Traitor Within

I want to run. Feeling claustrophobic, I scream, “Let me out!” He immediately swerves to the shoulder—narrowly avoiding another car—slams on the brakes, and points to the door. “Get out then,” he demands. Wearing a short, black, sleeveless dress and more makeup and jewelry than usual, I feel vulnerable, shivering as the cold rain hits my exposed arms. I turn to get back in, but before I can, the car speeds off, the velocity slamming the door shut. I wasn’t even able to retrieve my coat or pocketbook. Left alone, it takes me a moment to get my bearings. The darkness that surrounds me is occasionally punctured by cars racing down the highway. Things begin to blur as tears mixed with mascara and the rain run down my face. I start to walk—he probably pulled over just ahead—but his car is nowhere in sight. I am sure he will get off at the next exit, loop around, and pick me up. I keep looking back over my shoulder, every car a possibility that he has not deserted me. Perhaps he can’t see me in the darkness. I reach for my ivory scarf before remembering that it’s in my purse, which is still in his car. I look at my watch and realize it’s been 10 minutes already, plenty of time for him to have circled back. He left me. Trembling from fear and the cold, I increase my pace, navigating the thin area between the cars and the bushes where who knows what occurs. The rhythmic clicking of my high heels against the asphalt is drowned out by the roar of the cars racing past me. What if I stumble? This is not a road accustomed to pedestrians. I contemplate stepping over the guardrail when a car pulls over just ahead. I can’t make out the model, but it’s a black sedan. He came back! Relief washes over me as I head toward him, grateful to get off the road. But as I approach, several guys, probably in their late 20s, stick their heads out of the windows and turn toward me. “Hey, sexy, wanna ride?” I slow my pace and come to a stop. “No thank you,” I respond. The passenger door opens, and a tall, slim blond staggers out. “Here, get in between me and Jerry.” I look toward the thickets and consider a possible escape. “That’s very sweet, but my husband is almost here,” I reply. Can he pick up on my uncertainty? I take a step back. Our eyes lock, waiting to see who draws first. “Whatever, your loss.” He stumbles before getting back in the car, and they speed off. Realizing I had been holding my breath, I exhale. Drenched and desperate to get home, I quicken my pace and focus on the lights hanging on the one-mile suspension bridge, my runway back home. I will have to cross on foot. Calculating the distance I have left to walk, I estimate I’ll be home in about 5 hours. As I stare down at the road that stretches before me, the physical dangers seem to dissolve into the background, overshadowed by the growing unease in my mind. I imagine the confrontation that awaits me when I get home. It’ll be around 4 am, and he’ll still be asleep, but I don’t have my key, so I’ll have to wake him. I’ll stand there, so close to being home, but so far from comfort. There will be a delay, and I’ll wonder if he doesn’t hear me or just doesn’t want to let me in. Then the steps will come, but the reprieve will be fleeting. He’ll open the door, and his voice will cut through me, “You’ve ruined everything.” The reprimand will sting, but as long as he’s talking to me, I’ll be okay. I’ll enter, trying to get him to engage, but he won’t. His three-word judgment will be the beginning and the end of the conversation. I can take his cruel words, but not his silence. My breathing becomes shallow, ragged. I stop in my tracks. My vision starts to give way. I feel a familiar dread creeping in. My legs give out beneath me. The world tilts, and I am falling—not into darkness as I expected, but crashing into the eye of a blinding light.