It’s the tattoo that had been worn on the arm of the stranger who I’d met only once before. My heart thunders in my chest as I take in the signature that is nothing more than a triangle with some writing inside of it. Locker 111 will have everything you need. I shove to my feet and blink away the burning sensation in my eyes to read the few short sentences typed on the card.

Cursing my shaking hand, I bend down and scoop it up. Leaning against the wall, I open the sealed envelope to remove a plain white note card and a key drops to the floor that looks like it goes to a locker. Still chatting, two females enter the bathroom, and I tune out their gossip about some man they’d admired at the party. Voices sound outside the doorway and I yank the envelope from the mirror and rush into the stall, sealing myself inside. If this is what I am at twenty-four years old, what I will be like at thirty-four? Gone too are the dark-rimmed glasses I’ve often used to hide the pale blue eyes both of my parents had shared, making it too easy for me to see the empty shell of a person I’ve become. I can’t seem to make myself reach for the envelope and my gaze goes to my image in the mirror, to my long white-blond hair I’ve worn draped around my shoulders tonight rather than tied at my nape, and done so as a proud reflection of the heritage of my Swedish mother I’m tired of denying. On wobbly knees and four-inch black strappy heels that had made me feel sexy only minutes before and clumsy now, I step forward and press my palms to the counter. Not when I’m quite certain danger is knocking on my door. There is pain and heartache, and the loss of all I once had and will never know again.įighting a certain meltdown, I swallow hard and shove away the gut-wrenching memories. The sound of blistering screams shreds my nerves. I fight the flashback I haven’t had in years, but I am already right there in it, in the middle of a nightmare. Suddenly, the room begins to shift and everything goes gray. Fear and dread slam into me, shooting adrenaline through my body. I step out of the stall inside the bathroom of Manhattan’s Metropolitan Museum, and the laughter and joy of the evening’s charity event I’ve been enjoying fades away. My name is all that is written on the plain white envelope taped to the mirror.

Escaping Reality by Lisa Renee Jones