I dipped my hand below my hip and watched my palm as I rotated it to face behind my racing legs. The dim orange glow of distant headlights illuminated my palm and forearm. The car was speeding closer. Another half mile and I would be safely inside my house happily scratching behind the ears of one of my two golden retrievers. The road plunged down again and sent my legs to the bottom of the steep hill. I followed the sidewalk back up the hill, which I’d traversed several hundred times in my several years of marathon training runs. The one spot that always scared me frightened me once again this evening. Street lamps were sparse and the sidewalk grew darker between side streets. I could barely make out my shoes in the piles of scattered leaves and midnight hued slabs of concrete.

Small drops of chilled water began to cry from the sky as I rounded the final turn near my house. I pumped my arms and drove my legs harder up the next steep hill. My calves burned in the final miles of this run. The once distant car was now only yards away. Swiveling my neck I took a long stare at the car as it passed me slowly. It was a blood red convertible Mercedes-Benz with the top down. I hoped it would rain on him as he gave me a malicious stare through the growing darkness.

The road ahead reflected the faint illumination projected from the aged street lamps. My feet targeted themselves on the parts of the road I could still see. I grew anxious that I might miss a step, tumble into the ditch, and get swallowed by the night until the reflective patches of my protruding shoes caught someone’s attention. A quick glance at my wrist confirmed I was still wearing my customized athletic ID tag that would identify my body in case of a disastrous accident. It was a small consolation as I stood breathless just a few yards from my driveway. The dogs must have sensed my presence; the mini blinds swayed side to side across the front bay window of the house.

I opened the intentionally unlocked door and exhaled. I was inside again. My fingers quickly ran over the light switches and calmness spilled over me as I became bathed in light once again. The dogs quickly ran down the stairs while wagging their tales furiously.

The empty house came alive with our motions and their barks of excitement. My legs ached for regeneration and renewal in the form of a protein enriched shake. Common household ingredients of Greek style strained yogurt, overly ripened and brownish bananas, frozen organic unsweetened berries, and a splash of vanilla flavored soy milk came together in the blender. Harsh metal blades spun wildly as my finger directed the antique blender into pulse mode at sporadic intervals. The mixture of yellow, creamy white, and hues of red and blue became a light purple with splotches of darker blue, from the blueberry skins. I ushered the smoothie into a chilled glass and readied myself to relax into the drink. The loneliness of the house was quickly filled by the sound of a conversing television announcing the events of the day.

My back settled into the aged leather couch, creaking slightly as I let my full weight rest on the springs below the flattened cushions. Illumination from the plasma screen flickered onto the white and featureless walls. My failure to hang anything on the walls for the past 18 months haunted me now as I stared at the plainness of my home; the white walls flashed with a broadening color swatch as I stared into the featureless wall. I let my thoughts wander rather than pay attention to the optimistic jingles about investments and home repairs filling the house with background noise. A sudden change in shadows skipped across the wall.

What was that?

Is someone there?

My paranoia heightened with every glance I caught of the whitish glow moving through the house. The crest of the stairs leading to my bedroom and office failed to receive any illumination from the faraway light fixtures of the kitchen. My attention refocused on the television and in my peripheral vision, the whitish glow moved down the stairs towards me, once again. I stared towards the moving figure. The light dissipated and the stairs were bathed in blackness once again. Paralyzing fear consumed my limbs. My arms and legs felt like concrete molded into the couch. If I got up, I would be vulnerable. Here on the couch, at least I could confirm nothing was behind me, waiting to surprise me.

I stared at the stairs, begging the light to stay away.

Leave me alone. Go away.

I’m talking to myself again.

The dogs remained with their bodies pressed against the sofa, snoring softly. My legs moved quickly towards the deadbolts and my hand compulsively switched the cold brass knobs back and forth. Locked, unlocked, and then locked again. I anxiously retraced my steps between the front door and the side door, confirming all the thresholds were secure.

I froze and held my breath to listen to the sounds of the house. A sharp creak with a stiff gust of wind overloaded my anxious ears, causing me to nearly fall over. My pulse quickened as I tried to think about the metallic clang that just exploded from the empty upstairs. I remember visiting a Hollywood studio once on a tour and I’m hoping the sound I just heard is really just the sound of a metal air duct expanding or contracting. During the tour, they had gone on stage and demonstrated way a band saw can be bent back and forth quickly to create sound effects for movies or stage productions. The thermostat clicked on again with a loud click. Every small creak and pop bore through the dark quiet of my lonely house, intensifying all of my senses and building my anxiety. I know I’m alone but I don’t feel alone. It feels like someone else is uncomfortably close, uninvited. The jiggling of the front doorknob against the metal plates of the deadbolt raised my neck hairs. I am not expecting any guests. If there is someone outside the door, I don’t know who it is. I’m scared.

At 4pm exactly, he calls, “where you at, woman?” It is time for her to tell him what’s for dinner and remind him of how she’s already finished the laundry and all of his chores.

“The kitchen,” she slowly says the words in a monotone, even though she’s nervous and hopes that he won’t ask where she had been before 4pm. “I’m making lasagna, homemade.” She keeps her words short and simple. It was a long time ago that she learned, the hard way, simple was better for Jimmy; he was confused far less often with simple words.

His voice grunts loudly over the phone after a burp and some slurping, “I hate lasagna, make something else.” Lies again, lasagna is his favorite and she knows it, and he knows she knows it, but he tells her he hates it anyway. He can be angry about it later and tell her it’s her fault.

“What should I make?” She knows better than to speak first without being asked a question, but she’s already spent over three hours making the pasta and sauces from scratch. She winces before he can even make his slurred response.

He gulps down another mouthful, “Make? What should you make? Make something that won’t make me sick to my stomach just to look at it,” she heard laughing in the background, his voice returned “get me more beers, too.”

More beer, her thoughts moved around in her head and swirled around her fresh memory of wiping the blood off her lips the previous night, when he’d punched her after she failed to laugh at his joke in front of some friends. “Yes, whatever you want,” she loved him, when she wasn’t bleeding or bruised, and added and the endearing close “honey.”

The line went dead. She was alone again in the kitchen. She pulled out the steaming hot and half-cooked pan of lasagna from the oven and threw it into the trash can. She had thirty minutes to make dinner and get more beer from the store. She didn’t have a car and wasn’t allowed to leave the house without him. She rarely left the kitchen, unless he was already asleep. The knives would keep her company.

A swarm of bodies filled the cushioned mats lining the floors of the rock climbing gym. I entered noiselessly, save the electronic beeps that recognized my member pass as I walked past the front desk. Flocking in from miles around, the armada of muscular 20 and 30 something’s clung to the plastic holds and braided ropes, savoring their workouts, paying me no attention as I slid across the cold tiled floor. The pain of soon to be bound feet was already making my toes half tingle in anxiety when I made eye contact with my climbing buddies. The coarse rope mingled with my fingers as I prepared the knots that hold my life together in the event of a fall. I made one last flex of my toes before guiding them into the specialty shoes designed for the sport. Bones agitated surrounding tissues as they crowded into the limited space, compounded by the pressure of Velcro straps.

I announced the attempt to begin the route that would join my body with the rafters in about 50 feet. Gliding from outcroppings of plastic and metal, my feet pressed harder. The rippling muscles of my forearms seared with heat as I rallied my efforts to continue upwards.