Page 12 of A Stop in Time
I lower each of the bay doors and secure them. Nobody’s tried to break in, but it’d be my luck that the first time I leave things unlocked, it’d happen.
The perimeter of my property is securely fenced in—I was grateful to inherit it that way because it would’ve cost me a pretty penny otherwise.
Instead, I was able to put the bulk of my trust fund toward updating the bay doors and purchasing better equipment to enable me to take apart vehicles more easily on my own. Since it’s labor intensive and has me moving some heavy shit by myself, they were necessary upgrades.
Once I lock up and shut off the lights, I climb the outside stairs that lead to the separate top floor. It’s where I live, and yeah, it’s nothing that’ll make people envious, but it’s plenty for me. Plus, I don’t have to worry about any nosy or noisy neighbors since this salvage yard sits on ten acres and is bordered by woods.
I leave my boots outside my door before padding inside. The moment I slide the door’s lock in place, a calmness spreads through me. It’s probably overkill considering how secure this entire place is, but it’s a habit.
Stripping in my laundry room, I toss my clothes in the basket sitting on top of the dryer before heading to my bathroom.
I turn on the shower and adjust the temperature before tugging out my hair tie. A sigh of relief breaks loose at having my hair unrestrained as I step beneath the warm water. Resting my hands on the tile wall, I close my eyes.
An idea has been fluttering around in my brain since I left Dr. Phillips’ office yesterday. There could be a way to tap into the traumatic memories my mind has buried.
It’s not that I’m a masochist and crave to relive trauma, but having so many unanswered questions and chunks of missing memory is uncomforting as hell.
There has to be a way. It might force me to rehash shit that isn’t all puppies and rainbows, but in the end, if it ties up all the loose ends and pieces together my hazy past, I’ll tolerate it. And maybe, just maybe, it will stop the blackouts.
Hell, I’ve made it this far on my own and run a business that’s not exactly the norm for a female to have. I’ve dealt with assholes who judge a book by its cover—more specifically, judge me by my scars—and am stronger because of it.
Once I’ve changed into a tank top and cotton shorts and slide onto the seat at the tiny kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, I open my laptop, prepared to type in the search bar.
My fingers hover above the keyboard, my eyes trained on the laptop screen. I hesitate to type, but I exhale a long breath and slump back in my chair. Shoveling a spoonful of cereal in my mouth, I chew slowly before reaching for the keys once again.
How to tap into buried memories from traumatic events
I hit enter, and results appear in a blink of an eye. One of the first listed results seems to be spot on.
Self-hypnosis and guided meditation to release repressed memories
I click on it, and it leads me to an article illustrating how a person can do this on their own. Devouring each word frantically while I distractedly eat my cereal, anticipation and a thread of excitement pulse through me at the possibility that this could help me.
When my laptop screen flickers, I jerk back in surprise. That’s odd. I glance around, wondering if it was a power surge, but the kitchen lights didn’t flicker, so it can’t be that.
A second later, everything goes dark, and my laptop alerts me that the Wi-Fi connection has been lost.
Huh. I cock my head to the side, straining for sounds of a thunderstorm outside, but all is peaceful. I guess it was a random power outage. So much for finishing up reading that search result, but I got the gist of things.
A moment later, my lights flick back on, the ceiling fans start up once again, and the small air-conditioning unit in the living room window sputters back to life.
When I check my computer, it still says my connection is lost. The eerie sensation of someone being privy to my actions slithers over my skin, as though I’m being watched. Which is ridiculous since my blinds are closed and no one else is here with me.
It’s all in your head. It’s all in your head. I repeat this twice more, attempting to shake off the prickly awareness that tiptoes down my spine.
Staring into my now empty cereal bowl, I contemplate drinking the colored milk. Before I can lift the bowl to my lips, a flash of memory clouds my vision.
I’m writing something on an envelope while I sit curled in the corner of my small walk-in closet.
My pen scratches hurriedly across the paper before I slide the pen beside a folded stack of my clothes. Balling up the envelope in my palm, I emerge from my closet.
I force myself to walk casually to my kitchen, humming absently to myself while internally, my stomach coils with nervousness.
Opening my freezer door, I reach deep inside to the far-left corner and stuff the crumpled envelope behind the large carton of Baskin Robbins chocolate peanut butter ice cream.
I silently command my hand to stop shaking as I quickly pull out a crappy microwave dinner from the stack beside my ice cream.
Don’t forget it’s there, I plead internally. And don’t you dare let him find it.