attack as I walked briskly out of the park and into the crowded streets.
Nothing can happen to you here for sure. Look at all the people.
People dropped out of sight in broad daylight every day. I knew that was true.
I started to jog again. I didn't look over my shoulder. Suppose I saw someone I wasn't supposed to…
Suppose I turned around to find my past, hot on my heels? The thought was the nail in the coffin. My panic washed over me like a wave and I stumbled under the powerful weight of the tide.
My chest was tight.
My lungs hurt.
My breath rasps. I'm frantic.
Someone's getting closer, and I'm screaming. But the screams are only in my mind, and they echo my panic, my deepest, darkest fears, deafening me internally.
This kind of fear makes me hysterical. For several minutes, it threatens to freeze me, render me limp. Useless.
Prey.
But I'm stronger than that. Sharks smell blood in the water. I won't let myself be a victim. Not when there's breath left in me.
I was so thankful than Brayden had helped me to map out the closest police stations to where I liked to run—I also made sure I knew how to get there without my phone but it seemed silly to stop and call the police.
I didn't want to stop running.
When I got to the front steps of the police station, I mingled with a few police in uniform walking up the steps. I tried to remain calm but I wasn't succeeding because one of them said, "Ma'am, do you need some help?" and I looked over my shoulder, saw no one and nodded.
A few minutes later, I was parked next to an officer's desk, paper towels and water in hand, followed by some orange juice. They'd also given me a police department sweatshirt to wear, because I'd started to shiver from my post-run cool down.
"So someone's broken into your apartment twice, but you didn't report it." The police officer named Lenny Burns repeated my story a few minutes later, making it—and me—sound incredibly stupid. "And then someone followed you today in the park. Was anything taken from your apartment?"
"Not exactly. No. I mean, something was left. Flowers."
"Flowers," he repeated. "Both times?"
"Yes. They were placed in my apartment. I didn't put them there and my friend is the only other one with a key."
"And he definitely didn't put them there?"
I didn't ask him… "No, he didn't."
"Any idea who could've done that? Do you have enemies?"
I stared at him. "Yes…no." God, this was a mistake.
"Do you have the flowers?"
"No. One set disappeared and I threw the others out."
The officer didn't blink, just sat back and put his pen down deliberately when I said disappeared.
I sounded crazy. "It's true," I insisted.
"I can't do anything without evidence."
"I just want to know what my options are."
"Sweetheart, this isn't a takeout menu, it's the police station. People come here to report real crimes, not just discuss their options." He sat back. "I'm going to be frank with you. I'm not sure if you're really believing this or if you're purposely wasting my time."
"I'm not. I'm just scared."
His expression softened. "I see that. Maybe you should talk to someone about all this…"
He thinks I'm crazy. And I couldn't totally deny that. I sometimes joked with Brayden that he should watch out for me, that I could be an escaped mental patient. "I'm sorry. I know how this sounds."
"There are restraining orders, but you have to know who's stalking you. Look, if you spot the person, or if there's a history, you can tell me."
No, I couldn't. "Thanks for your help."
"Is there someone you can call to pick you up?"
The implication was clear— You're a fragile flower who'll melt down at shadows in the street and then you'll come in again.
I pulled my phone out and dialed Lucas.
He picked up on the first ring. "What's wrong?"
"I'm at the police station. Can you come get me?"
He didn't ask anything beyond, "Are you hurt?" and when I told him I wasn’t he said, "Give me ten."
And ten minutes later, he was there, his
Nothing can happen to you here for sure. Look at all the people.
People dropped out of sight in broad daylight every day. I knew that was true.
I started to jog again. I didn't look over my shoulder. Suppose I saw someone I wasn't supposed to…
Suppose I turned around to find my past, hot on my heels? The thought was the nail in the coffin. My panic washed over me like a wave and I stumbled under the powerful weight of the tide.
My chest was tight.
My lungs hurt.
My breath rasps. I'm frantic.
Someone's getting closer, and I'm screaming. But the screams are only in my mind, and they echo my panic, my deepest, darkest fears, deafening me internally.
This kind of fear makes me hysterical. For several minutes, it threatens to freeze me, render me limp. Useless.
Prey.
But I'm stronger than that. Sharks smell blood in the water. I won't let myself be a victim. Not when there's breath left in me.
I was so thankful than Brayden had helped me to map out the closest police stations to where I liked to run—I also made sure I knew how to get there without my phone but it seemed silly to stop and call the police.
I didn't want to stop running.
When I got to the front steps of the police station, I mingled with a few police in uniform walking up the steps. I tried to remain calm but I wasn't succeeding because one of them said, "Ma'am, do you need some help?" and I looked over my shoulder, saw no one and nodded.
A few minutes later, I was parked next to an officer's desk, paper towels and water in hand, followed by some orange juice. They'd also given me a police department sweatshirt to wear, because I'd started to shiver from my post-run cool down.
"So someone's broken into your apartment twice, but you didn't report it." The police officer named Lenny Burns repeated my story a few minutes later, making it—and me—sound incredibly stupid. "And then someone followed you today in the park. Was anything taken from your apartment?"
"Not exactly. No. I mean, something was left. Flowers."
"Flowers," he repeated. "Both times?"
"Yes. They were placed in my apartment. I didn't put them there and my friend is the only other one with a key."
"And he definitely didn't put them there?"
I didn't ask him… "No, he didn't."
"Any idea who could've done that? Do you have enemies?"
I stared at him. "Yes…no." God, this was a mistake.
"Do you have the flowers?"
"No. One set disappeared and I threw the others out."
The officer didn't blink, just sat back and put his pen down deliberately when I said disappeared.
I sounded crazy. "It's true," I insisted.
"I can't do anything without evidence."
"I just want to know what my options are."
"Sweetheart, this isn't a takeout menu, it's the police station. People come here to report real crimes, not just discuss their options." He sat back. "I'm going to be frank with you. I'm not sure if you're really believing this or if you're purposely wasting my time."
"I'm not. I'm just scared."
His expression softened. "I see that. Maybe you should talk to someone about all this…"
He thinks I'm crazy. And I couldn't totally deny that. I sometimes joked with Brayden that he should watch out for me, that I could be an escaped mental patient. "I'm sorry. I know how this sounds."
"There are restraining orders, but you have to know who's stalking you. Look, if you spot the person, or if there's a history, you can tell me."
No, I couldn't. "Thanks for your help."
"Is there someone you can call to pick you up?"
The implication was clear— You're a fragile flower who'll melt down at shadows in the street and then you'll come in again.
I pulled my phone out and dialed Lucas.
He picked up on the first ring. "What's wrong?"
"I'm at the police station. Can you come get me?"
He didn't ask anything beyond, "Are you hurt?" and when I told him I wasn’t he said, "Give me ten."
And ten minutes later, he was there, his
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