Five Years Ago

The quiet city streets reflect the lateness of the hour as I wander down the sidewalk on Commonwealth Avenue. The unexpected chill in the air pierces through the lightweight button down I tugged on as if I’m not wearing it at all.

Suffering from insomnia for the first time in my life, night walks have become part of my routine since I began attending Boston University two weeks ago. Being away from home has turned me into a worrier and the nights are the worst. My mind refuses to shut down the never-ending stream of ‘what if’ thoughts, no matter how hard I try.

I’m only an hour away from the house I grew up in, but a lot of bad things can happen in sixty minutes. Especially when my seventy-five-year-old grandmother is raising my mischievous fourteen-year-old brother. Visions of the house catching on fire, trapping both inside, or of my grandmother unconscious on the floor assault my mind. Once those images are in place, they’re almost impossible to stop. And so, I walk the city streets until my eyes hungrily absorb every detail this middle of the night version provides for my artist’s soul.

Moving at an accelerated pace, hands tucked in my front pockets, I continue on my way back to the freshman dorm. As I round the corner marking the final leg of my journey, a quick, shrill female scream reaches my ears. My feet pause their forward motion as my eyes scan the area for anything amiss. Focusing, I listen for signs of a struggle. When I’ve almost convinced myself I’ve imagined it, another scream pierces the relative quiet. This one is louder and panic filled.

I sprint forward, my sneakers pound down the pitted sidewalk. Adrenaline races through me. I have no idea what I’m about to get caught up in, but I can’t ignore someone’s cry of distress.

I’m almost upon them when I notice a large man pinning a young woman face first against the front exterior of a building.

“I told you, we weren’t through,” he shouts, slamming the side of her face against the rough brick.

I don’t know how he doesn’t hear me coming. Barreling into him with a forearm shiver to the temple, the force of my hit sweeps him off his feet. He lands on his back with a sickening thud followed by the crack of his skull hitting the sidewalk. He groans, hands immediately gripping the back of his head, while I search the surrounding area for any weapon he may have dropped. Finding nothing, my focus immediately switches to his victim.

“Are you okay?” I ask in the softest tone I can as I slowly approach. Keeping my open hands up as I move closer, I allow her to see I’m not a threat, but her eyes are squeezed shut. Her cheek is pressed to the red brick as she whimpers repeatedly. I don’t think she realizes the danger has been removed or that I’m standing next to her.

“It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” I say, soothingly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” My eyes trace over her face, taking in her high cheekbones and full lips.

Her eyes snap wide open, locking on mine. They shine with terror and tears, sending a punch of longing to my stomach. There’s a fragileness about her, that makes me want to protect and console her.

The light of the street lamps and the glowing business sign on the building illuminate her feminine features with a soft, golden glow, allowing me to see she’s absolutely stunning.

“Are you okay?” I question, stepping closer when I notice blood trailing down the right side of her forehead and onto her cheek.

She doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she steps away, letting out a sob as she peers cautiously around me. I turn to check on the attacker, only to realize he’s no longer there. Fuck. I should’ve kept my eyes on him and called the police. Instead, I got sidetracked making sure she wasn’t hurt. I search the immediate area for any sign of the perpetrator, but find none. If he’s smart, he’s long gone by now.

Spinning around, prepared to aid this scared girl in any way she needs, I discover, she’s running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Goddammit. I’d planned to see her safely home.

Shaking my head, I begin the walk back to my dorm. I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Now, all I want is my sketch pad and a pencil in my hand. My fingers tingle with the urge to draw her.

My thoughts remain focused on the mystery girl. Where is she from? Does she go to school around here?

When I reach my room, sleep will be the last thing on my mind. Already, I’m picturing her graceful brow with the dark arches as if I took a mental snapshot. Being an artist allows me to see more than the average person and remember the minutest of details, like the matching pair of dark freckles above her right eyebrow.

As I climb the steps to the main entrance of North Hall, the building my dorm room is in, my heart pounds with excitement. In only a few more minutes, I’ll be bringing her enthralling face to life on paper.