The One Chance

I'd arrived in Miami on Sunday afternoon.

Exhausted to my soul, I went to a hotel, found the bed and slept until early
Monday morning. I forced myself up, to shower have coffee, then get out to find a job, any job, in walking distance of the hotel.

I had been lucky escaping, lucky getting to this hotel, lucky getting a job. I hadn't planned on using the fake name of Diana Lopez, it just kind of happened.

It was a good choice as there was no link between me and that name and further, I had no papers. It wasn't a problem in Miami where a lot of people had no papers.

As I got the Job I moved from my single room at the hotel to another with a kitchenette.

I was not ready to call this cell 'home' but it would do for now. It would do until the time I knew who and where I was. Until then, the word 'home' was not to be used.

Later that evening, I sat by the window, looking out, looking in.

I assume after the first few days of absence my husband might have gone to the police, although I wasn't all that sure about it. Did he realise I ran away? Did he think I was kidnapped?

Knowing him, to ask for 'help' from the Police would be admitting he'd lost. And he would never do that. He would search for me, perhaps thinking I was with some friend he had chased early in our relationship.

Oh Yes! He had been so successful at chasing my friends away.

I had never mentioned Miami to him. It had never come up. I'd never told him that I'd been to this city. Perhaps I was safe. Yes. As long as I didn't contact anyone.

I wanted to contact someone, anyone, because I felt so isolated, so incredibly alone. But I controlled myself.

Contacting anyone might be contacting him.

As I sat there, my eyes began moving around the room.

Window, fridge, ledge, microwave, bed, bathroom, table, chair, ledge, window, around and around, as my heart pounded.

I could barely breath as thoughts jumbled through my mind, my husband loved me, no man would ever love me, I shouldn't have left him, no, I had to, no, I didn't, my home, I left my home, no, not my home, window, fridge, ledge, microwave, bed, bathroom, table, chair, ledge, window...

I couldn't breath. I had to get out...I ran to the door, opened it into an empty corridor, and didn't want to dare it.

It was not yet eight p.m. and I felt I'd been up for fourteen hours and couldn't see how I'd get through the next hour. And I realised; this is madness, this is how it happens. I can't let it happen to me.

I put on my shoes, took the key, went to the door and out. Out onto the street, walking, walking, as if I was a tourist.

There must be something to anchor me here.
Something.

I can't do this.
I have to do this.
I can do this.
I will do this.

I will go to work tomorrow. I will be Diana Lopez. I will get through one more week. I will get through today. I will live today.

Over and again telling myself; "I Can Do This"