Awakening

I'd seen him before, in the bookstore, as I cruised the literature aisles with my Christmas money burning a hole in my pocket. He was lurking in the science fiction section. All right. Maybe not lurking; maybe just browsing. But I'd noticed him then, and afterwards, behind me in the checkout line. And again, walking to his car two rows away, as I fumbled for my keys. And again, in my rear view mirror, his left blinker mirroring my own as we both pulled out of the parking lot.
Now he is unnervingly close behind me on the unpredictably winding back road. I flick on my high beams to see the next curve, and try to stave off panic. My mind, ever darkly dramatic, has gone into paranoia overdrive. Against my better judgment, I think back to my hairdresser's latest story of man's depravity. I start to shudder as I imagine her voice, telling me about the rapist who followed her sister home from the grocery store, in broad daylight, filled with a sick desire. I remember the moment when I met her gaze and she said, with a deadly seriousness, "If I thought someone was following me, I would not go home."
With every turn I make, as I glance in my mirror and watch him do the same, I cling to that bit of advice. Do not go home. Do not go home. He'll know where you live. Do not go home. Instinctively, I have reached into my purse and turned on my cell phone; it now sits in my lap, and I finger its buttons every few seconds, for reassurance. His headlights are so bright in my mirror that I can no longer see his form behind the wheel. One more turn, and I will be on the street before my own. I pull into the right turn-only lane, praying that when I look next, he won't be there. He is.
With shaking feet, I press on the gas and drive past my street. My fingers are clamped around my phone like a vise. My mind races, mapping out my route; in my panic, I can't even remember the street names in this city where I have lived all my life. I try to calm myself down, but my inner tragedian has already determined that the night will end darkly, that there is no escape.
Sound bytes from the news come back to me in flashes, about women raped and murdered. Who was I, to think my story would be any different? Purple dots start to swim befor emy eyes as I realize that none of those women had known what was coming. They had been out on an everyday errand, a pleasure trip, just as I had been. They hadn't realized that they were living their last hour. Could this, then, be mine?
No. The voice in the back of my head makes me jump, it is so sudden and unexpected. No. This hour will not be my last. I will not be a victim. I refuse.
I make my decision and, with firm step now, bear down on the gas. In a burst of clarity, I see in my mind's eye the route to my destination-- the city police station. I will make one final turn; if he is still there, then I know what to do. Do not put on your blinker. Give him no warning. Slow just enough to make the turn. Look in the mirror. Hold your breath.
He is gone. I almost can't believe it. I am still waiting to see his headlights, mere inches from me. I exhale, my breath, my whole body shaking now that the rush of adrenaline has subsided. I ease my hand off the phone; my fingers are cramped, they were clenching it so tightly. Bursting with gratitude, barely able to whisper a "Thank you, Jesus," I turn the car toward home.
Two hours later, I am laughing at myself for my scare. Chiding myself for inheriting my mother's tendency to blow things out of proportion, for allowing my hairdresser's doom-and-gloom stories to get into my head. And I remember my moment of strength. For that one moment, I, the eternal wallflower, refused to be passive. I refused to sit there and let life just happen to me. For that one moment, I dared to imagine that I was worth fighting for-- worth saving. So I get to thinking: if then, why not now? Why do I not fight every day? Why do I lie passively down and let life do to me what it will and accept it as inevitable? Am I not worth saving? Must I always be a victim?
No. Not a victim. I refuse. Never again. Not a victim. Enough.