Laurel woke in a familiar terror, her sheets damp, head pounding and the horses were back, she realized wearily. Their faces twisted in stark expressions, mouths open, eyes wide, moving up and down, colors trailing, a childhood dream that had followed her into adulthood and she thought the last time she’d seen them was in college. It had been around the time she’d dropped out, when it had been determined that she couldn’t handle it anymore, the stress, they’d said, he’d said, the psychologist at the university. Her family too. They’d all decided it would be in her best interest to leave, take a break, because something wasn’t working. Her work was suffering, but not because she didn’t have the ability, it was just the dreams again, waking her and making her days like nights and her nights like endless unsleeping days. A breakdown. That’s what it had been labeled and off she’d gone, back home again. And more meds. But she was okay, she’d told herself and the dreams had stopped for a while at least, long enough to let her get a job, only waiting tables, but at least it was something, at least she slept at night, at least she could function during the daytime hours, taking orders, carrying trays of food, be among people, and it was all okay.

But why had it returned last night? That is what she wondered now as she sat up, wide awake, six in the morning and she must be back to work at ten. The first shift, the lunch shift, and she liked that better than the dinner one where people came to mostly drink, would have too much, get surly, abusive even, overstay late into the night. There was more money at dinnertime, but no, she preferred the lunch shift, always requested it. Mostly businessmen and ladies out for a midday meal, noon and no one stayed too long, no one lingered and how she would cling to the structure of it all. After they left there was the cleanup for the next shift, marrying condiments, folding silver into clean linens, but she relished the empty tables that were left, wiped clean, set again fresh as if no one had even occupied them at all. It wasn’t the money she’d make at dinner, but it was enough.

She would be tired today, she was used to that, she’d get through it, but why had it come back? Why? And why were colorful moving horses so terrifying to her, but they always had been and now they were back in her dreams and she searched her cabinet for the pills, her prescription. They would block out the memory of the horses, well not really, but they would make it feel okay to see the horses again, to live with the horses. Their terror would fade into the background, the doctor had told her. And that suffocating, crushing feeling that the horses brought with them would go safely to its corner and stay away from her, another thing he’d said that she had to believe because if she didn’t, she would be absorbed into their frenzied gallop, unable to hold onto the bars that held them as they moved up and down. She would fall off, disappear in their imagined dust and die. She swallowed two pills and started her day.

And today he came back, sat at the same table as yesterday but without his associate and was yesterday the first time she’d noticed him, seemed old enough to be her grandfather and something else familiar about him? She’d waited on them yesterday, approaching the table as she’d been trained to do, ready with the specials and a friendly smile. Laurel’s smile was very pretty. Men noticed it. Sometimes women too.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Laurel and I’ll be your server today,” and the smile just appeared naturally. “Could I start you off with a salad or soup? Our special soup is a crab bisque or we have the daily special of Gazpacho.”

He’d asked, “and what is that exactly?”

“The Gazpacho is a tomato-based soup with garlic, olive oil, onions, peppers and cucumber and it’s served cold.”

“Sounds interesting. I think I’ll have that.”

“You’ll like it. The Gazpacho soup is delicious,” and his friend had ordered it too. She’d been trained to sell, along with wait, so she thought she’d done that well. But, the older man’s face, big jowls and the way he started to re-arrange his silver, putting the fork on the right, matching it just so next to the knife and spoon, then pushing them together, tapping them lightly together into place made Laurel feel uneasy. The clinking sound of it seemed to follow her as she turned away from him. But she’d shaken it off and served them the meal they’d ordered and they’d left, generous tip on the table as they were retired doctors apparently, she’d overheard just snippets of their conversation.

So, they’d gotten up to leave, but not before the man had asked her, “Laurel… that is not a name you hear very often.” He locked her eyes or maybe that was just her mind again like the weird vibe she had gotten before with the way he’d done the silverware so meticulously.

“No, I guess it’s not.”

“Grow up here?”

“Yes,” and there was nothing else to say then. He didn’t say anything either and there was a lull in time almost as he continued to look at her. This was her home, always had been. The two men had left and she hadn’t thought about them anymore the rest of that day. But here he was again and was he going to be a regular? Had he requested her table? The thought of that, the assumed familiarity made her feel uncomfortable, another feeling that she shouldn’t have, another symptom of her… problem, she’d been told. And if he wanted to sit at her table, whatever. It was all okay, normal, certainly nothing to fear.

She smiled again as she came up to him, her face feeling a bit tight this time. “Back again? You must have liked that soup.”

“Oh, I did, Laurel, I did and I believe I’ll have that again today… to start.” He grinned as if controlling her to watch his face and again with the eyes, searching hers for something. His hands started to move the silverware almost obsessively.

“Well, ok then. Will your friend be joining you? Should I wait to put the order in until…”

“No, not today. It’s just me,” his eyes locking into hers as if… as if… he knew her. But she couldn’t place him, honestly, she could not, her mind wouldn’t and so she went back to the kitchen, but could feel herself trembling, a trickle of sweat rolling down between her breasts too and didn’t know why.

“What’s wrong, Bloodface? Get a mean one today?” Laurel felt embarrassed at her sudden physical meltdown, visible to her co-worker and please God, not here, not again, she prayed.

“It’s nothing, no, no one is mean. Just tired, I guess. Didn’t sleep well. How’s your day going?”

“Got a fuckin’ ten top of all things, this early. Oh well at least there will be a guaranteed percent this time. Some asshole shafted me yesterday. Hey, you’re good at math, can you separate this for me? They want it ten ways to Tuesday, cheapskates can’t share a damn thing.”

“Sure,” Laurel took the ticket, began working it out. “You have a performance tonight?”

“Tomorrow, just tryouts so wish me luck. One of these days, right? Hey, thanks Bloodface, thanks for this,” taking the completed ticket from her and the young woman, only a few years older than Laurel turned to leave.

“Good luck, Carly,” Laurel whispered and wished fervently in that moment that she had a dream like her friend, wanting to be a ballerina, attending school for it and working this job only to get by. The place was full of them really if she looked around. Carly’s husband, Luke, another dancer and there was Dottie, a big strong farmgirl, raising those trays high and straight over her head with one arm as she weaved her way confidently through the dining room, working her way through law school at night. Even the cook was using this job as a stepping stone to better establishments. Laurel was just here because she had been unable to hack the other, for now at least. She worked her station, tended to the man, but was relieved when he left and that night she dreamt of the train. The box cars surrounded her, moving and clicking into place and like the horses they were a child’s memory, a toy train, only large, life-size, but just toys being snapped together by someone else, Laurel just standing and hearing the steel, cringing as it tightened into place and in the background, she heard the rumble of the horses still. They were out there too. She woke up damp and it was blackness all around her, her clock said two-thirty. She lay in the silence and dark, waiting for the terror to pass. Maybe she slept some, but when she got up to get ready for work, her body was dragging from fatigue. She took some more pills.

Like clockwork at noon, he came in again and sat at the same table in her station and okay, whatever, she thought, but why? He was chattier and still alone. Her section wasn’t full so she had no excuse to hurry off once his food was delivered, the soup again. He always ordered the Gazpacho soup.

“I think I’m addicted to this soup,” he smiled. Laurel was feeling nauseous and the spicy smell of the soup was not making her feel any better. “Are you alright today, Laurel? You look a bit tired.”

“I’m fine, just having trouble sleeping is all. It happens.”

“Yes, occasionally it does.” As she stood next to his table he brought his fork around to the right side of his bowl of soup, lining it up carefully to the knife and spoon, the cold hard metal of the utensils clinking together as he did so and she was suddenly reminded of the train being snapped together into place and a cold shiver moved down her spine, hearing steel against steel in her head. She walked slowly over to her wait station, pretending to get ready to refill some glasses, but her hands were shaking and she felt a dampness between her legs. Walking into the restroom, the stall, she saw she’d peed slightly in her underwear. She cleaned herself up hurriedly. Realization swept through her and she suddenly had to get outside, get some air. Maybe it was his voice, he’d talked more today or maybe the silverware, like steel, like the train, being placed properly, laid out by his thick and determined fingers. Whatever it was she’d suddenly placed him and she slid out the back of the restaurant, ashen and just stood on the steps, trying to keep from vomiting. She didn’t see anyone else and a rat scurried away into the dumpsters as soon as the door shut behind her.

“Look like you could use a smoke,” the voice said. It was one of the line cooks, standing at the corner of the building. “Hey, you ok?” Laurel recovered herself.

“Can I bum one?” He walked over to where she stood, took the pack from his shirt pocket and shook one out for her. She took it and he held a match up as she inhaled. “Thanks,” she managed.

“Rough morning?”

She smiled, the brilliant Laurel smile and watched him melt, a familiar scene. “You could say that.” He just continued to watch her and she’d caught him doing that before behind the line, the counter with the warming light that separated the cooks from the servers, where the food was placed, waiting to be expedited and delivered. She’d looked up and seen him looking at her sometimes. She would always just look away. There was a noise in the dumpster.

“Damn rats,” he said. “Gotta put out that poison again.”

“Poison?”

“Yeah, in the office. I’ll grab it when I go back inside.” She was silent. “So, why do they call you Bloodface anyway?”

“It was just my Halloween costume, I guess that was before you came here. I was an accident victim, put fake blood on my face. People told me I made them feel sick, but it was fun, dressing up.” She’d had a good time that night, hiding her face like that behind blood and gore, unrecognizable. She’d felt comfortable. She smiled again and this time he returned it.

“You shouldn’t ever cover up your face.” Laurel looked at him strangely, almost forgetting what had made her rush outside so quickly. He was not much older than her, but she’d heard, attending culinary school somewhere. She could suddenly feel his presence very near her body, reminding her of the boys she’d met at school, the ones she’d always told no and not knowing why.

“Does it work fast?”

“What?”

“The poison, is it quick?”

“Yeah, I think, they just eat it and go off somewhere else to die.” He stood still as if mesmerized. “You have a boyfriend?” Laurel just looked at him, wishing she was more invisible or just… normal. She shook her head. “Go to school?”

“I was in school… dropped out for a while.” He stood watching her face, took another drag from his cigarette, smiled again. “Well, Laurel, maybe you’ll go back one day.” And what was wrong with just taking a break, she wondered. Really, why did she always have to be working toward… something else. What was wrong with just existing? Because sometimes it was so hard, took all of her energy, just to do that.

She only said, “thanks for the smoke.” She dropped it to the ground and smashed it with her toe before turning and going back inside.

But that night there were no nightmares, only real memories, the man, her pediatrician, standing by her side at his examination table, putting together some instruments beside her as she asked him what he was doing. She’d watched his hands as they placed the equipment together just so in a line, creating a tinkling sound which began to reverberate in her head louder and louder like grating metal as his hands moved over her. His reply, “…just building a little choo choo train. Lie back Laurel, that’s the way, lie back down. I’m just going to check you…look at the train I built…now shhh shhh…” and feeling his thick fingers touching…her mother wouldn’t know. She was not to tell. “Never tell, Laurel, never tell. It’s just between you and me, okay, Laurel, okay? I know you’ll be a good girl for me.”

And later walking back into the reception area where her mother waited for her, seeing the carousel horse that stood in the corner that she’d played on just an hour prior. Before her appointment she’d climbed onto it, pretending it was moving up and down, holding the large hardened mane in her hands, rocking like she was really riding a spinning carousel, even hearing the music play just like at the fair where her father used to take her. But the horse in all its magnificent colors now stood alone and riderless and Laurel had just wanted to leave, to go home, her mother telling her, “wait for me, Laurel. I’m coming, just hold on.” And she’d never told because she was a good girl. She’d never told anyone and she’d even made herself believe it hadn’t happened. It was just something she’d imagined, but how could a little girl imagine that? Even so she’d convinced herself it hadn’t been real until she couldn’t anymore. The dreams wouldn’t let her and now the fear inside her turned to anger.

He became her regular customer, daily, the man coming in, ordering the soup to start, then maybe a sandwich, maybe a salad or sometimes it was just the soup. She could count on him ordering the Gazpacho soup and rearranging his silverware with his thick fingers just so each day like she could count on the days passing on her calendar and getting closer to the beginning of the next semester. She’d applied to go back to school and had been accepted and she was getting stronger each day, could feel it, slept like a rock, tossed out her pills, but still said nothing. Last night she’d even gone out with the cute cook that had a thing for her and she’d let him touch her and it had felt so good, his touch erasing something very bad for her, realizing she had nothing to fear anymore. He winked at her as she picked up the man’s order, the soup, carrying it first to her wait station and after to his table, placing it in front of the old man who was growing more haggard by the day it seemed. His pallor was graying and he seemed stooped over the bowl. His breathing was ragged.

But always polite, he said, “thank you, Laurel,” staring at her. “Are you sure our paths haven’t crossed before?” He would almost gasp now.

“No sir, only since you’ve been coming here,” and she turned pertly to walk away.

The next day and the next it was the same thing, taking the soup from the kitchen, stopping by her wait station, unnoticed, and then bringing it to the man that really just seemed on death’s door these days. At night she and the cook would meet up together, see a late movie, have dinner in his apartment and she loved watching him prepare a meal for her, “…anything except the Gazpacho,” she’d told him.

“You don’t like the soup? Everyone says the Gazpacho is delicious, the best.”

“Just tired of it, serving it every day, but I know you make the best, so spicy and all,” and she would look at his body and wonder just why she’d been so apprehensive, all those boys, before succumbing later to his beautiful hands, long slender fingers inside her so different from … the other and then his heated thrusts. Later they lie side by side.

“So, you leave for school next week?”

“Yes,” she smiled, the Laurel smile into the darkness.

“I’ll miss you.”

“You’re going back too, right, to New York? I’ll come and see you on my break,” she promised.

“I’ll be counting on that.” And then he’d done it all to her again so very sweetly.

She’d gone back to school like she’d never left, her friends amazed at how well, how very healthy she looked and at the end of the third week there was a letter from her mother.

“Dear one,
I’m so glad that you are well and happy again. I saw this in the paper and remembered the name, the physician that treated you that one time, do you remember? He had that real carousel horse in his office and you had so enjoyed playing on it. Anyway, I want to call you to discuss the other thing, the article I’ve attached. I know you would have told me though, honey, so I am not worried, but I thought you might be interested, very mysterious and all…”

The letter continued, but Laurel was more interested in the article from her hometown paper that fell out from it,

Prominent local pediatrician dies suddenly, autopsy scheduled, accumulation of anticoagulant suspected, similar to rodent poisoning. Past patients coming forward with allegations of sexual abuse. Investigations pending autopsy findings. Many accusers were young girls under doctor’s care at time of alleged abuse.

Laurel dropped the article on the floor, sat down on her bed. There is no way they could trace it to her and really, fuck them if they tried. She’d been careful, used rubber gloves when handling the box of poison, putting it back right where she’d found it, the locked office, only unlocked at certain times as she’d known. The little shaker she’d used to sprinkle it in his soup each time before she served him, she’d kept hidden inside the wait station behind all the other condiments where no one would see. She’d discarded it carefully where no one would ever find it before she’d left town after she was sure he was a dead man walking and it would only be a matter of time. She didn’t know if he’d ever figured out who she was, she’d assumed she was just one of many to him. Laurel relaxed again. She would continue as she always continued, saying nothing. There was no real evidence, only circumstantial and she would lawyer up, if need be. She lit a cigarette. They wouldn’t be able to prove a damn thing. She was a victim after all for Christ’s sake. They had to see that in the end, if it came down to it. He’d stolen something from her and all she’d done is taken it back. Whatever happened, she felt justified, stoic, like she’d taken back her own life as she’d deprived him of the remainder of his.

She stood, held the cigarette under the faucet, gathered her books and walked out onto the campus to her next class and it was her favorite, advanced calculus, as she’d begun dreaming of becoming a mathematician, maybe even a scientist and after class, she would stay for the lab where that cute grad student worked. He had beautiful hands, gentle ones, she’d thought. He’d noticed her, she’d felt his eyes on her, had smiled the Laurel smile at him, shyly and she was no longer scared, no longer angry. As a matter of fact, today she felt happier than she could ever remember.