’t know “Meadow” wasn’t a made-up screen name. My name was unusual enough when I’d signed up for the survivor’s message board I hadn’t used a made-up moniker.

I knew she wouldn’t give up until I spilled my guts, so I commenced telling her about my hellacious week.

I looked up from my phone in time to watch Nick and his friend leave the coffee shop. Why did the back side of him have to look just as good as the front?