Page 2 of Freeing Ruby

Once my door is securely locked, I sink down onto the floor, sitting with my back against the wall, I close my eyes and draw in deep breaths.

Just breathe.

It’s okay.

Everything’s okay.

I return to the bathroom, strip, and climb into the shower. I need a nice, hot shower after handling roadkill. When I’m done, I towel-dry my hair and let it hang loose to finish drying.

Finally, I can head to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I’m going to need a lot of coffee today—my comfort beverage. Besides having to deal with the gore outside my door, today’s the day my godfather, Edward, is bringing a complete stranger to my apartment.

Unlike my father, Edward believes me when I say someone is terrorizing me, and to prove my claims aren’t just in my head, he’s hired a security company to investigate. This stranger—a guy by the name of Miguel Rodriguez—is coming to stay with me to gather proof of my claims.

The last thing I want is to let a stranger into my apartment, but I really don’t have a choice. I need proof. I need a witness.

I’m grateful that someone is willing to help me, but the idea of having a stranger in my apartment is almost more than I can bear. It beats the alternative, though—my stalker continuing to chip away at my sanity and make my life miserable.

I know very little about this guy—Miguel. He works for a company called McIntyre Security, and he’s a professional bodyguard. That gives me some comfort. He protects people for a living. Maybe he’ll protect me. I haven’t felt safe for years now—not since my mom was killed. Feeling safe is something I yearn for, but it feels so far out of reach.

While the coffee brews, and my muffin toasts, I open my balcony doors. The early June breeze smells fresh. Sunshine bathes my little wooden balcony which is filled with plants of all sorts—hanging flower baskets and potted trees, ferns, vegetables, and herbs. My second-story balcony is my little bit of heaven. It’s as close to the outside world as I dare go. He can’t reach me up here.

I really lucked out with this apartment. I have a south-facing view, which means I get direct sunlight all day long. And instead of staring at the back of yet another apartment building, I get to gaze out at a lovely view of a neighborhood park, filled with trees and shrubs and flowers. I get to watch children riding their bikes along the paved paths, parents pushing their children on the swings, people jogging, people walking their dogs. In essence, I get to watch others go about the process of living their lives like they don’t have a care in the world. I’m a voyeur of life, but never a participant.

I learned at an early age that the world is a dangerous place. There are evil people out there—monsters—who will take what they want without any regard for the lives of the families they destroy. There are those who take innocent lives without hesitation, without warning.

When my coffee is ready, I slather butter and strawberry jam on my toasted English muffin. I settle at the kitchen table with my breakfast and gaze out the balcony doors, across the parking lot, at the little neighborhood park beyond.

As I sip my coffee, I spot one of my neighbors, a blonde woman about my age, twenty-four, named Becky, as she pushes a stroller across the half-empty parking lot to the park. She’s a stay-at-home mom. Her son is just two years old. I know this because he was born shortly after I moved in to this apartment.

When they reach the park, Becky heads right for the swing set and buckles her son into one of the toddler swings. As she pushes him, he’s all smiles and giggles. He claps his hands with glee. The sight of them together makes my heart ache because that’s something I can never have.

The one thing I want more than anything is to have a husband and a child. But that life isn’t in my future. It can’t be. My rose-colored glasses were shattered a long time ago.

The world is too dangerous to risk it.

After finishing breakfast, I wash my plate and silverware and set them in the drying rack. Then I fill my watering can and water the many plants in my dining room, positioned near the balcony doors so they get plenty of sunlight.

When the indoor plants are taken care of, it’s time to go out onto the balcony to water the outdoor plants. I stand at the screen door for a good ten minutes studying the parking lot and making sure there’s no one out there to see me. When I’m finally sure the coast is clear, I open the screen door and take a step outside. Pumpkin follows me outside and starts sniffing the outside air. His nose twitches as he takes in the scents around us—car exhaust, sunshine, fresh air, and the plants on my balcony. Sometimes I imagine I can smell the lilacs and the wild roses that grow in the park.

Immediately, my heart starts pounding, but I’m outside only for a minute or so to quickly water my plants. Not a second longer.

As soon as I’ve watered all the outdoor plants, I shoo Pumpkin back inside and follow closely behind him. I close the screen door and lock it. I test the lock once, twice, to make sure it’s secure. I don’t think anyone can reach my second-floor balcony, but I can’t be too careful. I suppose if he had a ladder, he could.

People out there have a false sense of security because they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Most of them haven’t felt what I’ve felt, or lost what I’ve lost.

When my mother died, I lost everything.

Thinking about her stirs bittersweet memories. My gaze goes to the photograph of us which hangs on the wall between the balcony door and the kitchen. It was taken at our home, outside on our back patio. My mother loved her flower gardens. I’m sure that’s where I got my love of plants. I can still remember the scent of the flowers in our garden, the sound of water splashing in the patio pond, the songs of birds flitting from tree to tree.

This photo of me and my mother is my favorite. I’m wearing a white and blue polka-dot swimsuit, fresh out of the pool, with a colorful beach towel draped over my shoulders. I’m leaning back against her—getting her clothes wet, of course—but she didn’t care. No, she’s smiling as she leans forward, her arms wrapped around my slender shoulders, kissing the back of my wet hair.

Dad always said that Mom and I were two peas in a pod. We had the same shade of red hair, the same pale complexion, the same freckles scattered across our cheeks and noses. The same blue eyes. She loved calling me her mini-me.

And then one day, she was gone—taken from me in an instant—and all the light went out in my life.

My father grew bitter and withdrawn, and shortly after her death he looked at me with utter disdain that gradually morphed into disgust. He blamed me for her death because Mom and I were out shopping for school clothes for me when it happened. Of course it was my fault.

I lose myself in the photo of us together, staring into her crystal clear blue eyes, so like mine. I was a carbon copy of my mother—I still am. I was indeed her mini-me.

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