It occurs to me, as I talk about my past, I don’t talk so much about what I wrote during this time. Let me say that in high school I wrote my first novel, started the second, and wrote a handful of deep, dark, depressing poetry (as well as some nice things). I wrote rants, also. One in particular involved a horrendous Valentine’s Day.
Today, I’m going to favor you with two posts. They say confession is good for the soul.
Now I’m going to tell you a story. I’m going to tell you about Abbey. Abbey was a teenage girl growing up in Phoenix. She had a mom and several brothers. She walked a lot. One day, while walking to the store, she saw a car drive by her slowly. This was not unusual. Pretty enough to get attention, Abbey dealt with stupid boys whistling and hollering at her regularly when she walked.
But this was different. The car came by again. Abbey felt cold shivers of dread on that warm, spring day. Again she saw the car. By then Abbey knew something was wrong. Fear gripped her. She bent down and picked up a large rock she could barely conceal in her hand. Why? She couldn’t say; her thoughts were not clear.
The car came by one last time. The driver slowed, and the man asked her if she knew where this particular street was. Abbey thought she did, and gave him directions, all the while careful not to get too close. But the man didn’t seem to understand. As he started to ask her if she’d just get in and show him, a police car appeared at the end of the block. The man glanced in his mirror, spotted the cop car, and hurriedly thanked Abbey and drove off.
She dropped the rock a while later, still shaking. What Abbey wanted was to flag down the police car and ask them to take her home. Somehow, going to the store had lost importance. But she didn’t. She continued with her plan and reached home safely.
A few weeks later, she was sitting on the edge of the couch reading the newspaper over her brother’s shoulder. On the cover of the paper was the photo of a man. Sick dread filled Abbey as she recognized him. He looked so much like the man she’d met on the road. She was certain they were one and the same, but time made her wonder.
The man in the paper had been arrested for rape and murder.