Sarah Before Read online

  SARAH

  BEFORE

  CRAIG SHEPHERD

  Cover design: Diren Yardimli

  Copyright © 2017 Craig Shepherd

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1548382155

  CHAPTER 1

  Sarah had only moved to Calston a month ago and finding a house close to the shops had been important. Essential, even, if she was going to maintain any semblance of a normal existence.

  Her house on Western Avenue wasn’t much to look at, but the rent was cheap, and she couldn’t work miracles on her limited budget. Especially when she had made all of the rental arrangements online from her previous home in Galloway, some two days drive from Calston. Importantly, she only needed to walk about half a mile along Western, crossing once at Continental and she was almost at the local Everyday Grocery.

  Despite the proximity, it had still taken three weeks to make it out the front door of her humble two-bedroom house. Having been through much longer stretches without going any further than her back yard or sitting on her front porch, she wasn’t about to complain about the most recent time frame.

  There were no memories in this town, and that helped. It was the memories often holding the key to her ability and willingness to expose herself to the outside world. Memory Wardens, dangling the key from an imaginary belt clip as they patrolled the halls of her mental prison. They inspected the cells on her block and constantly reminded her she wasn’t going anywhere, thank you very much.

  But when the guards in her mind finally went on a break, the memories binding her would inevitably leave with them. No reminders of previous panic attacks in a restaurant full of diners. No footage in her head of the time she threw up behind a rack of stockings while shopping for underwear. The embarrassment. The shame.

  This was one of those times, and she knew she needed to re-stock her near empty cupboards soon, or put herself at a very real risk of starvation. The supplies she had brought with her from Galloway were growing scarce, despite careful rationing, and they wouldn’t last much longer. It was mainly canned food anyway. No culinary delights, but at least it lasts, in case she ends up locked in the bomb shelter of her own fears for an extended period of time.

  Fresh produce was no longer a regular feature of her diet. Sometimes she would go a month, even consecutive months, where she could regularly make it to the shops as frequently as needed. During those times, life for Sarah was hardly what most people would deem normal, but at least she could eat well. For the most part though, stocking up on fresh foods like fruit, vegetables, milk – anything perishable – just wasn’t a realistic option. It was best not to get used to those things in case she developed a taste for them and couldn’t leave home.

  Ten years ago it was fine. She still had her troubles, but Jason had looked after the family’s needs in that way. Well, in most ways really. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t been able to function and contribute the way a wife and mother should for a great number of years, even before things came to an end for her in Pokona.

  She’d had no idea what lay ahead of her when she left, but here she was, cautiously but quickly stalking the aisles of the closest grocery store she could find, in yet another town which maybe had a six month shelf life before there was an incident. Some new memory grown from the seeds of her irrational fears. Then she would see out the remainder of her lease housebound and alone before moving another place with no frightening attachments to her past.

  Welcome to Sarah’s life. She suffered from agoraphobia, born from a persistent anxiety and panic disorder. She also had the occasional flare ups of depression which for so long had been considered nothing more than a hangover of good old fashioned teenage angst. The rollercoaster of her own self-worth, which would in rare times climb to a peak before starting the downward journey to the loop which took her confidence back where she usually felt it belonged.

  What she could never make people understand though, was that she wasn’t afraid of the outside world. Nor of people for that matter. She was cursed with an emotionally crippling fear of panic. Her mind would only rarely allow her to leave the house without finding herself being pulled right back through the front door by the strong hands of fearful premonition closing around her neck.

  The panic attacks came first, and were later joined by the occasional bout of violent vomiting during an attack. There were only so many times a person can walk into a department store and begin shaking uncontrollably, palms sweating enough liquid to end an African drought before a phobia is bound to rear its ugly head. The stifling, choking feeling that the monsters of every nightmare were forming a circle around her, ready to attack. The shortness of breath, her lungs feverishly searching for clean air as though she were locked in a coffin with no chance of escape. The complete and utter dread and tears as she realizes the sky, which to this point had always done a fabulous job in staying up there, was finally falling. And not just falling, but turning a murderous shade of black as it descends from above, suffocating her, piling pounds and pounds of unwelcome pressure on her body and drawing all her oxygen away until there is nothing. But why doesn’t everyone around her seem concerned? Don’t they see the sky has finally come for them?

  This was just a taste of the terror she could feel during an attack. A plate of hors d’oeuvres at the banquet of distress a simple shopping trip could be for her. The thick rubber band tightening around her heart was the worst part. Making it pound so violently in her chest that she swears death can only be seconds away. Not only did it feel like the end was hovering threateningly above her, but she also thinks it is the only plausible final act to this matinee. This dark and twisted play where all of the fear, panic and mayhem which has held her body to siege is finally spewed forth in fits of uncontrollable sick. Exit stage left.

  At age forty-two, she had lived that particular horror show too many times to count. The panic attacks were the root of her agoraphobia, and who could blame her? The undeniable judgement in the eyes of bystanders can’t be taken away. If she were in a cartoon, she would see the comic book thought bubbles over each and every person, and the words were so hurtful. These words which didn’t even exist except in Sarah’s imagination, they still cut her deep and she couldn’t run from that.

  So the only way to avoid this raging river of shame was to just stay inside. Just be alone. If an agoraphobic has a panic attack in her house but nobody sees it, does it really happen? Still, today was OK. Not to fool herself – she was still intending to be in and out of the grocery store as quickly as possible, but to her, that was fine. That was progress.

  She stood at the deli counter weighing up her options. There was little point in buying more shaved ham than she could eat before it spoiled, but she figured a small treat wasn’t going to hurt. Concentrating on the impeccably arranged display of luncheon meats had momentarily become difficult as she noticed a man in a black cap standing about twenty feet along the counter. There was a white logo on his cap but she couldn’t decipher it from where she stood. Something just didn’t feel right, but to a person who was prone to anxious outbursts, what did?

  He has more on his mind than just the skinless chicken, she thought. Skinless Sarah, more likely.

  (Stop it!)

  She internally scolded herself and focused her attention towards the ground as she reminded herself not every person who looks at her sideways was trying to put her down a hole to make her rub the lotion on her skin.

  Or else it gets the hose again, she thought to herself, attempting to lighten the moment but only half succeeding. Sensing herself becoming anxious, she tried to rationalize. She saw two options. Run from the store now and make it home to the safe confines of her house, shutting the cell door behind her and beggin
g the Memory Warden to throw away the key for good, or stay and deal with this fear for what it really was. Nothing more sinister than a man in a grocery store paying you no more attention than he would any other customer in the store. Nothing more.

  I can compromise, she thought. I don’t need to run, but I don’t need to stay right here. Let’s face it, I don’t need the ham. Sarah decided to just move to another part of the store and this man, whether he be a suspicious deviant visualizing himself wearing her skin, or simply a fellow grocery store customer, would no longer be any of her concern.

  It seemed plausible enough, so she somewhat nervously backed away from the counter and rounded the corner of the first aisle she reached. She had no need for the walls of dog food that flanked her current position, but at least she felt an element of calm wash over her.

  Checking her basket and realizing she was hopelessly far from being done with her mission of gathering supplies, she moved down the aisle in search of more human provisions. Turning left and left again past a brightly decorated cardboard display stand preaching the whitest of white benefits of ‘Perfect’ washing powder, she entered the next aisle and was able to find cooking oils, closely followed by packets of pasta – both plain, and in pre-flavored packets – and a wide array of sauces. This was more like it.

  The rest of her shop went reasonably smoothly as she moved from lane to lane, filling her basket to a far more respectable level. Certainly to the point she could be comfortable at home for a good period without fear of starvation. She had reached the back corner of the store with no more distress. The milk was back there, and she allowed herself a carton of the real stuff. The far less perishable (but far less pleasurable) powdered variety suited her own unique lifestyle but it was no match for the real thing. She grabbed the plastic bottle by the handle and turned promptly to begin her journey to the checkout.

  As she turned, onlookers could be forgiven for thinking they even saw a smile on her face. A far cry from the horrified, face-twisting look of panic she sometimes imagined having if she even left the house, let alone completed a shopping expedition and dealt with a brief moment of nervousness along the way. Any other day, that moment could have had a totally different outcome, and she knew it. She recognized the feeling she had right now – pride. An errand so simple, taken for granted by most people, but Sarah Laurent, agoraphobia sufferer, felt like she had scaled the sheer rock face of a mountain without safety ropes.

  But he was still there.

  CHAPTER 2

  An instant terror washed over her, dragging those feelings of accomplishment out to sea. The man with the black cap was still there. His dark green jacket was sort of unique, Sarah noticed. Almost like the kind of thing sold in army surplus stores. But it wasn’t his questionable choice of clothing (Sarah herself, a foremost expert on the subject of fashion with her five-year-old blue jeans and worn black t-shirt) that concerned her. It was the man’s eyes. Not the color of them, she couldn’t even make that out, but it was how they moved.

  She quickly recalled the moment at the deli counter when he had looked in her direction, and she was sure his current actions were precisely mimicking it. Or was her mind just telling her that? Inventing things which never happened just to give her the perfect excuse to drop her loaded basket to the floor and flee the store as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t be the first time her mind had played tricks on her, and these days it was hard for her to tell the difference.

  Sarah wasn’t imagining anything though. This unidentified man was nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the world. At least not on the surface. This was hunting territory, after all, like most of the semi-secluded towns she chose to settle in. The army surplus jacket, non-descript black trousers covered in pockets, and heavy duty boots were not exactly out of place. Put it this way, you won’t find a lot of designer suits and carefully manicured hairstyles around here. The man’s hair hung in thick strands from beneath his cap, not quite reaching his shoulders. He looked as though he’d declined the use of a shower and hairbrush before leaving the house this morning, but there wasn’t anything more offensive about him than that.

  Except his eyes, thought Sarah as she noticed a slight acceleration of her heartbeat and the subtlest increase of body temperature. Intensified by the fluorescent lights beating down onto her, she felt her skin warming. Not enough to generate sweat, but she knew that would be coming next if she didn’t calm down.

  What she saw in the man’s eyes was a look of hidden concentration. His eyes moved slowly but purposefully, until they fixed on her for the briefest of moments before he turned around. She tried to tell herself none of this was as she perceived it, but he had done this at the deli counter too, hadn’t he? Bird-like eyes carefully locating their prey but swiftly turning their attention elsewhere to avoid suspicion or detection. Disguising just how intently he was fixated on her. He didn’t look panicked though, the way you would expect someone to look when they’ve been caught doing something they were trying to keep hidden. His movement was still slow, cautious, until he turned back to her sharply. Sarah gasped and allowed the basket of shopping to spill from her hands.

  The man’s face was gone. Not gone completely. But hidden. His shoulder length hair was now a hood, like a cloak, and what lay beneath it wasn’t human. A pallid head shaped thing under the cloak was mostly hidden by the sides of the hood but she could see hollow black smudges where the eyes should be. Dark craters, staring at her with an obscure, blank intensity.

  She saw the lights started to flicker, but couldn’t tell if this was just her vision beginning to become blurry. Her stomach somersaulted briefly, and steadied itself again as she grabbed for the metal shelving with both hands. The items on the shelf no longer had any clarity as her vision disintegrated further, and the turning of her stomach was replaced by a dull feeling of nausea. She knew all too well she would throw up if she couldn’t get herself out of this situation quickly.

  She managed to steady herself briefly, keeping her head down partly to hide, but also to keep from looking into the fluorescent lights which only hastened the demise of her sight. She was still lucid enough to realize she hadn’t a hope in hell of successfully purchasing the items that only two minutes ago she had been so proud of collecting. She just had to get out. Had to be home, locked inside. Away from this place, away from this creature. Right. Now.

  Sarah held her position for a minute longer with her eyes closed, although it felt like more time had passed. Mercifully, no other shoppers had come to her aid. No doubt they had pretended not to see her, or had simply kept moving in a different direction, complete with their hurtful comic book thought bubbles. She didn’t mind the lack of help. The feelings of helplessness and vulnerability only grew stronger if someone came into her space during an attack, regardless of how noble their intentions were. And sometimes, you could say that’s where the ‘attack’ comes into a panic attack, if the Good Samaritan was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of a carelessly thrown arm, or a wildly flung back head.

  Carefully squinting her eyes open, she felt a moment of relief. Her vision wasn’t back to normal, but her stomach had calmed, and the beads of sweat gathering on the backs of her wrists and forehead were at least cooling her down slightly. Sarah staggered around the corner into a nearby aisle, leaving her full shopping basket on the floor. Trying to scan the immediate area for the man in the green jacket, her sight was still betraying her to the extent that people were no more than blurry, moving shapes. The only real ability at her disposal now was a keen sense of direction, knowing from her position, every aisle would lead her to the front of the store, and importantly, the exit.

  Her efforts to remain upright while affecting a stumble through the aisle didn’t go un-noticed by a young man who was mindlessly placing cans on a shelf, nor the woman roughly her own age who pushed a trolley in her direction, moving to one side of the aisle as Sarah approached. She was now oblivious to all of this. The hurtful imaginary words had sto
pped registering, although she was aware these people and probably numerous others would be eagerly watching her progress down the aisle, making the assumption she was intoxicated or under the influence of drugs. Maybe waiting for that perfect moment to start their cell phones recording to capture a hilarious video of Sarah falling to the ground in a tragic, desperate mess. Who knows? Sarah didn’t care now, as her flight mechanism had well and truly kicked in, which at least allowed her to focus on escaping the store. She considered this to be a small victory, as she didn’t fancy the alternative of sitting on the dusty grocery store floor with her head in her knees trying to hide from the shame and embarrassment. She didn’t need to go down that road again.

  Crossing an intersection of aisles, Sarah was half way to her goal. She momentarily stopped to try and gather herself. Not only was her sight still failing her, but her knees felt weak and she was having trouble holding onto the minimal amount of balance she had. Reaching for the middle section between of shelving, just needing a horizontal piece of metal she could grip while she steadied herself, she realized her palms had become too sweaty. This was as close to completely falling apart as she could imagine. She did the only thing she could to keep from collapsing entirely, dropping to one knee with her palms flat on the floor. As before, she kept her head firmly facing towards the ground. It was probably a good thing her eyes were closed, she might otherwise be horrified at the light covering of dust combining with the moisture in the area to form a greyish film over parts of the floor. Concerns about hygiene would only be another tool she could use to talk herself out of future shopping trips.

  Managing to compose herself slightly, she stood up straight, by her current standards at least. There was still a slight hunch in her back she couldn’t figure out a reason for, except that it seemed to be the most comfortable way to keep her balance and be able to move forward. Quickly wiping her hands on her jeans (even in her distressed state, she had noticed the filthy floor conditions after all), she slowly kept walking, not daring to see if the creature was following her. She could make out the checkout area now, even with her vision still impaired, and the sense of hope and determination came just at the right time. She could make it.