Like Gravity(4)

Throughout the years, I’d seen a never-ending parade of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists, all equally eager to get a glimpse inside my twisted adolescent mind. These consultations invariably proceeded the same way – with them prompting me to speak about my “childhood trauma,” and me sitting on a slightly uncomfortable leather chair, staring at the clock in brooding silence. After the first few sessions of unrelenting taciturnity, my shrink-of-the-week would inevitably become frustrated, accuse me of burying my feelings, and claim that I would remain “spiritually lost” or “damaged” until I battled some bullshit inner emotional war.

What I didn’t say, during all those weeks of silence, was that no amount of soul searching would fix my past. There was no magical Band-Aid I could stick on my heart, no special glue I could use to make myself whole again. I had shattered to pieces like a fragile vase on concrete; some fragments could be roughly cobbled back together, but many of my vital parts had simply turned to dust, pulverized and scattered by the first gust of wind.

Leaning back on my hands, I closed my eyes and pulled a deep breath in through my nose. The summer night air smelled of fresh-cut grass and a faint hint of the coming autumn. There was a slight chill in the breeze, rustling the leaves of the maple tree nearest the house and sending goosebumps skittering up my arms. I rubbed them absentmindedly, my eyes scanning from the maple’s graceful sloping branches down to the quiet street below.

Shit! What the hell is that? Correction - who the hell is that?

My pulse immediately began to pound in my veins as my eyes confirmed that there was, in fact, someone standing in the dimly lit street.

Watching me.

My muscles tensed up and I froze like a deer in headlights – a naive prey trapped neatly in a predator’s lair.

It was definitely a man. Though I could only make out a silhouette, as the nearest working street lamp was a half block away, the shoulders were too broad, the build too tall, to be anything but male.

Or, it was possibly one of the steroid-abusing female swimmers from China’s Olympic team, I thought to myself, nearly snorting aloud at the thought. Yeah, Brooklyn, that’s totally probable.

My brief moment of levity died and an irrational sense of dread commandeered my senses. I remained frozen, unsure whether I should move back inside. Could he see me? Was he watching me? Surely it was too dark for the stranger to notice a relatively small girl perched on a rooftop in the dark.

I could see the small glowing cherry of his cigarette flare brighter whenever he brought it up to take a drag. The rest of the street remained empty yet the man continued to lean against his motorcycle, a Harley from the looks of it, seemingly waiting for someone or something.

Clearly, he was not waiting for me or watching me, I reasoned. I’d never seen him before in my life. Though I couldn't see his face in the darkness, I knew simply by his build, his choice of transportation, and the smoke billowing in his lungs that we didn’t exactly run in the same social circles.

Still, I wasn’t about to sit outside alone in the middle of the night, dressed only in the skimpy tank top and cotton shorts I’d slept in, when there was a random man lurking in front of my house. It was time to go back inside, preferably without drawing any undue attention to myself.

Channeling my inner Sydney Bristow, I slid my hands back until my fingertips grazed the edge of the windowsill. Very slowly, I moved my body backwards, keeping my eyes trained on the shadowed man. When he had no reaction to my covert movements, I felt the sense of leaden panic ease from my chest. He hadn’t noticed me; he wasn’t even looking at me.

Bond, Brooklyn Bond.

More confidently, I pivoted my legs and slid them inside the window, my knees sinking into my plush down comforter. I glanced down once more at the man in the street as I began to shift my torso inside, my hands braced against the windowsill.

Through the darkness, I felt our eyes meet. It wasn’t as if I could physically see his eyes, but somehow I knew they were staring directly into mine.

So much for my theory that he couldn’t see me.

I watched as he took a final drag on his cigarette, moved his hand to his forehead, and sent me a mocking salute, as if to acknowledge my departure from the roof. My eyes tracked the movement of his hand, unmistakably identified by the dim glow of his cigarette, and I hastily moved the rest of my body inside, locking the window shut behind me.

What a creep.

Back in the safety of my bedroom, my fear quickly faded. Whoever he was, he was clearly pleased with the fact that he’d managed to make me so uncomfortable simply by loitering. It was probably just some stupid fraternity brother, waiting for his sorority counterpart to stumble outside for a late-night hookup. It didn’t have anything to do with me.

At least, that’s what I told myself when I glanced out the window a minute later and saw that the motorcycle had vanished completely.

***

A few hours later, I perched on one of our kitchen island barstools and sipped my coffee greedily. Ah, caffeine. Sweet nectar of the gods. The weak morning sunshine trickled in through an overhead skylight, illuminating our paint-chipped cabinets and mismatched furniture. My fingers absently moved across the marred countertop, tracing a collection of scratches gouged out by the last decade of tenants.

Lexi shuffled into the kitchen, her red hair still mussed from sleep and her feet stuffed into a pair of hideous green frog slippers.

“Coffee,” she muttered.