His face was long and lean near his chin, but his forehead was unproportional and wide. It reminded me of those bent mirrors at a carnival. He stopped, probably waiting to see what my next move would be, like we were playing chess. Except this was real life, not on a checkered board, and we weren’t playing a game, or anything to be exact. We were living out what would become my worst nightmare for many years to come: being stuck in Greg’s Grocery Barn in the middle of the night with a stranger.
I recognized him, of course. How could I make myself forget the creepy man who came to my checkout lane during every one of my shifts? He never bought much. It would have been a lot faster for him if he went through one of the several self checkout lanes, where the limit of items per customer has always been a regulated fifteen. But for some reason, he chose to spend ten extra minutes in line at least twice a day—that would be 140 minutes a week—to watch me ring up his 12.5 ounce Coke Zero and a magazine.
Trying to see if there was anything within arm-reach that could be used as a weapon if needed, I glanced around me. Nothing reasonable was in sight. The man was around 20 feet away from me, but I already felt violated just by the way he stood there, looking at me, grinning. The only thing I could clearly see in the pitch blackness of the store was a flimsy mop, but I had no clue how to use that as a defense, so I kept it where it was. I was about to start running when I heard the guy make a deep, scary laugh that sounded like it should’ve been off a cheesy horror movie. I cringed. He spat on the ground between us, staring at me from under his brow as he did so. As soon as he put out his cigarette and took a few steps towards me, I started freaking out.
Backing up so that my spine was against the sliding glass door (which normally would be used as an entrance to get into the store), I could feel my heart beat faster than a stampede of cheetahs. Pit stains were forming through my jacket, a knot was welling up in my throat and by the looks of it, I was officially screwed. I turned around to look outside. An almost empty, dimly lit parking lot stood before me. The only car I could see was my stepdad’s red Chevrolet pickup truck that had a noticeable scratch on the passenger side. When I saw that, I was immediately reminded of its key that was still safely placed in my pocket. The only thing that was stopping me from getting to that car was my lack of a way out of the grocery store. I glanced over my shoulder to see that tall, muscular, intimidating figure walking slowly towards me. Squeak, squeak. The old work boots he wore made a high-pitched noise every time he took a step. A car passed on the otherwise quiet street outside, and for a split second, I saw a glimpse of him.
He smirked at my apparently surprised expression and jammed his hands into his jean pockets. He seemed closer to me than when I had last looked at him and, at that moment, I really felt like I needed some sort of an escape plan, but none came to mind. He looked me up and down. You would have thought I was wearing something that would attract a random middle-aged man—short shorts and a tank top, right?—wrong. My ensemble included: a faded blue Uconn sweatshirt my brother left behind the last time he visited from college, a super baggy pair of jeans, and Converse sneakers with holes in them. If that doesn’t scream unattractive, don’t worry. I was also sporting my neon yellow employee vest, which wasn’t helping me at all with my hopes of being able to hide in the darkness.
My hands were shaking so much you’d think I had Parkinson’s disease. I could already feel sweat beads dripping into my eyes like a broken faucet. As a reaction to the panic I was in, I pounded my fists into the glass and screamed as loud as my lungs would allow, but all that did was make him laugh even harder. Before I knew it, he was so close his breath crawled down my neck as he exhaled loudly, making sure I knew exactly where he was. Tears rolled down my cheek. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me…too late. Grabbing my wrist and twisting it in a way that made it hurt, he used his other hand to brush the hair to one side of my face. Goosebumps ran through my skin along with adrenaline as he said the only two words he would ever say to me. His voice was low and soft like a lullaby, and later, I couldn’t recall anything that happened after he said it. “Good night.”