As I look out at the sunlit day, I can see the breeze shifting the leaves of the tall oak tree just to the right of my front stoop. I can hear the sweet melody in the songs the birds sing. The flowers are beginning to spring forth from the soil, beckoning the sunshine to touch them and warm them from the long winters cold. 

How I long to feel the warm breeze kiss my cheeks, to lean my head back and feel the sun on my skin, in my hair. But I can’t. I am paralyzed, trapped within these walls. 

I do not mean to mislead you. I am not medically or physically paralyzed. I can walk. I can move my body without any physical limitations. What prevents me from leaving the prison of my home is fear…Fear that paralyzes me. 

Logically, I know that this fear is not a physical thing and that if I could just push passed it and take that step outside, if even just to my front stoop, that maybe I could overcome this captivating, imprisoning fear. But I can’t. 

I know, logically, that this is all in my head. I know that the likelihood of something happening again is nearly nil. I know all of these things. I know them, logically, but cannot know them emotionally or mentally. I try to push myself out that front door. I do. But I can’t. 

Just standing in front of my large bay windows, with my potted aloe and Chysis orchids, I begin to feel the panic creeping in. My breathing accelerates, my palms begin to sweat, my heart hammers so hard and loudly in my chest that I am certain the neighbors can hear it.  

Then, all of the sudden, I am back in that place. That terrible place. I can smell the rotting hay of the field I am laying in. I can see the lights off in the distance. I can hear people entering and exiting their cars nearby. And I can smell him. Oh God I can smell him. There is a musky, greasy smell to him. He must be a mechanic; I can smell it on him. The beer on his breath wafts over my entire being filling my nostrils. Permeating my skin. I am overcome with nausea. 

I try to scream but the voice, the sound will not come. I feel a burning in my throat from screaming so hard without any sound. I remember desperately trying to figure out why I could not make a sound. I wouldn’t find an answer to that question till much later. 

I remember waking in an unfamiliar place. I didn’t recognize a single thing. I was in a soft bed with a plush, floral comforter pulled up to my chin. I tried to look around but every time I tried to sit up or even move my head the pain would overcome me. I would see shooting lights and shapes in my vision that weren’t really there. I though I may have been hallucinating. 

Across the room from where I was laying in the bed with the floral comforter, there was a clock on the wall. The time read 2:17. I remember wondering if it was 2:17 am or 2:17 pm. To the left of the bed, I could tell that there was a window. I could not turn my head to see it but I could feel the sunlight radiating heat into the room. 

The bottom half of the wall directly in front of me was covered in pink floral wallpaper and the top half of it was painted a rich crème color. There was a thick wooden chair railing separating the two sections that was painted a glossy white. There’s a tall dresser with a vanity mirror on top. And a vase of yellow daffodils was sitting in front of the mirror. 

I tried to rise up just enough to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I can see the crown of my head. My hair is a mess. Oh God why does it hurt so much to move? What is wrong with me? Every part of me hurts. I push my body backward trying to get some leverage from the headboard behind me. I keep pushing back and up, back and up. Pushing through the excruciating pain. My head is going to bust. 

Finally I catch a glimpse of my face. My face. My face doesn’t even resemble my face. It is so bruised that the sight of it makes me cry out. The sound. The sound startles me and I remember. Oh God I remember. 

I hear footsteps approaching from down the hall. My heart is racing. As the tempo of my heartbeat increases, so do the footsteps. I am filled with horror that the footsteps belong to that horrible mechanic. I try to get out of the bed. But I can’t. 

The doorway to the room I am in is just to the right of the tall dresser. The footsteps stop just outside it. The doorknob begins to turn slowly. I hear a whimper escape my lips. My whole body is shaking with such force that the headboard keeps hitting the wall with a sickening rhythm. The door cracks open just the slightest bit. Then bursts open entirely.   

Before me, stands an older woman about 70 or 75. She has long gray hair twisted up into a loose bun at the back of her head. There are reading glasses hanging around her neck from a beaded chain that resembles that of Rosary Beads. She has the softest, kindest blue eyes and a sweet smile that is filled with…pity and sadness. 

She comes to the side of my bed and takes my hand in hers. Her skin is as soft as silk and her touch is supple and kind. She helps me sit up better, placing soft pillows behind my back. She brings over a glass of water from the bedside table and helps me take a sip. I hadn’t realized how dry my throat and mouth were and the water is a blessing. 

She introduces herself to me as Marie and tells me how she “found me in such a state of devastation that it shook her to her core.” She tells me that on Sunday morning, as with all Sunday’s when the weather is nice, she was walking to Mass and caught a glimpse of something colorful in the field that she passes on her way to Our Lady Of Loretto. She had plenty of time before Mass started so she decided to go investigate “as is her inquisitive nature.” 

As she came upon my still body she though for certain that I was “no longer of this world.” She said a prayer for my eternal soul and turned to leave to go call the authorities. At this moment, before she could even take a step, Marie said that she knew in the depth of her soul that I was still alive. She knelt down and touched my battered face and could feel the heat from the beating that I had taken. Marie removed her shawl and gently draped it over my body. She whispered a promise to return and retreated. 

A short time later, she returned with a blanket, her grandson Andrew, and her Lincoln Town Car. Andrew drove the car slowly across the field to the place that she had found me. Marie approached my still, lifeless body and ever so gently wrapped the blanket around me. She had Andrew carry me and place me into the backseat of her car. Again, Andrew drove her car slowly across the field and continued on to her home. 

Marie tells me that Andrew wanted to take me to the hospital but she wouldn’t hear of it. It seems that Marie felt that “I had been through enough undignified events for one poor soul to have to endure.” Instead, she insisted that I be taken to her home where I could rest and heal in peace and love. 

Marie had Andrew carry me to her guest room and place me in the bed. She sent him away and proceeded to wash away all of the blood and dirt and filth that the bad man had left behind. Marie dressed my wounds and she dressed my body in a soft, white, cotton gown. 
To be Continued…