Sole Survivor

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Adam leapt from his bed screaming, his heart still pounding, his arms flailing. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy darkness and for him to realize where he was. There was no cage, no bars, no shackles; he was in his own bedroom—not that other room. He knew the door and windows were locked. He didn’t need to check this time.

Adam sat on the edge of his bed, breathing hard, his throat sore, instinctively rubbing his wrists where shackles had once been. He turned on his bedside lamp, illuminating his bedroom and scattering the shadows. This was the second time that week George Gary Smith had shown up in his dreams. The doctors had assured Adam it would happen less and less over time, which seemed to be accurate, but it still scared the hell out of him. He looked down at his bed: sheets twisted up, pillows tossed around, and a big sweat spot the size of his body in the center.

George Gary Smith was dead and buried, rotting in hell where he belonged. And, yes, “George-Gary-Smith,” not “George” or “Smith” or any other variation. Adam didn’t know why, but he always referred to the monster by his full name.

Adam looked over at the clock on the bedside table; it was a little after four. He yawned but knew he’d probably not be getting anymore sleep that night. He stood and bundled up his damp sheets. Grabbing fresh linens, he remade the bed. This ritual was empowering because it felt like he was taking the nightmare and throwing it away. Fresh sheets, fresh start.

He wasn’t due at the center until 10 A.M., but he took a shower anyway. He decided to perform his morning spiritual practice early. Adam wasn’t religious, but he was definitely spiritual. Having looked death brutally in the face, he’d discovered there was more to life. So each morning, before getting out of bed, Adam spent twenty minutes meditating, twenty minutes reading something uplifting, and twenty minutes journaling. He’d only committed to five minutes of each but found he enjoyed the time so much he put aside an hour for himself each morning instead. This spiritual practice had been a definite lifesaver. It had given him space to heal, a place to ground, a way to move beyond himself and see a bigger picture. He didn’t have all the answers, not by far, but he felt like he was heading in the right direction. Adam’s overall fear level was diminishing; his paranoia was mostly a thing of the past. He could be in public without being overwhelmed by terror; that was a good thing. Although he no longer viewed them as flaws, the physical scars would always stand as testament to what he had survived. His mind and his spirit were no longer completely controlled by the terror put there by George Gary Smith.

Having completed his morning practice, Adam surprised himself by being able to get a few more hours of sleep before his alarm went off.

* * * *

Often, Adam missed the amazing weather of Southern California with its temperate climate and numerous sunny days, but today he was all about New York City. He had left the West Coast after the whole horrible ordeal. The doctors had recommended he start afresh somewhere else, somewhere he could forget his past, and somewhere he could just be himself instead of “Adam, the sole survivor.” He’d moved to New York four years earlier and had discovered there was nowhere better to recreate yourself than in the Big Apple. With so many people living here, one could be as anonymous or as public as one wanted, and no one seemed to care. Everyone had a story and a history here, so he was no big deal.

Today was his favorite kind of day: bright blue skies but chilly enough to need a light coat and scarf. Typical of New Yorkers, people were hurrying along, clutching their large cups of coffee and wheeling their briefcases behind them. Dozens of people were descending into the subway entrance, while dozens more were pushing their way out, following an innate choreography. Adam approached the coffee cart on the street and smiled at the vendor.

“Morning. Coffee with cream and two sugars, please.” He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed the caffeine buzz or the sugar buzz more.

“Here ya go. Want yer usual cruller with that?”

Adam laughed as he paid. “You know me too well, my friend. Thanks and have a great day!”

“You too, boss.” The man smiled. “See ya tomorrow.”

Adam continued down the street toward his office, coffee in one hand and doughnut in the other. He enjoyed his work at the Rainbow Center. “Helping people to help themselves” was the motto at TRC and one Adam greatly appreciated. It had certainly helped him. He had done a year of therapy, and while that had certainly aided him on his road to sanity and given him the foundational tools to move forward, he’d discovered that only by working on himself could he truly heal. So he’d spent the previous four years delving deeply into self-help classes, books, and seminars. There was a lot of crap out there, but there were also some gems hidden deep in some of that crapola. So he had studied and worked and tried things. Slowly he’d become healthier, more stable, less fearful. Over time, he’d become, not like he had been before—there was no way that could ever happen—but he had become happier, more confident, more himself. Most amazing of all, a glimmer of hope had started to infuse his world. He wanted to convey that hope to his clients.