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.
It was over. My mind was racing and I was full of emotions: happy that he was gone; angry about what he did; relieved that I was still alive; sad that I let it happen; scared that he would come back. What do I do now?
First thing was first: lock the door. After he left, I ran to the door and switched the lock in place. I went to the front door that was never used and made sure that one was locked as well. I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was mid morning; right around the same time that my class would have been released, which also meant that I was to head to work. I knew that I couldn’t leave the house. Its not safe out there. I needed to call my boss and let her know that I wouldn’t be in for work that day.
Yes. You read that right. I had been raped at knife point and the first call I made was to my boss. I had told her weeks back about a stalker that I was trying to get a restraining order from, so she asked if that’s why I wasn’t coming in. I confirmed. She told me to call the police and to let her know if there was anything I needed from her. So you called the police after, right?
Nope. I called my aunt. I figured I could go see here. She lived about an hour away and I didn’t want to be at home… alone… for him to stop by again… Luckily she answered, but when I asked if I could come see her, she told me she would come to me since her house was a mess. Reluctantly, I agreed; at least I wouldn’t be alone. So then you called the police…? Still no. I called my mom at work. I told her that he had been at the house and she could tell I was crying. She too, asked if I had called the police. I told her no; that I couldn’t do it.
What if The Recluse finds out that I called the police before giving him a head start? I can’t risk upsetting him even more. He would come after me again, but this time, he would kill me.
Mom told me that she would call the police and come home. But until then, I was alone. Sure, the doors were locked, but I still didn’t know what this man was capable of. I was terrified that he would come back. I got dressed, went to my parent’s bathroom and hid in the shower; the farthest from the doors and most secluded place in the house . I sat in the single sized shower stall, legs to my chest, sobbing.
About a half hour later, I heard knocking on the door.
Is it him? He’s come back to finish what he started. I can’t let him see me. But what if its my aunt? She doesn’t have a key…
I snuck down the hallway and peaked around the corner to see who was at the door without being seen. It was my aunt. I went to the door and let her in. She had brought her puppies, two miniature teacup poodles who were only a few weeks old, in the hopes to calm my nerves. She asked what had happened, and I just shook my head. I couldn’t verbalize anything, not even an ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I just went to the couch, and sat in the fetal position, staring blankly at nothing.
Mom showed up, then dad. They talked to one another trying to figure out what happened, but I couldn’t tell them. This was the first time I saw my dad cry (other than the death of his parents). He told me: “You’re my little girl. Its my job to protect you. I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
Soon after my parents’ arrival, the police showed up. Not one or two officers; I’m pretty sure the entire squad from my home town showed up at the house. Most of them stayed outside, but a female officer approached me and asked if we could go to another room and talk without the presence of my parents; I agreed. I led her to the dining room and started from the beginning of my morning, trying not to leave out a single detail. I had to stop many times to compose myself. It was as if I was reliving it. Little did I know at the time, this wouldn’t be the last time I would tell my story.