In 1980's New York, Barbara Fritz is the "meek and mild" little librarian assistant that nobody thinks twice about. Shy, soft-spoken, and ridiculously self-critical, she doesn't turn any heads. Not until she brutally kills her own father in cold blo...
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Saturday morning. 11:00 AM.
"I'm sorry Pam."
...
An avalanche of stimuli struck my veins, as if lightning had fingertips; it met my nerve endings with escalating pressure, and in the rush, I was suddenly aware that I had functioning arms and legs. I had a body. Eyes to see with. Ears to hear, and lips for speaking.
... I was somehow alive, even though I had no memory of dying.
Perhaps those were silly realizations, but I wasn't aware of anything else. It was strange... like being born. The whole world felt new to me.
I couldn't remember last night or where I had been, either. My mind was completely blank. All I had was immediate information about myself and a few words to articulate it.
My name was Barbara Fritz. I was forty years old, and I lived in apartment 91 B at Covington Heights in Midtown, New York. And unless I had been in a coma for an extended period of time, it was currently December of 1984.
I peeled my crusty eyes open, and immediately regretted my decision. Sun beams balanced on the sky-blue wall no more than six feet from me and brightened its glossy surface. The hue was blinding. I was seeing through tears.
But this wasn't my apartment.
The window on my right overlooked city streets. Its brown shades had been pulled up to awaken the dead. And to my left, I saw an IV pole. It was pumping fluids through me. That couldn't possibly have been a good sign, but it was more evidence that I was in the hospital. Mount Siana West, I assumed. It was the nearest one to my apartment.
But how long had I been here? Days? Weeks? And why was I unconscious? Not one reason came to mind, and it left a gap at the pit of my stomach.
I looked down. There were no casts on my body or any signs of injury—not even a scratch. What I did notice though, my throat was scaly. Had there been a blade on the back of my tongue? The metallic flavor was enough to make me sick.
... God, what had happened to me?
I hoped I wasn't here because I'd... tried to end my life again. Thankfully, this room wasn't like the ones in the psych ward, so perhaps I could rule that out for now. But it was still a serious possibility.
My suicidal thoughts never completely went away; their roots were buried deep in my mind, growing inch by inch with every new trauma, loss, or disappointment. I started having them consistently in my twenties. But I'd been taking medication and seeing a therapist, which was some help, even if I didn't always follow the doctor's orders.
Joining a local church had kept me from sinking too deep. My mother was a Christian for most of her life, so developing my own relationship with the Lord was a new way I'd found to connect with her after death. She seemed to enjoy the company of other ladies in the church as well, and I thought it would be good for me to make some friends along the way like she had. Of course, it wasn't just about that. I knew I needed salvation.
