I choose the birds.
A food court employee shuffles by me, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. A teenage kid, his face mottled with acne, his eyes are full of irritation as they slide over me. I look away, gather up my garbage, and stand, shoving it into the nearby trash can before I hurry away from the food court, irritated with myself.
I shouldn’t allow some teenager to pass judgment on me. He’s probably already forgotten about me and here I am, stewing over it. Quickening my steps, eager to get away, I head toward the end of the park where it happened. Where I was kidnapped. I’m full of righteous anger at the attitude I’d felt radiating from the food court employee and I hope my emotions fuel me. Make this moment easier to deal with, because this is the one I dread the most.
The one I shouldn’t have to deal with today if I don’t want to. I’m proud enough of the fact that I entered this place. Now with the roller coaster looming ahead, the scenery too familiar, vivid with memories mixed with reality, I wonder if I should leave.
My steps slow as I pass the line for the roller coaster. It’s short this afternoon. They don’t have much of it roped off like in the past and I’d bet money I could walk right in. Find myself sitting in one of those old carts with the thin cushioned seats, the metal bar coming over my lap, locking me in, filling me with a false sense of security.
The last thing I want. I live with that false sense of security constantly. None of us are safe. Not really. We’ll all come upon our little moments one time or another. Some moments are just more severe than others. Most people get off easy. Not me. But they consider me lucky.
Lucky.
I hate that word.
That recognizable bright blue building suddenly appears to my left and I shudder. The restroom. The spot where it happened, where he picked up my sweatshirt and held it out toward me like an offering, that fake smile plastered on his face. I’m sure he hoped like hell I’d fall for it and I did. I tumbled headfirst, wary and vulnerable. Wanting to help and wanting to run, conflicted like every other preteen on the planet.
I should have run.
My breaths are coming faster, I can hear the rasp in my lungs, feel it like a serrated knife tearing at my throat. I try to inhale deeply, to calm myself, but I know. I know without a doubt I’m going to have a panic attack if I don’t get it, this—all of it—under control.
Breathe, baby. Breathe.
Mom’s voice is in my head. She said those words to me time and again, mostly after I woke from a nightmare, screaming at the top of my lungs. She’d run into my bedroom and flick on the light, the brightness startling me awake, and I’d find myself shaking and crying, tears on my cheeks, my throat raw from the screaming.
That was always her advice. She’d hug me close as she stroked my hair, my face buried in her neck as I inhaled that familiar, floral Mom smell while she whispered, Breathe, baby. Breathe. I’d look up, find Dad standing in the doorway, helpless and pale, clad in his standard black T-shirt and pajama pants. I’d catch his gaze, pleading with my eyes for him to come into my room, just touch me once. Hold me. Tell me I’m his little girl.
He’d turn away like he couldn’t stand the sight of me and go back to their bedroom. Every single time.
After my ordeal, when I returned home, I became Mom’s burden. Never his.
Never again.
I shake the old memories off and start walking again, my steps slow, my head heavy. Doubt plagues me as I draw closer and closer to the bright blue building. I shouldn’t have come here. It’s as if I’m trying to torture myself.
Haven’t I been tortured enough?
It’s when I’m reaching into my purse to grab my sunglasses that I feel someone run into me from behind. Something sharp, like an elbow pressing into my back, knocks me forward. A gasp escapes me as I stumble, tripping over my own feet, though thank God I don’t end up on the ground. I feel a hard tug on my shoulder, the press of a wiry male body against the back of mine, and I stiffen in fear.
“Give it,” a young male voice says, his mouth at my ear. I can smell him, cheap drugstore cologne mixed with excitement and fear, as he presses his fist into the small of my back. The pull on my shoulder becomes tighter and I struggle against it.
My purse. He’s trying to take my purse and I grip it harder, crying out when he pulls on the strap so violently I feel the leather cut into my skin through my shirt, pinching the skin of my shoulder.
“Let it go, lady!” he yells and I hear footsteps approach. Rescuers? He’ll run. He’ll let go of me and run and it’ll all be over.