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the goofy look on my mom’s face, I don’t know. Then, to myself, I make a promise that if I ever become a mother, I want to be the mom she is to me.

Chapter 3
    Enthralled
     
     
    Since the attack, I’ve really not had much human contact. I received tons of phone calls from loved ones w hile I stayed at my mom’s house, and a great number of those being from Amber (who also sent me a cookie-gram and stuffed unicorns), but I didn’t want anyone to see my battered face, so I refused anyone who asked. I didn’t want that look of pity from anyone. 
    After four more psychiatric therapy sessions from a more caring psychiatrist, and a few prescribed self-defense classes, the doctor gives me the thumbs up to go back to work. And, funny thing is, I really feel I am ready. After much healing inside and out, and one tiny scar on my forehead and neck (which I did my best to cover up with makeup), I feel good about myself...until I step outside my apartment, alone, in my work clothes, and the visions come flooding back.
    So much blood . I look down and see it, soaking into my new, crisp white, button-down shirt. The broken bottle used to cut my throat waves in front of me, threatening to slice up my delicate skin, daunting me to even try and move.
    I close my eyes, attempting to wash the visions away, and let the sun of a new day shine on my face as I inhale deeply, gathering the courage to walk to the bus. I look down at my shirt, and once again, it ’s the cheerful yellow cardigan I put on this morning. I turn right back around into my apartment and call my mom.
    “I ’ll be there in ten minutes,” she statess, no questions asked.   
    As we pull up to my ten-floor office building, downtown, I flash her our sign language, grab my bag, and head inside toward the set of elevators. As each door opens, I allow the other patrons to board, passing on their attempt to hold the door open for me. As I stand, watching them board, that familiar, creeping feeling from others’ thoughts crawls over me, mocking me and my foolishness for not wanting to be in the elevator alone with them. I scan their faces as they shrug their shoulders and I watch them press the Close button.
    Finally, an elevator arrives while I am the only one waiting, so I step inside, press the eight button and take my elevator up, breathing in deep breaths and telling myself how brave I am. I reassure myself that once I step off the elevator and into the office, my colleagues will be there to embrace me, and support me, and console me.
    So why is it that when I enter the offices of Helping Hands, there are so many abrupt hellos and downturned faces? Where are the hugs and kisses?
    Nancy, our receptionist, gives me the pity face I was so hoping to avoid, as she answers the endless phone lines, ending one conversation with, “Kailey Rooke, in accounting, is unavailable at the moment. I ’ll transfer you to her voicemail, again .” Her annoyance is as obvious as a clown at a funeral. I grip my hands into fists, wanting to just turn around and run, but I continue to stand in place. I turn and stare at the soothing, sky blue walls, laden with the smiling faces of those that, we, here at Helping Hands, have helped. They encourage me to walk, to venture forth and topple the barriers before me.
    I then hear a loud noise—someone dropping a box in our supply closet for the UPS man—and jump in place, suddenly anxious. I slip my hand in my pocket and caress the ring, begging it to give me the strength I need to last the whole workday.
    I decide to head toward my mail, which is most likely the size of Mount Everest, and as I turn the corner, there I find Amber, bent over her in-box. She raises her straight blond-haired head and her beautiful green eyes widen just enough for me to notice. She grabs our office manager, Sienna, and immediately heads toward her office. I follow slowly behind them, and watch as Sienna breaks from Amber ’s grasp and ventures into a copy