Page 2 of Fractured Fear

A pair of brown leather Oxfords come into view and stroll into the bedroom. The shoes pace about the room and stop right in front of my eyes. “Spencer, dear. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

My phone alarm goes off and I jolt upright in bed. I’m covered in sweat. Again.

Shaking off my nightmare, I glare at my alarm.

What idiot thought waking up at five a.m. to go to the gym was a good idea?

Yeah, that was me.

I knew I would fall back asleep if I left my phone next to me on my nightstand, like usual, so I set it on my dresser on the other side of my room. Even though it feels like I just fell in bed five minutes ago, I realize I need to start crawling to my phone across the room to turn my alarm off and get my ass in gear.

Damn Yesterday Spencer. She outsmarted Today Spencer.

After I make my way across my room, I stumble into the attached bathroom and catch my morning glow in the mirror. More like morning disaster. Rat’s nest for hair and dark circles under my eyes. Definitely looks like I got five minutes of sleep. Constantly waking up from nightmares throughout the night will do that to a person.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw on a pair of leggings and a sports bra. Yesterday Spencer set out Today Spencer’s clothes, so I’ll let her slide with the phone on the dresser stunt.

Shoes on and hair up, I’m ready to go and I can’t think of any more excuses to delay the start to my day.

I put my headphones in, press play on my running playlist, and head out the door. I lock up behind me because this is New York, not the Houston suburb where I’m from. You don’t leave your front door unlocked here like Mom always did growing up.

I head down the stairs, out the shared door that’s wedged between my studio, Clay Creations, and the coffee shop, The Mudhouse. Warm, humid air blankets me with a comforting familiarity.

Bringing my ankle to my ass with my opposite hand, I allow myself only a few minutes to stretch. If I go any longer, I’ll fall back asleep right here on the sidewalk. There’s an unknown substance a few feet away that made an appearance last weekand has yet to wash away even with the two rainy days we have had since then, but I would still curl up on my side and catch some Z’s on the pavement.

After stretching, I start off with a jog.

I used to run when I was younger. I was pulled aside in gym class in seventh grade and the cross-country coach tried to convince me to join the team. But I was never a competitive person; I’m still not. Competing would have taken the joy out of running and it did. Mom made me join the cross-country team the next day.

Now I run for myself again. I run because I want to, but also because I have to. I never want to feel stuck and helpless like I did that night.

AsLionby Saint Mesa blasts through my headphones, I turn left a few blocks down onto Ninth Ave. I don’t like to take the same route every morning in order to keep things interesting.

More like I don’t want to make it easy for some psycho to snatch me up. I’m cautious like that.

My first week in New York, three years ago, there was a woman kidnapped and killed just three streets over from where I live. Her name was Natalie Cabrera. She was just living her life carefree and happy, but it was stolen from her. She was only twenty-four years old.

So here I am, like a crazy person, running at five thirty in the morning on my way to the gym. Just like I have done almost every day for the last two and a half years. I used to go at night, but my trainer told me that wasn’t the best idea and that women are more likely to be abducted at night. Thus, the masochistic ritual of early morning workouts began.

Adjusting to my new life was…well, an adjustment. Busy sidewalks, jam-packed streets, pushy street peddlers, the smell of urine and decay, an alternating chorus of “get out of my way” and cat calls being hurled my direction every few minutes.

My mind wanders back to my first moments in New York, like the first time I was using the subway and someone asked me if I wanted to see snow. My social anxiety shoved me out of the seat and responded, “no, thank you” to the man with greasy hair who reeked of cigarette smoke. I stared across to the other window the rest of the ride. I convinced myself that if I didn’t make eye contact, he wouldn’t ask me again. He didn’t. Then I went home and searched on the internet what “snow” could mean. Cocaine. It means cocaine.

There was another time when I decided to brave Times Square to go to the M&M store. I saw a man in a brown robe walk across the street, he then began to untie the knot at his waist, and I was too shocked to look away. It’s like when you know a car accident is about to happen and no matter how much your mind screams at you to avert your gaze, you can’t. That was me. Thankfully for the sake of my eyes and memory, an officer was right there and stopped the man before he coulddisrobehimself.

And then there was the time I decided to explore Chinatown. I wanted to see if the knock-off purses were actually as great as everyone says. Newsflash! They weren’t. I was approached by strange men with Bluetooth earpieces on every corner asking if I wanted to buy everything from Gucci to Prada. I said no every time. I wasn’t going to be that girl that disappeared into a back room and never came out.

Running in the morning means less people out and about. Plus, there’s something peaceful about being awake before everyone else when the sun is rising. Less noise, and no one to tell you that you didn’t make his over-easy eggs the way he likes. Just peace.

My mind wanders as I continue my run. Unfortunately, my mind has a mind of its own and goes down the path of last night’s dreams. It’s a scene that has played out many times in mymind. I lived it and my mind won’t let me forget what happened the night before I left.

I wasn’t supposed to see, and I wish I never did, but I can’t take back what happened. I can wish on all the stars in the sky and not a damn thing will change.

I never should have agreed to go on that first date with him. I was only seventeen when I met my ex. He was twenty-seven. My mom was so excited when I bumped into him at my first art show. A gallery in town was accepting small artists’ work and somehow a few of my pots and sculptures were chosen. He was charming and attentive; he asked thoughtful questions and seemed genuinely interested in my work.

Just the thought of that night has me steaming with anger. Anger towards him for lying. Anger towards myself for falling for his act.

He knew exactly how to build me up only to tear me down himself a few hours later. He was an expert at it.

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