Dark Corners

When I was in eighth grade, my best friend Michelle and I trudged through the snow to get to the ice rink. It was after dinner on a school night, dark out, and about a block from my house. We had a blast zipping around on our skates, laughing and talking way too loud about school, boys, etc. It was one of those perfect, joyous moments of friendship, when the world around you disappears, and everything just feels right. 

Then we went to the warming house.

As we were taking off our skates, three older boys - probably juniors or seniors - came in with their hockey equipment. I got my skates off and started putting on my shoes while Michelle struggled with a stubborn knot in her shoelace. 

Then the boys started talking about us.

They talked about how they'd divvy us up. 

Who'd get which one of us. 

How we'd be shared. 

What each of them was going to do to each of us.

My shoes were on by this time, and the voice in my head was screaming, "Run! The door's right there! You can make it if you move now!" 

But Michelle's shoelace was still knotted, and now that her body had gone into fight-or-flight mode, her hands were shaking, making it even harder to open her shoe, get her foot in it, and get out that door. 

We were a only block from my house, but the park seemed completely isolated and dangerous now. It crossed my mind that all the windows on all the neighboring houses were closed. No one would hear us scream. 

I considered leaving Michelle behind. 

Saving myself. 

When did it become so difficult to put your shoes on?! 

Can't you run through the snow in your socks?!

But I couldn't leave her.

So I stayed.

Michelle finally got her shoe on, and we made it out the door, hearing the boys cackling at how funny they'd been scaring those two little girls. 

My heart pounded in my throat as we made our way home. 

We didn't talk. 

We stomped as fast as we could through the foot-high snow. 

And glanced back, afraid they might be following us. 

It didn't skate for five years after that.

It's one of those memories I keep stashed away in the dark corners of my mind. It came out into the light again last week as my husband, daughter and I were hiking at the nature center. 

We came around a corner and met a couple older, tough-looking boys coming down the trail from the opposite direction. They barely glanced at us, but, all of a sudden, the fear I'd felt in the warming house resurfaced.

We were not far from home but in an isolated place. 

That was all it took to make me feel scared and vulnerable. 

For most of our hike, even though I was carrying on a conversation with my husband and noticing the birds and flowers with my daughter, my mind was reeling with horrible possibilities:

How my husband couldn't fight or run with our girl strapped to his back. 

How they'd hit me. 

How I'd be dragged off into the woods. 

Or a ditch. 

How they could hurt my daughter. 

How no one would hear us scream. 

Whether I could hurt them enough by stabbing them with a big stick to make them go away.

And I kept glancing back, afraid they might be following us.