Lisa Akers's Blog - Posts Tagged "captured-again"

Today I decided it was time for a random act of kindness. Sounds like I'm a really good person, right? eh...not so much. It's actually a very selfish act. I love seeing people's faces when you perform a RAK. It's like a drug to me. Makes me feel euphoric for the entire rest of the day. *shrug* Maybe I'm just weird.

So anyhoo... my RAK today involved wacky flowers. I went to Wal-Mart (yes, if you read my FB, you know I shouldn't go there, but I behaved today). And I went in the first door and looked around... saw no flowers, so walked across the front of the store in front of the registers to the other door—I swear I remember the fresh flowers being just inside the door in the few times I ever go to Wal-Mart. I ask the girl sitting vigil at the doors, "Where's the fresh flowers?" She laughed and said, they're at the other door (obviously she knew I had to walk right past them, as that was the only other door into the store from which side I came)... so I walked back to the other door. Still... no flowers. Wtf? So I asked the woman sitting vigil at that door--btw, this woman is in a wheelchair and facing the store, not the door, like the other lady... so they're not greeters. What are they? Goodbyers? Surely, they're not there to catch thieves? I mean, I'm all for equal opportunity, but wouldn't someone who could get around a little easier be better suited for that job? Thieves can be a rough bunch, yeah?

So I ask Goodbyer #2, "Where are the fresh flowers? The girl at the other door said they were at this door." She laughed and said, "Right there! You've walked past them twice."

There they were, in plain freakin' sight. I don't know what's wrong with my brain lately. I think back to the drive on the way there, and I had said to myself, "Damn... you gotta get out more." I felt like I had forgotten how to drive...no, really. I shit you not. At every light I was stopping for green and people were honking horns at me. So I had to keep reminding myself to stop for red before I got killed. I made a little rhyme: Red Means Dead. Actually, that's what my hubby tells me to remember about my gun safety button. But I just couldn't think clearly today out in the big open world. See, I rarely leave the house. And if I do, it's usually with hubby driving. For no particular reason I’ve become somewhat a recluse…especially in Winter—I hate winter. But today I needed to drop off some papers to the attorney's office. And it's like 70 degrees out there and sunny. So I think I'm in a fog.

I grab two bunches of flowers. These are too cool: Dyed Daisies. Blue, green, orange, red... an explosion of color. I dig 'em. I pay for the flowers and then notice this store has a McDonald's! I love me some Sweet Tea. So I treat myself to a tea. Our conversation goes like this:

I tell the cashier, "One large sweet tea, please," and hand her $1.09 exactly.

She takes the money and says, "Would you like ice today?" as she slides me the cup (it's fix your own at this store).

Hmm, that’s a weird question, but I answer, "Yeah, I would. Isn't it still over there with the tea?"

Looking confused, she says, "I don't know what you mean."

I look at her like she's an idiot and say, "Usually, the ice is with the drinks. Has that changed?"

Then she looks at me like I'm an idiot and says no.

"Then why did you ask me if I wanted ice today?"

"I didn't. I said I hope you have a nice day."

Facepalm.

"Oh! You too!" I cheerily reply with very red face. I’m not admitting this to my hubby and sons. They swear all the time they think I’m losing my hearing and I tell them they mumble… so let’s keep this to ourselves. They don’t Tumblr, FB or tweet… so this is our secret.

I hurry over and fill up my cup with ice and tea, put a lid on it, and reach for the straws—empty. There is a cardboard sign in the straw box that says, “Sorry, we are out of straws today.” I’m like, WTF? Seriously? I CANNOT drink without a straw. I really just can’t. It’s one of my idiosyncrasies, one of my quirks, one of my pet peeves…I. Can’t. Do. It. Can you imagine how many fingers have touched these cups?! So I head back to the girl up front and say, “Ummm, are you sure you don’t have any straws? Maybe just one back there with your shake thing machine?”

She shakes her head no.

Son of a Dick! I can’t believe this. Already my RAK is off to a bad start.

So I trudge all the way out to my car and get in, throwing the flowers to the other seat and do another facepalm. I. was. In. Wal-Mart. Duh! They sell straws. Oh well, not going back. Too long to walk and all that. I pull the bendy straw from an old Mello Yellow can in the back seat cup holder and open the window and blow real hard through it, just in case... and I make due—yeah, I know. I’m disgusting. At least I know it's my germs on that straw, though.

Off I go to perform my random act of kindness! I figure I’ll find someone on the road, in a parking lot, somewhere on the way to the attorney’s office. (I plan to give one bouquet to the lady who’s been helping with this legal thing who got a little grumpy with me yesterday.)

First person I see is an old woman walking down the street with a mean, unhappy look on her face. She’s African American (or is it Black? I have friends who confuse me because they use different terms for themselves). Anyway, she’s not dressed very nice at all, and I’m being nice about that. She looks tired. And sad. So I jerk into the ice cream parking lot next to the sidewalk she’s walking on and jump out with one of my wacky-colored daisy bunches and say, “Hey, excuse me!” She stops walking and turns around. I run up to her and hold out the flowers. “I’d like you to have these,” I say.

She steps back and holds her hand up. “Why?! Who are you?”

“I’m nobody. I just saw you walking and you looked unhappy. I wanted to brighten your day,” I explain and smile and reach toward her with the bunch of flowers.

“Help!” she screams and starts backing away. She gets about five feet away while my heart starts beating triple time and I’m just standing there with my mouth open and hand out, then she turns and runs. This old woman could trot too.

Soooo embarrassing! I run back to my car and jump in and take off the other way, hoping she doesn’t find a police officer to flag down. In my car, which is suspicious in itself (a white Hummer with tinted windows and a peace sign on the front tag), I have two bunches of wacky dyed flowers, in addition to a red-tattooed .380 pistol, 3 magazines full with extra ammo, a .32 revolver—loaded, with an extra box of ammo with that. If a cop pulled me to ask me questions, the combination of flowers and guns and approaching strangers might look bad for me. I take that back. It. Would. Look. Bad.

So forget it… I’m going straight to the attorney’s office. I decide to take both bunches of flowers in there. There are two ladies that work there. I only managed to piss off one of them yesterday, but what the heck… they both get flowers today.

I get out of the car and am walking and looking down into the tops of the bunches, trying to decide which one is prettier (to be given to the one I pissed off) and boom, my foot hits something, sending me flying forward, nearly landing on my face, and having to practically jump to get my other leg in front of me. Super trip… I land and half-run a few feet just because the momentum makes me. I finally stop myself and straighten up, quickly looking to the street—both ways—no one there to see my major goof. Yes! First break of the day! Then I look toward the attorney’s office. There she is. The recipient of my random act of kindness, watching me clutch two bunches of strange flowers, my keys, and the paperwork as I recover from the trip.

She loved the flowers.

I’m back home now.
I’m. Never. Leaving. Again.

Gabby startled awake in the dark. She sat up quietly, listening, trying to find what had awoken her. She looked at the window, surprised to see it was dark outside. She must have slept the entire day through. Guilt pinched her conscience. She knew her boss was getting close to the end of his patience. Dammit, I hope I don’t lose my freakin’ job, she thought.

That morning she’d gotten up with all intention of going to work. But she’d made the mistake of glancing out the window and seeing her swing dangling in the early morning mist. She’d walked out to sit for just a minute—she had told herself—but minutes had turned into an hour as her mind convinced her she should just call out of work one more day. She was late anyway, and she could just go back to bed and sleep... and dream of Jake.

A breeze had tickled her toes. She had still been in her pajamas. She hadn’t found the energy to dress for work yet. So she had sat and swayed, not swinging... feeling bared—stripped of all the goodness in her life. She’d shivered uncomfortably. But this was the place she felt closest to Jake. He’d hung the swing the same day they’d moved into their new house, seven years before. It was his special gift to her.

As she’d sat on her swing that morning, she’d gotten lost in remembering the day Jake hung it, her giggling as he grew tired and sweaty trying to throw the bundle of rope over the lowest limb of their oak tree—which was quite high—and missing over and over again as she’d yelled out, “I’ve seen better throwing in T-ball! You got about as much control as two rabbits on their first date! You couldn’t throw a party! Come on!”

She’d cracked Jake up with her pitcher repartee, and he’d stopped throwing the rope and started chasing her with it instead. They’d wrestled and he’d tickled her relentlessly until she had finally promised no more heckling. He looped it over on the next throw. When the rope finally made it over the branch and fell back to the ground, she had run to him, thrown her arms around his neck, and kissed his sweaty, grinning face. She’d been so happy she’d have her swing. That was a fun and special day. One of many she’d had with Jake.

Gone now.

He’d been gone six weeks. She couldn’t remember the first two weeks at all. It was a blur, a dark spot in her memory. She couldn’t... or wouldn’t go there. All she could say for sure was during that two weeks, she scarcely remembered crawling out of the unquestioning sanctuary of her bed. She didn’t leave the house. She’d watched the empty swing from their bedroom window and thought how lucky she had been; her time with Jake had been a gift. He’d saved her—twice—the first time when she’d had nowhere to go after giving up her baby at age seventeen, an event that had left her alone and homeless. But he’d scooped her up, married her, and helped her build a life, a good life, together.

Jake saved her again when the family cycle of abuse finally caught up to her and shattered her life—cracking it into fragments. She had tried to hold the pieces together alone, not wanting to hurt Jake, but she wasn’t strong enough. She was the victim of a sociopath, forced to endure sexual abuse in fear of her marriage and her freedom. It was a puzzle she couldn’t put back together again, so she tried to escape it. Escape life. He’d saved her, not just by rushing her to the hospital, where she’d nearly died, but by standing beside her after finding out why she had wanted to die.

He had stayed with her for five years after that nearly fatal night.

Gabby had thought once Jake knew she’d been with another man—repeatedly—he wouldn’t want her, regardless of the circumstance. But he had. He had believed the truth and not only stayed in the marriage, but helped her recover.

She’d wake up nearly every night, for years. Screaming from nightmares of being held captive in a wooden box. She’d awoken countless times swatting and swearing there were spiders in the bed, and too many times to count she’d been so adamant that René was in the room—yelling that she wasn’t asleep; he was there—that she’d convinced Jake, too. He’d jump up and grab his ball bat, searching under the bed, in the closet, the bathroom, before he finally realized Gabby was having a night terror again—eyes wide open but asleep.

He’d held her. Rocked her back to a peaceful sleep. Never losing his temper, even after so many sleepless nights. And he’d given her space to heal, mentally and physically, supporting her through it all. So patient, never letting her go.

How could she let him go?

Gabby hadn’t been able to go to work. She’d dropped down from the swing and slowly walked up the steps leading into the house. She’d made her call to her disappointed boss and crawled back into bed, covering her head to block out the sun shining through her window, and slept through yet another day.

She shook off her replay of yet another wasted day and looked at the clock. Damn, chick. You did sleep through another day, she thought. It was the middle of the night. I’m definitely dragging your lazy ass to work tomorrow, so get some more shuteye. She dropped her head onto her pillow, forgetting about the noise that had woken her up, and fell instantly back to sleep.

One of the hardest things for a writer to do is write a blurb...seriously, it's harder than writing a book! So I've taken a stab at a new one, and although I don't feel good about adding "Bestseller" to my cover, I did hit it multiple times on Amazon and decided to use it in the blurb. Is that wrong? Should I take it out? Anyone willing to give me some feedback on the new blurb:

Bound by blood...Marked by the Dragonfly.

Amazon Top 100 Bestseller in three categories February, 2014:
#44 Sagas, #52 Family Saga's, #77 Coming of Age

The pasts of four women collide head-on with a mysterious present in this surreal and gripping family drama. One woman finds herself trapped. Alone. In a box. She battles to survive the terrifying darkness. With long hours of nothing to do but wait in terror for her captor to return, she grapples through obscure dreams and memories of their painful past, painting the story of the scarlet dragonfly tattoo--meant to be a beautiful, family mark of freedom--but instead seeming to become a prophetic brand to the four women who wear it.

When identical twins, Gabby and Olivia, and their little sister, Emma flee their less-than-perfect childhoods, they find they took more of their mother with them than her long chocolate-colored hair, startling blue eyes... and the exact copy of her tattoo.

Just wanting away... Olivia marries her first love--at age 17--and realizes later he's not what he seemed. She falls victim to his fists of fury when his mask finally slips. She attempts to break free, but finds herself unwillingly flittering back to the cycle her own mother had tried to leave so many times before. Meanwhile, her twin sister, Gabby, finds sweet love with Jake, a humble, well-mannered southern boy who saves her not once--but twice. But she is pursued by a dangerous admirer at work, and her happily ever after seems to be ending too soon. And little sister Emma has some secrets of her own, painfully bottled up inside of her, wrestling to get out for revenge.

Deeply evocative, Let Me Go is a suspenseful and heart-wrenching Coming of Age story with a beautiful ending for survivors.