Dana

Chapter Three

Once when I was seven years old, a man broke into our house in the dead of night.

I had gotten up for a drink of water and as I walked into the kitchen, I saw him move in the shadows from the corner of my eye. Turning the lights on, I looked around and came face to face with a muscular, dark clothed stranger.

He was holding a sack full of something and wore a black beanie. And his eyes were dark, almost black. He was just standing there by the sink, not moving, staring down at me.

Needless to say, I was petrified. I remember feeling completely helpless.

But I was a smart kid; I didn't panic. Well, not immediately at least.

I slowly started backing up against the wall behind me. Then, he came forward. But as soon as he took the first step, I screamed.

I screamed for my dad at the top of my lungs and he came bounding down the stairs with a golf club. My dad went right up to him and swung at his stomach. The man,taken by surprise, doubled over and grunted, falling to his knees.

My dad dragged him up again and punched him, warning him about never entering his house again. I watched in awe, huddled on the floor in a corner.

With a bleeding nose and hunched over in pain, the stranger pulled free from dad and ran out of the house. Dad called the police.

He then picked me up and hugged me hard and I remember the look in his stormy eyes when he said,

"Great job, Dana. If something like this ever happens again, promise me you'll do the same thing you just did; you'll yell for me as loud as you can, alright?"

"Alright, daddy. I promise."

That was one of the most vivid memories I had of my dad.

And it was funny how almost twelve years later, I was in the same situation and my dad wasn't here to protect me anymore.

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The stranger standing before me now was nothing like the one from my memory.

For one thing, he was much younger. He was wearing a black leather jacket and black boots, with dark jeans. His copper hair was sticking up in the front.

But that's not what caught my eyes.

It was his eyes that I was transfixed on.

He had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen. Like obscure emeralds.

Dragging my eyes away I let them travel further down his face and land on his lips.

He was wearing an unpleasant frown. A practiced frown.

I stared right at him, furiously trying to figure out where he could've entered the house while at the same time avoiding looking him in the eyes.

Probably the front door which you forgot to lock, my subconscious told me.

But that was irrelevant. He stood before me now, his nostrils flared and his hands curled into fists by his sides. His green eyes alive, swirling with anger or confusion or hate, I couldn't tell.

Yet, he hadn't moved an inch.

I raised an eyebrow at him. I know I should've been at least a bit scared, I mean he could've been a serial killer, probably was, or a rapist. But for some really strange reason, I was not scared of him.

That is, until he grabbed me. I didn't even see it coming. He lunged at me and pushed me against the opposite wall, the breath knocked out of me. And then I saw the knife blade he pulled out of nowhere.

This couldn't be happening.

It was too much.

Too much.

My vision blurred and I felt an all too familiar pressure at the back of my throat.

And I couldn't breathe. It had been so long I had almost forgotten this feeling. Almost.

His hands moved to my throat. I tried to scream but all that came out was a dry heave.

And the walls started closing in.

And I was alone.

Empty.

Helpless.

Lost.

I gasped for air and coughed uncontrollably. That was when I realized the murderer had let me go and I was leaning on the floor on all fours trying to draw breath from my traitorous lungs.

A hand slapped my back not at all lightly.

"Breathe," he said.

And that was the first time I heard his voice.

It was strangely soothing, like waves rumbling out on the ocean.

Unable to focus on anything I continued dry heaving. Squeezed my eyes together in hopes that the tears streaming relentlessly down my face would stop.

"God dammit, Dana. Breathe!"

How does he know my name?

I didn't have time to dwell on it as he grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me up.

Cupping my face in his cold hands he forced me to look at his face.

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

And I reluctantly did.

"Focus on my eyes," he said firmly, "forget everything else."

And I did.

I got lost in the green. And my breathing evened out. Taking large gulps of air I fell back on the floor in a heap.

I hadn't had one in almost three years. They couldn't be back.

They couldn't.

Through the hair that had fallen over my eyes I looked up at the stranger, no longer believing that he was a murderer.

What kind of murderer calmed you down after you'd had a panic attack?

He was busy furiously tapping away on his phone.

"Who are you?" I asked after a long period of silence.

He disregarded my question and continued typing.

"They come often?" He asked, taking me by surprise.

"Who?" I was baffled.

"Your panic attacks."

"No," I said, wondering why I was even telling him, "last one was three years ago."

He just nodded and walked towards me, making me scoot backwards. Grabbing my arm, he lifted me up again.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I slapped his hand away.

"Kidnapping you."

And that was the first time I saw him smile.