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Have You Ever Been Scared, Really Scared?

Feb 23, 2008
I don't mean "ghost under the bed scared, or oh, there's somebody in the closet scared." I mean scared to the point that you could not control your bladder. Scared to the point that your body seems to stop all natural processes. You can't feel, you can't taste, you can't hear, seems like you can't even focus your eyes on the situation, your lungs will not only allow air in, they won't let it out either. Your heart feels like it's in your throat. So scared that what is going on around you appears to be moving along in sloooow motion. Like in a dream when you are trying to run from somebody and your legs will just not move.

I have been, several times. But the worst one happened in Texas when I was hitchhiking my way to California. I was just let out at a fork in the road, where one road went south and the other road went west, which was the one I wanted. The truck driver that gave me the ride for five hundred miles was a real jewel of a man. Kind, very considerate, talked with a decent tongue, not like most of the drivers I encountered along the way when every other word was vulgarity. He bought all my meals and I felt so at ease that I was actually able to sleep. His face would light up and sparkle every time he talked about his family back in Alabama. He gave me a few bucks when we parted, which meant the difference from eating a sandwich or a candy bar.

I was smiling and thinking how my ride with that truck driver was really pleasant and wished he was traveling all the way to California. Sure would have made my trip a lot nicer.

I could hear a car coming and automatically stuck out my thumb. A dark green car stopped down the road and I ran up to it. The man driving had a ballooned face with a big smile and eyes so small they were black dots.

"How far you going?" he asked, a giggle in his voice.


"I'm not going that far, but I'll take you as far as I go."

"Okay, thanks." I got in and we drove off.

He was the chatty type, starting with the questions, why, where, how come and when. It started getting dark, but it didn't quiet this man down.

The conversation turned to girls. Did I have a girlfriend? Did I make out with her? Did I like to look at dirty magazines? I tried to change the subject, but he kept going right back to women.

"What about sex with a man?" he said, trying to make his voice seductive.

My muscles turned stiff as a rock. It was late. I didn't see any headlights in front or behind.

He reached over. Fingers like slabs of meat grabbed my thigh and squeezed. My thoughts flashed: 'Some kids never come back.' I jerked my leg away and slid up close to the door.

With a sudden move, he swerved and hit the gas. The car jumped forward around a turn, off the main road. He pounded the accelerator. The car spurted down the gravel at full speed. The road wound uphill, back and forth.

"Where are you going?" I squealed. "Stop. Let me out."

His hand reached for me again. I grabbed his hand by the wrist and threw it off.

I screeched again, vocal chords ripping. "Stop! Stop! Let me out."

A perverse laugh filled the cab of the car. He gurgled and said, "I'm not going to let you out until I'm done with you, boy." The dashboard light turned his face a ghoulish green. A mad clown. His attention returned to the road as we hurled deeper into the woods.

I felt my pocketknife; the one Buddy had given me, through my jacket. I slipped my hand in, pulled it out and opened the blade. But did I have the nerve to use it?

The octopus tentacles of his hand reached over and grabbed my leg again. I was as far over as I could get without going through the door. The finger probed and reached, grab-by-grab, moving up and up, towards my testicles, I pulled his hand off again.

Fingers were slippery on the knife. I screamed at him again to stop and let me out of this car. That laugh curdled the air and reached for me again.

We were so far away from everything. Soon he'd be looking for a place to stop. It wouldn't matter how loud I screamed out here. He'd drag me out, and he'd.... My hand drove the knife hard into his hand. He screamed. I thrust again, pulled back. Again, pulled back. He slowed the car. I reached for the handle, threw the door open and jumped out into the void of the black night. I heard him screaming, saying he was going to get me, do what he wanted and then kill me.

My body was falling, rolling, bouncing down a hill. Briars tore at me. There went a stump, I put out my hands to stop, but couldn't. My body picked up speed. Would I ever stop? What if the hill ended in a cliff, or a river?

If you wish to find out the rest of the story, you must visit my website.
About the Author
Paul Miller is the author of A Place to Belong. This is his first novel and he wanted to write it desperately for 50+ years. But, bearing one's soul to the world can be a very scary adventure. For more information, please visit his website: A Place to Belong.
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