August 27th, 2008
Note: I’m unbelievably busy these days, and I apologize for not reading your blogs, responding to comments, answering questions, and just generally being incognito. I write/edit for a living, and have the most laughable backlog of work this month that it’s completely ridiculous. And the work just keeps coming. So while that’s good for my imaginary New York City wardrobe, it’s not so hot for my blogging soul. Plus, I miss my tulips (that’d be you)! I will be back at you soon. But meanwhile, I thought I’d continue this stalker story that I started and abandoned way back in July like a sack of pockmarked potatoes. Anyway, as a bonus, I am going to raid my secret Harry Potter closet under the stairs for my photo box, where I will hopefully find a pic of this guy to post. Frankly, I don’t give a fig about his privacy).
Part 1 Here.
Part 2 Here.
Part 3 Here.
Part 4 Here.
“I remember screaming. I don’t recall what woke me up, but surveying the scene, it must have been the sound of my door being obliterated. The wood lay splintered in the entry and a large hole gaped where the door used to be. And as my eyes further adjusted, I saw him there, standing silent at the foot of my bed…”
…I couldn’t put two and two together. I tried to assemble the pieces quickly: He broke in. He’s in my apartment. No one is helping me. I’m alone. I don’t know if I knew at the time or later, that it was midnight, all I did know is that I’d been sleeping. I remember wearing a sweatshirt, which lifted against my chest with each fevered heartbeat, and I sat there in the middle of my bed, frozen as he moved closer to me. I mentally rehearsed a run for the phone that lay on the sofa across my apartment, but my bed was cramped into a small space, crowded by walls on both sides, and my only exit was past him.
I’d always been a fan of true crime novels, and I thought I knew what would happen next: he was going to kill me. And I couldn’t move! I could not move. Since I’d been a kid, I’d concocted escape routes from intruders, climbing out windows in my imagination, running through my neighbor’s yards as I tried to lose my attacker. And now I sat paralyzed. He thought my terror funny, endearing. He put his hands around my neck and caressed my collarbone with his thumbs, gently. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my shoulders rose in time to a staccato beat. I wondered if my neighbor, separated by a thin wall just behind my bed, knew someone had broken into my place. I lived in an apartment complex, for God’s sake. People lived all around me. How had no one heard my scream? The door busted open?
“Oh sweetie,” he cooed. “Why are you so scared?”
Now I thought maybe I had him. His eyes glinted maniacally, but to him, this was a grand gesture of love. Maybe he’d let me live.
“What are you doing here?” I gradually gained control of my breathing.
His eyes softened. “To say goodbye. I’m leaving for Europe in a few days.”
I wasn’t going to challenge him, say, “THIS is your goodbye?” or “GET OUT!” Instead, I let him talk and wished he’d take his hands from my neck.
I knew now that I needed to get help because none was coming. Somehow, sometime, he dropped his hands. I scrambled to the end of the bed, and he ran to it too, blocking my escape. After some struggle and a botched attempt to retrieve the phone, I lay on the floor, looking at the coiled telephone wire stretched across the floor. He held the receiver in his hand.
A blur. But I got the phone and dialed 911. He ran out of the apartment.
I don’t think I waited there alone. I don’t remember. I couldn’t close my door, couldn’t look into the dark hallway to see if he still lurked there. I’m pretty sure I called my apartment manager, who came right up. I also called my friend Carolyn, and asked if I could come over. Then the police arrived.
A man and a woman, they asked me what happened, surveyed the destroyed door, and wrote on their pads of paper. There wasn’t any sympathy, which I didn’t expect, but found curious. I hoped that this latest incident would put my stalker away for good, but my heart sank when I heard the male cop ask me irritably, “What did you do to make him so obsessed with you?”
Part 5 (THE END!) Here.