Auntie Sarah

The sound of shattering glass sent me scurrying out of my hiding place, under the café counter’s safety. The man stepped through the now pane less window, blood streaming down his arm in a torrent. His face, though masked, exposed the anger and hatred in his eyes.
I scrambled to my feet, choosing flight over fight, and launched myself at the door. An effort made futile by the worst placement of a rug. It snagged my foot, sending me head first through the glass door of Cornerstone. It shattered easily, adrenaline masking the pounding in my head. I shoved myself upwards, embedding glass deep into my palms. I winced at the pain, but a quick glance over my should was enough to make me book down the hall.
The man was less than eight feet away from me, knife covered in his own blood. I willed my legs to speed up, cursing their short length.
Just make it to the kitchen, I thought, trying to remember which door to go through. I caught a glimpse of light under the third door, a sure sign of life on the inside.
I grabbed the handle, turning it furiously. The door swung open, slamming against the table. Sarah, the only supervisor who came in this early, jumped, uttering a curse under her breath. I turned back toward the doorway, forcing it shut.
“What in the world?!” The older woman yelled, ready to reprimand me.
I was breathing too heavy to answer her demand, instead choosing to wheeze against the table. I pointed frantically at the door, my hands catching in my peripheral. A wave of nausea hit me, and I crashed to the floor. Leaning against the counter, I stared down at my hands. Tiny bits of glass were at the surface, and there was too much blood for me to see how deeply gashed they were.
Sarah rushed over to me. She placed her hand on my head, sending a coursing pain throughout my body.
“What happened to you?” She asked, motherly instincts attacking her psyche. I took a deep breath, slurring a hurried explanation of the day’s events.Her hand flew to her mouth, a tear slipping down her cheek to meet it. She wiped it away, her usual brutal façade reappearing. She grabbed my wrist, a thoughtful, if painful gesture, and helped me to my feet. Pulling me toward the pantry, she shoved me inside, closing the door.
“Stay in there, honey,” she whispered through the slats of the door. “Ole auntie Sarah will take care of this." I could hear her footsteps as she left me, alone and terrified and bleeding. My back hit the cupboard, and I slid down to the floor. Tears flooded my eyes, and I began to weep like an infant.
At least I didn't have to hear her scream...

"...and that's all I can remember," I lie, the sincerity in my voice faked. Somehow, I always felt that Doc Fledley knew that I could recall everything about that night. She never said a thing about it, though.
Every time that I'd finish, she'd just sit there, studying my face until I started rambling on about how my mother didn't love me enough, or how my father was never there. She had to know that those were lies, as well. I had a rather attentive family, if not a close-knit one.
Motioning for me to sit up, Dr. Fledley leans forward to study my face a little more closely.
"Why didn't you try and get out," she begins her usual round of questions, sending my brain into autopilot.
Same old questions. Same old answers.
If ever I felt like my life had some kind of normalcy, the doc's questions would be it.