I was great at my job, and I wanted more time to be able to get back to it. I’ve been working hard on myself with continued therapy and medications. I’ve made improvements. But when it boils down to it, they are a huge corporation, and I am but a blip on their radar, easily replaced.
I might regret not taking that severance package one day when I’m on the verge of foreclosure, but I have to believe I’m going to find another job and all will be well.
I make a few more additions to my LinkedIn profile and flip over to Microsoft Word to edit my actual résumé accordingly. With that completed, I rest my laptop on the coffee table, and despite my better instincts, I snuggle down into the cushions and grab the remote. Pointing it at the TV, I turn up the volume and listen to the local five o’clock news.
I make it through the rush-hour traffic report—irrelevant to me—when my mind starts to slip and I lose focus on the news. A common byproduct of anxiety is the inability to concentrate, and I’m not surprised to be suffering this today. Not only did I lose my financial security yesterday, but I had to go down to the police station for a photo identification attempt. The whole process did nothing but dredge up the traumas of that evening seven months ago.
I am an utter failure and have been from the very start of this ordeal. I wasn’t paying attention when I parked my car, putting myself in an area too far from the mall entrance. I always park the farthest away to get steps in. I wasn’t thinking of potential danger.
And when I was attacked, I didn’t fight back. I let them throw me around like a rag doll, and had it not been for Baden’s interference, God knows what they would have done to me.
I was absolutely no help to Baden, running away as fast as I could, thinking of my own safety first and foremost. I failed him miserably.
And when it comes to helping the police catch these horrible men who ruined Baden’s life, I can’t even help there. I couldn’t identify the first person they brought in a few weeks ago, and yesterday, I was inept at pointing out the perpetrators.
There were two suspects, which meant two separate photo lineups. One of the suspected attackers was in each set of photos—six in all, mixed with other males of similar appearance—but none stood out. They all looked mean and dangerous, and it could’ve been any one of them. I was only able to say—and not with any certainty—that the attackers were white.
And that was the extent of my help in finding justice for Baden.
I recognize that I’m spiraling into a depressive episode. While I’m still paralyzed with a fear of being attacked again, my most debilitating trauma is in what happened to Baden as a result of his heroic efforts. He saved me. When I can’t help but think of how I ruined his life, I run the risk of withdrawing too far inward, and sometimes it’s hard to come back out.
But as I said, I’ve worked diligently on myself. I recognize what’s going on, so I push up off the couch. I know I need to focus on something else that brings me joy.
I love to cook, but there’s nothing to cook, as I already have chili simmering on the stove. Going for a walk would be nice, but it’s dark and freezing outside. Besides that, I’m too chicken to walk alone.
I consider watching a rom-com, and just when I’ve about talked myself into that, the front door motion sensor goes off and then the doorbell rings, causing a moment of panic before I push it away. I have security in place.
I don’t bother looking at my security app but rather move to the front door where I take a quick peek through the peephole.
I’m stunned by what I see.
The fish-eye lens distorts the image a bit, but I can clearly make out Baden Oulett standing on my front porch.
He’s a gorgeous man with dark hair and light brown eyes. His face is beautiful, despite the thin, red scar extending from his temple along the side of his face, disappearing into a trim beard he wears very well.
Most surprising of all is that he’s standing.
No paralysis of the legs. No wheelchair. No crutches. No unsteadiness.
He looks absolutely healthy and normal, and I blink several times because I must be dreaming.
The doorbell rings again, and I physically jump backward. My hand presses against my chest, heart thundering in disbelief that Baden is here at my house, and he appears whole.
I put my eye back to the peephole. He stands there casually with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, curiously looking to the left at my neighbor’s front yard.