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Ruth
If you don’t learnto discipline yourself, the world will do it for you.
I am a firm believer in routines. It took a little while, but I’ve finally found one that works for me. I get up with the sun every morning— It isn’t hard to do when you’re already awake most nights anyway.
Then I go for a jog. The exact same 2.1-mile route through my quiet stretch of West Hollywood. Not long ago, I would have veered off into Runyon Canyon on pleasant mornings to mix up the view. But not anymore. I don't know how I ever enjoyed being anyplace so dense, with tall trees and thick bushes everywhere.
So many places for someone to hide. To lurk.
No, much better to stick to the crowded sidewalks and bustling street markets surrounding my low-rise apartment complex. Not that I feel much safer in a crowd. There's always something, or someone, lying in wait. Ready to prey on the weak and vulnerable. It's a lesson that's been etched on my soul, never forgotten.
I’ll never make the mistake of letting my guard down again.
The early-morning neighborhood is a familiar place. It makes it easier to force myself out the front doors every morning to know what’s coming. The Mullings will already be on their porch by the time I cruise by, enjoying their morning coffee. Halfway through my final block, Mrs. Faulkner and her anxious chihuahua, Brutus, will wave me down for a quick good morning. On Tuesdays and Fridays, I run into the local street cart vendor, already slicing piles of fresh pineapple and mangoes for the day’s sale.
There's comfort in that. Rhett, my court-appointed therapist, told me that it's OK to cling to my routines as long as I make an effort to push myself past that comfort zone when I'm ready. For now, greeting the neighbors as I jog by is as ready as I get.
“Good morning,” I call out, easing open the final lock at the top of my door and letting myself into the apartment. “Who’s ready for breakfast?”
Of course, there’s no reply, but it makes me feel better anyway. This is part of my routine, too.
It isn't until I'm inside the apartment, sliding home the row of deadbolts, that I let out my first deep breath of the morning. As if on cue, Snickers appears and starts winding her way in and out between my legs. The fluffy rescue calico vibrates like an alarm clock when I reach down to give her a scratch between the ears.
I know it's important, but I wish going through the motions of being normal wasn't so damn exhausting.
The coffee pot on my tiny Formica kitchen countertop gurgles to life, right on time, as I step under the hot shower spray. It takes a little longer than usual to wash away the surge of adrenaline and anxiety that cling to me after going out into the world first thing in the morning.
It’s good for you.
Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, this will all start to get easier.
"Well, look who's finally up." Tossing my towel onto the neatly-made bed, I make my way over to Twix's glass and wood enclosure. "You slept in."
The little bearded dragon scampers up to the highest rock in her habitat. Seeing her happy wave and derpy tail wag is enough to lighten my mood. From the bed, Snickers complains loudly when I feed her little sister first.
Dressed for the day and with a steaming mug of coffee in hand, I settle down for my favorite part of the morning. The only hour of my day when I actually relax.
The thrift store dining table that doubles at my desk is pushed against the big kitchen window. Sitting here, I start my daily letter to Austin.
Dear Austin,
It’s so hot this week. We’re coming up on the last week of school, and I can’t wait—
I've written to Austin Pine every day for two years. I tell him about my days and how I'm doing. I keep him up to date about my pets and my classroom. Sometimes I pour out page after page, describing my nightmares and the fears that never really seem to go away. There isn't much of myself that I haven't put into the letters.
Occasionally, I mail one.
I wish I had the courage to send them all. Or to ask all of the critical questions swirling in my head. Instead, I send a polite missive once a month.
I owe him so much.
The guilt over Austin’s incarceration still hasn’t gone away. I don’t think it ever will. How can it, when it’s my fault he’s locked up? Austin Pine is in jail for stepping in to save me, a total stranger.
I’m alive because of him. In return, he was sentenced to five years behind bars.
The unfairness of that cuts deep enough to hurt. Austin is a good man who risked it all for someone he didn't even know. But the police couldn’t see beyond Austin’s size and the tattoos that line his arms and chest. Even my heartfelt testimony wasn't enough to stop the miscarriage of justice.
“That judge was a big old poopie head, wasn’t he?” Snickers hops up on the desk next to me, intent on knocking everything over in her search for more pets.
