AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mr. Thompson nods empathetically. "Fear is natural," he says gently. "It happens to all of us. That's why we practice these techniques repetitively until they become muscle memory. The more we train our bodies to react in these situations, the less likely we are to freeze up."
"And I remember you taught us about verbal self-defense," Mark adds his own input to the discussion. "Learning how to deescalate a situation with words can be just as powerful as physical moves."
The class nods in agreement, their faces spirited and curiosity.
As the discussion continues while we practice our moves, I engage by nodding but I don't say more. I think I've overshared, although my fellow participants don't seem to act any differently. Mr. Thompson walks around the room, providing individual guidance and offering words of encouragement. The sound of grunts, chatter, and the shuffling of feet fills the air as we practice various techniques together.
After the class wraps up, attendees start to disperse. A few people come up to me, offering words of support. I smile a little as I leave, and the tightness on my face feels weird. It’s a real smile, not like the professional one I plaster on while I’m working shifts at the motel.
I haven’t smiled since this all started.
One of the women from class approaches me on the street outside the community center. She's older, perhaps in her late sixties, with a grace and poise that immediately remind me of Nonna. Her hair is a soft shade of silver, styled in a simple, elegant bob that frames her face. Her eyes, a gentle hazel, have the warmth of lived experiences and understanding.
"Hello, dear. I'm Evelyn," she says, extending a hand. Her voice is soft, carrying a melodic tone that's both comforting and familiar.
"Hi, I'm Talia," I reply, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, yet there's a gentleness to it that makes me feel at ease.
"I couldn't help but notice how well you did in the demonstration today," she comments, a smile touching her lips. “Great job!”
I feel a blush rise to my cheeks. "Thank you. I'm still learning."
Evelyn's smile widens. "We all are, dear. That's the beauty of life, isn't it? Always learning, always growing."
Her words are simple yet profound, with a wisdom to them. She reminds me of Nonna. Evelyn's mannerisms, the way she tilts her head slightly when she listens, the softness in her eyes as she speaks, all bring a surge of longing for home, for the familiarity and comfort of family.
"We have a little group here, you know," Evelyn continues. "We often go for coffee after class. It's nothing formal, just a chance to chat and unwind. You're more than welcome to join us."
The invitation surprises me. It’s a kind gesture that feels like a lifeline. "I'd like that," I say, another smile forming on my face.
As I chat with Evelyn, the conversation flows effortlessly. Leaving the community center with Evelyn, I feel an easy connection forming as she talks about her life, her experiences, and her reasons for joining the class. We walk side by side Evelyn, her warm presence so comforting.
But as a few minutes pass by, my fear starts to seem in.
I have no business relaxing.
Not yet.
Her invitation to join the group for coffee is tempting, a chance to connect with others. But reality has set back in.
My situation is precarious, balanced on a knife's edge. Every decision, every action, carries weight and potential consequences. Roaming around town, being seen in the open more than I need to be, it's a risk – one that could have repercussions. Connecting with people here isn’t smart.
As we reach the spot on the street a few blocks away where she parked her older model station wagon, I stop, turning to face her. "I really appreciate your invitation," I begin, my voice tinged with regret. "But I should head straight home. I actually have... a lot to take care of."
Evelyn's eyes meet mine and flickers with empathy. "Of course, dear," she says, her voice gentle. "But remember, the offer always stands. You're welcome anytime."
I nod, grateful for her not pushing the issue. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."
We part ways, and as I walk back to the motel, a sense of isolation washes over me. The brief glimpse of what could be – friendships, connections, the start of a normal life – fades into the background.
I sit on the edge of my bed and do some sketching in my new sketchpad and supplies to calm my thoughts.
As I allow the pencil to dance across the pages of my sketchpad, the graphite strokes become a reflection of my inner turmoil. The lines converge and diverge, mirroring the tangled web of emotions that swirl within me. Each stroke becomes an escape, a momentary break from the harsh reality outside.
But even as I lose myself in creating something new, the isolation that grips my soul tightens its hold, reminding me of the invisible chains that hold me hostage.
Silence fills the air around me, and I feel so empty. A soft sigh leaves my lips and I close my sketchpad gently, as if shielding my fragile dreams from the trauma that smothers me. Standing up from the edge of the bed, I walk over to the window.
With a hand resting on the cool glass, I gaze out into the night sky. I’ll make the best of what I can without putting down too many roots here.
