This is the worst part of closing alone. Knowing that if some punk came rushing out of the darkness, armed with a knife or just his fists, I wouldn’t stand much of a chance. If I were attacked, my body would probably lay where it fell until morning.
Every couple of weeks, there’s some public assault that makes folks wail and moan and whine about how things were better in some make-believe time and what happened to society that it could crumble like this? Doesn’t anyone care for each other anymore?
The answer to that is a firm no and my guess is if you delve into history, you’ll find they never did in olden times, either. I’d sure love to get my hands on one of those pairs of rose-tinted glasses, but reality is my constant companion. Along with its best friend, inertia.
You don’t want to start a fight with those two. They win everything.
Tonight is my lucky night. No rapist lurks beside the dumpster. No mugger cowers behind the security door. I get out and back inside in less than two minutes. The frosty night breeze barely has the chance to pierce through my fleecy top.
After lining the bins with new plastic sleeves, I hit the light, so the building falls into darkness. Last job done for the night. Time to go home and sit alone for a few hours, questioning my life choices.
I step over to the counter to grab my bag and my ankle twists. The sudden sharp pain rolls in a sickening wave up my body, the loose joint rolling until it collapses me at the knees and my arse hits the floor. From there, I continue the motion to lie on my back, eyes watering as I stare at the ceiling, panting through the worst of the strain.
Just what I need.
The pain abates, but it’s not the pain I mind the most, anyway. It’s the fact that no matter how much time stretches between incidents, my damn joint is still fallible and now I’ll have the reminder with me for every step of the next two weeks.
Make that three. With every passing year, it takes longer for me to heal.
I stay on the ground, my back comfortable enough against the rubber mat that’s meant to help stop this kind of thing from happening. There’s a bucket of ice near to me. Sounds stupid given what this rink is made of, but we always keep it on hand. Patrons injure themselves with regularity.
I should fetch it. The swelling won’t get too bad. The good thing about a repeat injury is that your body adapts to the situation. No use sending all those white blood cells rushing around like pale knights when they can put their feet up and let the familiar play unroll, munching on chips and sweeties while they’re at it. Still, it’s worth fending off the trouble that is heading my way.
Except, I don’t want to move. All I want to do is lie here and feel sorry for myself. For the moment, that’s a better balm than any ice could provide.
Then the entrance door clicks open, and I’m swamped with fear.
I sit bolt upright, hands clenching. My throat tightens as I tilt my head, alert for any further sounds. A rush of horrifying images crowds my mind, sending my anxiety skyrocketing.
Didn’t I lock the door? I remember the feel of the keys in my hand. Or do I? Is that in my head just because I do the same thing so many times each week that I can imagine it better than I can remember?
I pull my legs to my chest and shuffle sideways until I’m sheltered by the kitchen counter. My heart beats so strongly I think the intruder must be able to hear it thumping. A steady drumbeat leading them straight to me.
There should be a knife somewhere close by. In the drawer. But I don’t want to move again in case the noise attracts attention.
Instead, I plaster my hands across my mouth to muffle the sound of my breathing.
Footsteps echo from the lobby. Two pairs. Men, judging from the noise.
Two men breaking into this place late at night. This can’t be good for me. My only hope is they don’t realise I’m here. Thank goodness I turned the lights off before I injured myself.
The immediate pain in my ankle has faded. I peel one hand away from my mouth and touch the side with tentative fingers. Not too bad. Won’t qualify for the next Olympics, but I’ll be able to walk. Maybe even to stagger-run if I need to.
“Where’s the key?” a man’s voice says, shockingly loud in the silence. One of them struggles to breathe, making a snuffling noise as though fighting for air during an asthma attack.
God. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s my boss and one of his cronies, stopping here so they can phone for an ambulance.
Going to be embarrassing once they find me cowering in the kitchen.
My head might like the imaginary story, but luckily my body stays frozen in its hiding place.
“Take her, will you? She’s getting heavier by the second.”
Blood freezes in my veins and my heart gives a sickening thump. Her?Her?Is this some sicko sexual attack? I reach into my pocket for my phone, then give a mental curse. It’s sitting in my bag. Ready to go home.
There’s the sound of a door unlocking. The equipment store. The same one I parked the machine in not ten minutes ago. There’s probably still water dripping from the undercarriage.
My bag is a metre away. Feels like a million miles, but I can’t sit still and let someone be hurt just because I’m a coward.
