Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

The Freak went back to eating his. I was mesmerized by the flashing metal of his fork and knife as he carefully cut the duck into small pieces on his plate. Aware of my attention, he slowly brought the fork to his mouth and delicately took a piece off with his teeth. His lips closed around it, his eyelashes fluttered down, and he gave a sigh of pleasure. As he leisurely chewed, he opened his eyes to stare at me. Finally he swallowed.

Then he smiled.

That night was the first time I couldn’t look at my daughter while she nursed. She was drinking the duck, drinking my beautiful duck, and I wondered if she could taste my pain.

Last night it was damn hard to stay out of the closet, Doc. My room was so dark, pitch-dark, and I kept thinking that something was reaching for me, but when I turned on the flashlight I keep by my bed, there was nothing. I tried sleeping with a candle, but that just made creepy flickering shadows on the wall. I turned on all the lights, but then I was wide awake. Which only made it that much easier to hear every creak in my house, and it’s an old house—lots of creaks. So the good news is I never slept in the closet last night, Doc; bad news is there sure are some crappy late-night TV shows.

It did give me time to think about fear and all that stuff you told me on how PTSD manifests in different ways, but I still can’t tell you exactly why sleeping in the closet makes me feel safer. All I know is, something about the bed just feels so exposed. There are so many ways I could be gotten to—from my feet, left side, right side, or even from above—too much empty space pressing in on me.

The more painful the stuff I tell you, the more I want to—need to—sleep in the closet. You asked what it is I’m trying to keep away from me, and maybe this is a good time to go into the granddaddy of all my lingering side effects—this paranoid itch that won’t go away no matter how much I scratch.

I just can’t seem to shake the overwhelming feeling I’m still not safe. And I know it’s whacked, because the cops have been totally cool about keeping me up to date on the investigation, especially this one cop, Gary—man, the poor guy probably wishes he’d never given me his cell number—and they’d have told me if I was still in danger. They bloody well have to. That’s their whole deal—protect the people and all that crap. So what the fuck?

Please don’t give me any of the It’s-just-PTSD-natural-after-your-experience garbage. Look, I get that I came home with major hang-ups and fear and shit. Like I said, I thought about everything you told me—even did some research on the Internet. Hell, I was hoping that was all it was, but there’s something different about this. Feels too real.

That’s where you come in, Doc. You have to help me get rid of this obsession that I’m still not safe. That someone or something is out to get me. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting some instant shrink just-add-bullshit porridge answer. Give it some thought. Maybe I’ll have it all figured out in a couple of weeks when you’re back from your holiday—wouldn’t it be nice if this shit was that easy.

Thanks for referring me to another shrink, but I’ll wait for you to come back. For some strange reason, I have trust issues.

Nice to see you back, Doc. At least one of us is relaxed. Just giving you a hard time—I don’t doubt for one minute you needed a break from all this doom and gloom. You do a good job of hiding it, but I know this stuff gets to you. Right from our first session I noticed whenever I talk about something intense, you rip off a corner of your note pad and roll it into a ball with your fingers. The faster you roll, the harder this shit’s hitting you. We all give ourselves away somehow.

Like I said, I’m glad you had a nice time, but I’m a hell of a lot gladder you’re back. Sure could have used you last week. And no, not just because of all that someone’s-still-out-to-get-me crap I was talking about last time, although that vulture is still hovering in the background—something else happened. I saw my ex, in a grocery store, picking out apples with some girl…. God, the way he smiled at her killed me. And the way she tilted her head back—in her tight white turtleneck and designer jeans—laughing at something he’d said…

Before they spotted me and I had to see Luke’s beautiful smile turn sympathetic, I ducked around the corner. Basket ditched in the middle of the store, I walked out, head down, and jumped in my car with my heart beating faster than a crack addict’s. Trying not to squeal my tires in my desperation to get the hell out of there, I pulled around the back of the store, parked far away from any other cars, and with my head on the steering wheel, cried my eyes out.

She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was mine. I should be the girl picking out apples with him. Eventually I drove home, but I couldn’t stop crying and I never did get any groceries. Ended up eating hard cheese on stale crackers that night while I pictured them cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning, or him kissing her with his hands wrapped in that beautiful hair. Hell, by the time my mind was done with it they were pretty much engaged and naming their future children.

In those few seconds he looked so fucking happy , and I wanted to be the only woman who could make him smile like that. Just talking about it is making me feel all crazy inside. I know I’m supposed to want him to be okay, want what’s best for him and all that, but man, oh, man—does it have to be someone like her? Miss Perfect Blonde, so clean in her white turtleneck I felt dirty just looking at her. I used to wear clothes like hers, used to want to wear clothes like that.

I wonder if this woman, this stranger , knows all about me. She’s probably a nice person too—can’t see him dating someone who isn’t. Maybe she feels sorry for me. God, I hope not. I’m doing a damn good job of that on my own.

After The Freak killed the duck, a piece of me tore off and left a black hole in its place. Terror moved in and brought a giant hand gripping my heart and guts. Over the next couple of days whenever I watched him pick my daughter up, examine her, hell, even walk by her basket, the hand squeezed harder.

One morning she was fussing in her bed and I was about to pick her up when he beat me to it. A little cry escaped from the bundle in his arms; she was still wrapped in her blanket as he bounced her. He put his face close to hers and said, “Stop it.” I held my breath, but she was quiet, and he smiled with pride. I knew it was the bouncing, not the words, that had calmed her, but I wasn’t suicidal enough to set him straight.

“She listens well,” he said. “But at this age their brains are sponges, easily poisoned by society. It’s good she’s here. Here she’ll learn real values, values I’ll instill in her, but most of all she’ll learn respect.”

Shit, how the hell was I going to deal with this?

“Sometimes kids, you know, they test their boundaries and she might not understand what you’re trying to…teach her. But it won’t mean she’s bad or doesn’t respect you, it’s just what kids do.”

“No, it’s not what kids do—it’s what parents allow them to do.”

He didn’t seem upset by the conversation, so I said, “Maybe it’s good if a child has curiosity and tests authority? You told me the women you knew before always made bad decisions over men and their careers, but maybe they were just rebelling because they weren’t allowed to think for themselves when they were younger.”

Still calm, he said, “Is that what your mother did? Raised you to be free-thinking?” Sure, I was free to think exactly like her.