It Never Quite Goes Away, Pt. 4

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?”


More soon.


Part 5 (THE END!) Here.


17 thoughts on “It Never Quite Goes Away, Pt. 4

  1. Oh, I had been waiting for the rest of this story, though I wasn’t sure if I just missed it during my move…

    You sure do keep us wanting more… can’t wait!

  2. first, understand you’re busy and love you still and always. i, too have been busy and ignoring my blog along with everyone else’s.
    and… while this portion was just as well-written and gripping as the other 3 parts, i can’t get over the last line – “… when I heard the male cop ask me irritably, “What did you do to make him so obsessed with you?”
    what a bastard.

  3. Okay I just read them all in orde….WOW…I can’t beliee this happened to you! I am glad that I know you are safe otherwise this would freak me out more. This is one of my biggest fears–someone breaking inot my house and I am alone. I can’t wait to read the rest!

  4. I am going to say the obvious – what a crazy story. I cannot believe the gall of that policeman and finally – I feel like I am reading one of the Twilight series (not comparing your writing to hers just my anticipation for the next segment) with better writing.

    Sorry that you had to go through this.

  5. Hmm.. I wonder why more women don’t call the police when they are stalked, battered and abused… Because they already believe that the abuse is something they did, and the cops, they don’t always disabuse people of that notion, now do they?

    1. I’m glad you’re safe.
    2. That cop guy. I can’t say much more.
    3. I’m totally on pins and needles waiting for the next section!!

  6. Like everyone else, I’ve been waiting for the “rest of the story” (to quote Paul Harvey). I LOVE LOVE LOVE the way you write. Don’t make us wait as long for the next part!

    I’m of course, so glad you’re okay. I too have a crazy crazy in my past — (Does this really come as any shock, my doppleganger?)so can relate to the utter terror you so perfectly describe.

    And do NOT worry about actually having a life! (I’m in the SAME place right now.) You know we’ll always be here.

  7. I thought I was the only one who composed escape routes (I used to have one where I hid the baby under the dirty laundry but with space for air–I just hoped he would cry when my body was discovered so the police would know he was there.

    To actually live it? Unfathomable.

    I’m so glad you’re here to tell us the story.

  8. I, too, used to prepare myself escape routes in imaginary emergency situations. Or I’d imagine some hero coming to my rescue. Sadly, the truth is that you aren’t always smarter, stronger, lither, craftier, or bolder than your attacker. However, I did take to sleeping with my phone under my pillow (thanks to cordless phone technology!). Weird, huh?

    I knew, even in high school, when I was raped (by an acquaintance, no less) that reporting crimes sometimes gets you a response that’s less than what you hoped for, need, or that brings a bad situation to a worse end. (Doubly so if you’re attacked by someone you know, triply so if the attacker has connections to city officials.) Still, I hate to think that any report of crime would ever elicit the response of “so what did you do to make this happen?” I hate that we’ve become a society that automatically looks to the victim as somehow culpable for the crime. It’s like asking a baby what it did to be conceived and/or born or the people who died on Sept. 11 what they did to cause the attacks. It’s asinine. So, Deb, I hope you shot daggery looks at your hero the policeman (at the very least).

    And finally, work. I wish I could help with your workload. I mean, it’s what I was doing for the first two years after I got hurt. You know where to find me if you need me. Or if you want someone to pretend to be you and comment. lol

  9. I agree completely with all the comments made before. You are fabulous and strong. To write this out has to be draining in more ways then one. I hope to that it’s become a release. A wieght lifted off your chest. I havn’t had an experience close to yours but writing for me is at the worst of times a release. Once it’s on paper or screen, the thoughts and memories become quiet. It’s like they physicaly leave my mind and are put away on a place that can’t hurt me anymore with mental anguish. Thank you so much for sharing your strength and talent of writing.

    I’d like to present you with an award. Please stop by my blog to collect the image to post onto your wonderful blog.

  10. Pingback: San Diego Momma » Blog Archive » It Never Quite Goes Away, Pt. 3

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