Cory
THIS time I just scanned it briefly and then quickly deleted it (though my fingers shook so violently I nearly missed the delete button). I didn’t need to pore over it. The general idea behind this latest message kind of popped out at me: Steven was very much looking forward to our near future meeting, so much so, in fact, that some salivation was involved. Yes, those were more or less my words for his latest disgusting little love note.
I didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
But even though my fingers still shook at the notion of meeting up with Steven Percy, on the brighter side, I wasn’t feeling quite as helpless about it as I had been the day before yesterday. So at this point there had been at least ten uplifting messages e-mailed to me, but I wasn’t about to go searching through my deleted files to confirm my numeric estimate. However, I really didn’t need to go back and look at them one by one to realize that the e-mails had started off rather scattered and benign, and had gradually escalated to the point they were at now, arriving regularly, complete with vulgarity and intimidation tactics. Enough so that I was constantly looking over my shoulder for the man himself.
Tonight I had almost forgotten about “the situation” because I was caught up in what had become a weekly calculus tutoring session with my oversized students. I’ll admit, I jumped at the chance to stay home and play teacher in my own apartment rather than facing the dark of a December night to go study at the library. Hadn’t the guys who’d taught the self-defense course said prevention was the best way to stay safe? Well, I realized that I couldn’t hide at home forever, but maybe I’d avoid trouble until I’d practiced my newly gained moves on Brett a few more times. And Ben, Hunter, and Christian were so thankful for the help; it made me feel stronger. Like I was somebody’s hero.
Brett had come home from the B&G early, and instead of brooding silently in a corner, waiting for the guys to leave, he sat on the puffy arm of the recliner, listening in to our math-talk, and making an occasional “this stuff is so far over my head I’d need me a ladder to even touch it” kind of comment.
Still stranger, when Brett wasn’t hovering over our study group, he was sitting on the futon with Ian, deep in conversation over the only thing I was aware of that they had in common (other than me): their love of the band Nirvana, and the world without Kurt Cobain. It was almost like… like they were friends. As I said, strange.
Luckily, the e-mail had arrived after the guys had left and Brett had headed for the shower, so I got to do my shaky-fingered-button-pressing when he wasn’t looking over my shoulder. But if Brett had seen the e-mail he’d know for sure what I was convinced he already strongly suspected: something was wrong in my world.
Face it, Cory, he knows you nearly as well as you know yourself.
“Hey, baby, I’m gonna hit the hay. You done with yer studyin’?” Brett stepped over to the bed and slid beneath the covers. “I wouldn’t mind me some company.” Those bedroom eyes promised complete gratification if I joined him.
“Sorry, I have to finish a letter-writing project for my business class. But I won’t be long.” I snapped off the bedside lamp, moved from the recliner to the kitchen table, and opened my laptop.
“Okay, but wake me up when you come to bed, ’kay?”
“Sure, Brett.” I wasn’t certain if that answer was the truth or a lie. Sleep was pretty much my only complete escape from being afraid, but I had to admit, sex with Brett came in as a close second. When he was holding me in those strong arms, loving me with all of his heart and body, it was difficult for me to think at all, let alone to remember to be afraid.
For some reason, though, instead of working on my business letter, I opened my assignment notebook, turned to the note pages in the back, and I started to write. I just needed to expel the worrisome thoughts from my mind, and since I really couldn’t talk to anyone about “the situation,” I decided to put down my thoughts on paper.
“Fear is changing me: knowing that pain and humiliation could be right up the road, around the next bend, is turning me into someone I don’t know. And what’s worse is hiding the truth from Brett. Despite how well-intentioned the reasons, I am still lying to him.”
I lay my head down on the table beside the computer and fought my exhaustion. But although I was certainly emotionally drained from all of the worry and the mental preparations for my self-defense, the simple act of writing had relieved me. So I dragged my head up and put my pen back to the paper and continued to scribble out my thoughts.
“Steven Percy will go for what he wants; he is that type of guy. He thinks that someone needs to pay for his frustration. All I am certain of: that someone will not be Brett.”
I was actually able to breathe easier after I’d put those particular thoughts down on paper. Those words reminded me why I was keeping “the situation” all to myself: to keep Brett safe.
“I can survive this. Even if he gets to me, I will talk to him, or de-escalate the bad situation, as I learned in class, and I will change his mind about hurting me. And if that doesn’t work, I will use my new physical skills to get away from him.”
After reading it over, I realized that my last entry, although I really wanted to believe I could defend myself in the real world, was potentially complete rubbish, so I drew a single line through it. Instead, I wrote:
“I can prevent this if I try. I’ll still never walk anywhere alone, but I will no longer avoid the library and going jogging with Ally. I must remember that in public places, I will be safe even without Brett as long as I am not alone. I’ll stay in well-lit areas when I’m out at night, and I will carry my apartment keys between my fingers when I jog. Time and time again, I will frustrate his efforts to get to me. Eventually, he will give up on his plans for revenge.”
When I’d finished writing, I perused the text of my “survival statement” and immediately considered ripping up the paper into tiny pieces. But right then I heard Brett sigh deeply and mutter something about how lonely the bed was without me, so I just closed up my assignment notebook and returned it to my backpack.
Feeling better once again, I slid into bed beside my husband, hooking my ice-cold feet around his toasty ankles, and then waiting for what would come next.
I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.