Page 3 of Stalked By the Convict

“They’re not helping, okay?” I snap. “How the hell are breathing exercises going to help me overcome the fear of running into my failed kidnapper? He gets out this week and the breathing exercises aren’t going to stop that.”

“Yuri—”

“I know it’s been ten years and I’m probably overthinking it, but you know what he told me when they arrested him? He said he was coming for me and that I won’t get away next time. I’m not a little girl anymore. He’s probably forgotten about me. B-but what if he hasn’t? What if he meant every single word he said?”

By the time I’m done speaking, I’m out of breath. I have to close my eyes to curb the panic attack threatening to overwhelm me.

“Have you talked to the cops?”

“Of course I have, but I was assured that Jim wouldn’t come near me. He’s getting out on parole and any contact with me could get him sent back to jail but—I-I just—I’m still scared.”

“Yuri, is there someone you can call to stay with you for a few days?”

“No,” I whisper. “My parents are in Tokyo to visit a sick aunt. I can’t worry them about this.”

“What about friends?”

I shake my head before realizing she can’t see it. “No,” I whisper.

I can’t bother anyone with this. I can’t be anything but sunshine to my friends, family, and colleagues. I don’t want to see the pity in their eyes when they realize that ten years later, I’m still terrified of the man that tried to kidnap me.

“Have you considered getting a pet? You know that …”

I tune her out. Perhaps it’s wrong of me to do, seeing she’s trying to help me. That and the fact that I get billed for every minute she stays on call. I just can’t get myself to focus on a word she’s saying. I don’t even bother pointing out that I am allergic to pet dander and barely have time to take care of something anyway.

Years of talking to therapists, and I’m still as scared as I was when I was twelve. Nothing has changed.

I sit for a few more minutes in the car after the call has ended, waiting for the tremble of my fingers to stop before heading home. Halfway there, I take a turn and head instead for the grocery store because I’m out of coffee, and will hate myself in the morning if I don’t pick some up before getting in for the night. There’re probably other things I need too.

My movements are sluggish as I walk into the nearly empty store. It’s half past nine on a Wednesday night, so it’s not surprising that there’s so few people in the building. As I stand in line and wait to check out, my mind wanders ten years back to the moment I was grabbed from right in front of my home and shoved into a car.

The car was disgusting, smelling of piss and sweat. Seared into my mind is the mean smirk on Jim’s face as I begged him not to hurt me—

“Miss,” I jump when the cashier asks for my attention. “Do you need a bag with these?”

I plaster on a weak smile and nod. I pay and flash her another smile I don’t feel before grabbing my items and leaving. I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice the kid running ahead of me until we’ve bumped into each other, which makes me drop my shopping back. A woman mutters an apology as she runs after the kid, but I barely even hear her.

I stand, rooted to the ground, and watch my oranges roll away. Panic spears through my throat as I stare at the spilled items. It feels like a bad omen. Soon, everything will fall apart, and I’ll be back in the clutches of the man who tried to hurt me.

My throat closes up and my eyes well with tears at the thought of reliving the horror. This time, he’ll probably finish what he started. This time, he’ll plan better and will hurt me before someone—

“Breathe. Breathe for me, baby.”

But I am breathing. The tight feeling in my chest is from trying to breathe, right? The lightness in my head—

“Deep and slow Yuri. Breathe for me, sweetheart.”

“I c-can’t,” I choke out.

“Follow my voice and do as I say, alright?” The voice is firm, warm. “Now breathe, deep and slow.”

I reach out blindly and grasp an arm, digging my nails into the skin and fighting my instincts to do as the deep voice asks, but nothing’s happening. It’s not until I feel the soothing motion of a hand on my back that I am able to start inhaling gulps of air.

“That’s it. Breathe for me, baby. That’s it …”

I follow his directions, and the pressure on my chest starts to fade. I recognize the panic attack for what it is, I’ve just never had one like this. My tears finally fall as everything registers.

Shit, this is embarrassing.

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