Part I

I’m writing out my life in a timeline, so to experience my story the way its supposed to be told, start at I Was That Girl In School… then proceed chronologically by post date.

I know what you’re thinking: “How does it get any worse?” I had mentioned in another post that I endured being blackmailed into having sexual encounters with The Recluse because I knew that it wouldn’t last; once he had his way with me, I would be back in the arms of the one person I truly loved. How messed up is that!? I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but love, true fucking love, makes you do some really messed up stuff. To a certain extent, this was voluntary (though I hate to admit it), but eventually, I wasn’t given the option; I was forced.

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Boyfriend had all but stopped talking to me and I wasn’t really sure why. You’re the one that kissed me! Why am I being punished? Did he not want to ‘lead me on’ by being friends again? Did he actually hate me? Why did he reach out in the first place?  I had so many questions, but again, I’m not the prying type. I would give him the space he needed in the hopes that he would eventually come around.

It had been about two and a half weeks since the news broke and my world came crashing down. After The Recluse left Boyfriend in a state of shock and me suffering from a psychotic breakdown, no one had heard from or seen him; no texts throughout the day, no calls at all hours of the night, no random appearances in the parking lot at work or my parents house, even Boyfriend and his family said that The Recluse hadn’t even gone ‘home.’ Oh… and while we’re on the subject: by this point, EVERYONE knew what had happened. I guess in an attempt to heal (your guess is as good as mine), Boyfriend had talked to both my parents. He also told his mom (Mrs. Saintly) and his step-dad along with his 3 brothers and their significant others, as well as my best friend, cause, you know, she had to know. Really!? Do you not think I’ve been through enough?  But I hadn’t actually found out the story he was spinning to everyone until much later which was: “She cheated on me and he was blackmailing her to not tell anyone.”

CHEATED!? That’s what you got out of everything I told you!?

I was alone, but I was recovering. Though everything was still in turmoil, I was moving on from the most traumatic 6 months of my life in a rather productive way: school, work, gym, repeat.

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January 20, 2011. This date will haunt me for the rest of my life.

It was a typical morning: wake up, shower, do hair, get dressed, eat breakfast with Mom while we watch the news together. Dad would usually fix his coffee, give the dog a treat, then head out for work around the same time mom and I would plop down on the couch. I started to depend on these mornings with Mom. She made me feel sane. She didn’t pester me about how I was doing or verbalize her worry for me (which I know she probably wanted to). She sat with me making fun of news stories and talking about how much weight Al Roker had lost. Then she left for work. With the house all to myself, I continued watching the news (or rather listening to) while I gathered things for school and finished my morning ritual: brush my teeth, apply deodorant, and figure out what kind of face I wanted to wear for the day (makeup). Every morning was very habitual. I was used to it. Though much had changed, my mornings stayed the same.

It was January which meant it was really freaking cold! At the time, I was driving a soft top convertible, so it was almost a necessity to go out and start the car to let it heat up before actually taking it anywhere. A task so menial, but one that to this day, I haven’t been able to repeat…

I headed back inside to finish getting ready. Book bag: check. Notebook: check. Textbook: check. Calculator: check. I remember contemplating whether I should bring a snack with me, but deciding against it. I was heading to a class that only lasted a little over an hour. I would stop by the house on my way to work afterwards, grab lunch (so no, I didn’t need a snack), and gather what I needed for my evening classes. After I completed my mental checklist, I headed out the door.

As I was walking around my car, something caught my eye and I looked up. The Recluse was charging me from the neighboring yard. “You need to leave now!” My voice was solid, authoritative; not one that I think I’ve ever used. I didn’t stop: I got in my car, threw my bag in the passenger seat, and just as I went to shut the door and go tearing out of the driveway, The Recluse grabbed my door.

“BECAUSE OF YOU, I HAVE NOTHING. NO HOME. NO JOB. MY SISTER HAS EVEN DISOWNED ME! WE NEED TO TALK. GET OUT!”

“No! Let go of my door! Leave me alone! I have class!”

“GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR!”

He reached inside the car and extracted my keys from the ignition.

“I MEAN IT! GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

My mind was racing. Do I get out? Should I try and fight to shut the door and lock it? He has the keys. What is he going to do if I get out? I submitted to his demand. As I got out, he slammed my door shut.

“GO INSIDE.” He was pointing to the house.

“No.”

“DO IT! NOW!”

He grabbed my arm and started dragging me to the door; I was fighting him every step of the way, but he was much stronger than me. We got to the top of the steps and he handed me my keys.

“OPEN THE DOOR.”

I just stood there. Should I run? If I scream, will someone hear me? What does he want? What do I do?

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

I took the keys and struggled to unlock the door; my hands shaking with nerves.

Once inside, I burst into tears. “What do you want from me!? Why won’t you just leave me alone!?”

He led me to the front room and told me to sit on the couch. He disappeared into the kitchen all the while talking about how I had destroyed his life.

“YOU KNOW, YOU REALLY FUCKED THINGS UP FOR ME. I HAD A PLACE TO LIVE AND A GOOD JOB, AND NOW MY SISTER WON’T EVEN TALK TO ME! AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOU JUST WANTED TO HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO. YOU WANTED TO KEEP YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH {BOYFRIEND} AND SCREW ME, DIDN’T YOU? YOU’RE A SELFISH BITCH WHO HAS RUINED EVERYTHING!”

He appeared around the corner with a box of tissues that he threw at me.

“STOP CRYING! YOU AND ME NEED TO TALK.”

He walked over to the ottoman positioned in front of where I was sitting, and sat down. I couldn’t look at him. My throat was constricted. I was gasping for air as panic set in and I began to hyperventilate. My eyes were swollen and my face was damp from the tears. And then I saw it; he had a knife.