Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I tap a button acknowledging the sensor, but I know it might go off again as soon as that cat moves. I decide to go shoo it along so I’m not continually bothered by it, particularly if he takes to roaming along my fence line, which will set off other sensors. It’s not an option for me to shut off the system until the cat decides to move on. I’m never without the protection I’ve paid a small fortune for out of my savings.
Pushing my rolling chair back from my desk, I grab my empty mug. Might as well grab a refill since I’m going downstairs.
The wooden floors creak as I move out of the spare bedroom turned office and head down the staircase. Those steps creak as well, and a few even groan as if the weight is unbearable. Many would find that annoying, but I find it part of the charm of this 1940s prairie box house I bought a few years ago. I’ve been remodeling in my spare time, but I’ve preserved some of the original charm. The old, wide plank flooring was its most alluring feature. My dad and I worked room by room, stripping, staining, and sealing the gorgeous wood, and now it gleams like new.
It’s not the prettiest house, and I’m not overly fond of the tan brick and brown trim, but it’s in a great little neighborhood on the very east end of Duquesne Heights. It’s a simple box-shape home with a pyramid-shaped roof and dormer windows. Parking is in a detached two-car garage via the back alley. If I stand on my front porch, lean way over the railing on the right, and strain my neck really hard, I can see a sliver of the Pittsburgh skyline between other houses stacked side by side, dribbling down the sloped hill. My neighbors are friendly but unobtrusive, and it’s an easy jump onto I-376 and only a twenty-minute drive to the airport. This is a perk, given my job as a medical equipment rep and the amount of domestic travel I do every year.
Not that I’m traveling anymore.
Haven’t quite been able to leave the security of my hometown since my attack in Phoenix last July when I had three days of training set up. Hence, the reason I’m working as an administrative secretary to one of the managers. He has graciously allowed me to work from home since even leaving sometimes causes mild panic attacks.
Well, maybe not graciously. He’s been bugging me to get back to my regular job, and I’m running out of excuses. The whole “I’m scared to travel” isn’t cutting it with him anymore. In fact, we have a Zoom meeting at four p.m. to—in his words—discuss my transition back to a training rep. I might need a Xanax before that.
It had never been my lifelong dream to work in medical equipment sales and training. It’s not what I went to college for. I graduated four years ago from Penn State with an English degree, although I can’t really say I knew what I wanted to do with that—I just knew I loved literature. I’d considered teaching but then stumbled into my current job with Reynis, who make cardiac catheterization equipment. My college roommate and bestie, Francesca “Frankie” Dillard, got a job there and begged me to apply. The money was incredible and the opportunity for travel enticing.
This was no ordinary sales position. In fact, the sale of the equipment was handled by managers above me. After weeks of intensive training to learn everything, I would then go into hospitals and teach doctors how to use it. I thought that sounded like fun, although Frankie’s main motivation—outside of the money—was to nab a hot physician.
But that was back when traveling was something I looked forward to, and the excitement of the job was still a motivating factor.
Not so much now.
Not after Phoenix.
Being attacked by three men who had very evil ideas in mind had traumatized me for sure. Add to that, I watched my savior get viciously beaten and couldn’t do a damn thing to help him. It made my nightmares unbearable. The entire event all but destroyed who I was at my core, and I’m struggling to make my way back.
Now I’m typing up spreadsheets for a much smaller salary than before, and I’m not happy.
But I’m also not ready to do anything else.
I guess you’d say I’m sort of stuck.
I’ve gotten used to the comfort of my home, surrounded by motion sensors and security cameras and direct-dial feeds to 9-1-1 should I push any one of the panic buttons throughout my house. I don’t go out with my friends anymore, although that doesn’t stop Frankie from pushing me, and I don’t go anyplace I’m not familiar with.
I’m not a complete recluse, though. I still drive down to Mount Lebanon to visit my parents… but only in daylight hours. I also drive to visit my therapist, as that was something she insisted upon, and on occasion, I’ll go to Frankie’s. Granted, I have bad days when I can’t leave the house because my anxiety is too high, and I avoid things I should be able to do. For example, I’ve taken to ordering my groceries through a delivery service rather than make myself go, and I lie to myself, saying the convenience frees me up to do more important things. The truth is, I’m too paralyzed to move past some of my fears.