Jacqueline Lauder
TW: Abuse
Everybody has a sad tale to tell, and mine is nothing special. Sure, I have a family with a couple convicted murderers, countless addicts and alcoholics, and a handful of deeply disturbed people, but who doesn’t? I’ve had it easy compared to many. Yes, I was a former runaway at 16, emotionally abused and sexually assaulted for years by my step-father; but never had I ever been in a physical altercation in my 36 long years. Until last month, that is. Perhaps I secretly wanted to. Of course, I would never fight without absolute provocation. Only in self defense. Only as a last resort when words failed. In the wee hours of Friday morning, I had exactly six hours to sleep before getting up and dealing with the monumental task of awakening Tiffeny, my BFF and navigator set to take me to the city the next day. My apartment isn’t in the best neighborhood. Perhaps that’s an understatement; most of my friends are too scared to visit on account of the reputation and curb appeal (or lack thereof). Tiffeny does so reluctantly and only if I escort her to and from her vehicle. Despite my weekly efforts to clean it up, trash is littered throughout the yard. On the weekends, the children run through the neighborhood, peeking into windows, ding-dong-ditching, and doing general kid stuff. It’s definitely “the hood,” but it’s my hood.
Kim, my neighbor, has been a nutcase since I met her. I have tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, but she must be legitimately deranged. She’s been telling me she’s seven months pregnant with twins for at least three months, despite looking about 50 years old and being drunk every time I see her. Not to mention her appearance hasn’t changed at all. She’s always trying to get something from me with some wild tale or blameless mishap. Her clothes were stolen out of the dryer and she needs some new ones; someone gave her crystal meth and she needs me to buy it so she can have 20 dollars to spend on meds. She needs money for rides to her weekly chemo treatments. I don’t know if she’s a pathological liar, a conwoman, mentally unstable or just a garden variety addict, but I’ve done my best to be neighborly. “Sure, I’ve got extra food in my freezer, and here’s a sundress!” I don’t have a lot to share but I will always give freely of what I have. My mom used to say, “No good deed goes unpunished.” She was funny and sarcastic, and though she didn’t live her life by this credo in any real way, there was some truth to it.
It’s 2am in my living room. It is my safe space, with my teal couches, books and paintings galore, and strings of white fairy lights draped all around. It has an inviting and warm, if a bit eccentric vibe. It was small, and it was in a rough area, but it was all mine. Just as I was about to retire to my room, leaving my friend on the makeshift couch-bed, I saw a familiar face peeping in my window. Why the hell was the curtain even open? My jet black cat, Boo, the ever diligent neighborhood watch cat, peered guilily at me with her green eyes. Coiled along the back of the sofa, she meowed apologetically. As usual, she had wedged herself into the window frame, peeling back the curtain in the process. To my dismay, in the window was Kim, and as quickly as I could think, “God, please let her go away,” she was frantically ringing my doorbell. What was I to do? Ignore her? Hide on the other side of a 400 sq ft apartment? Open my door and invite all this chaos into my life? We always have choices, but sometimes there are no good ones.
“Cchhhackie, you gotta help me!” she slurred, looking more annoyed than in danger, though it was hard to judge.
“What’s up Kim, I was just headed to bed, I’ve got my doctor’s appointment in Chicago tomorrow and we’ve gotta be on the road in less than 8 hours.”
“But you gotttta help! Butchas cannot call the cops. Please don’t call those motherfuckin’ cops, cuz you know Pooh got a outstandin’ warrant and if he goes to chjail than ima loose my place!”
“Ok… well what do you want me to do?”
“Just tell him to leave, you know I ain’t got no cell phone an’ he’s tryna beat on me and you know I’m pregnant! He’ll listen if you tell him you’re gonna call the cops, please just come over and ask him to leave.”
I sighed. I closed my eyes. I had choices. None of them were good. But I knew she truly didn’t have a phone, and I can’t stand a helpless victim. Barefoot and armed solely with my cell phone in hand, I quickly padded down the short sidewalk to her apartment. When I got to the opened door of her unit, “Pooh,” potential “baby-daddy” or drug-dealer, was stumbling around half dressed, angrily flinging blankets and clothes across the room.
“I need my phone battery! She got my damn phone battery, look, look, it ain’t in the phone and it ain’t in here.”
“Look, she said you were going to hit her. Whether she stole your phone battery or not, that’s not cool, please just get out of here so I don’t have to call the cops. Please don’t make me call them. But if there’s still arguing happening in 5 minutes, I’m calling the cops!”
I hoped that I sounded authoritative enough as I spun on my heels on the cool cement and marched resolutely back to my place. Once inside, I locked the door, turned off all the lights, and sat quietly in the dark with my friend. She has PTSD as well, and was obviously shook. I’d set the timer on my watch for 6 minutes. We sat together in silence, waiting for the sounds of him leaving and hearing only continued cursing and threats. When my wrist buzzed, letting me know that time was up, I again prayed for peace. Calling 911, I described the situation as quickly and quietly as possible. They assured me that they would send officers and that my identity would be kept in confidence.
5 minutes later, my world exploded. Laying in bed after I hung up with 911, I prayed I would fall asleep quickly. Then the frantic screaming and pounding on my door began. “Help! He’s after me! He hit me and I don’t have a phone, help!” I made a decision without consciously making a decision, and before I knew what was happening, I ran to the front door. By the time I got outside they’d run past me to our tiny driveway. As I closed my door behind me, I heard him hit her. Hard. I called 911 again, this time with a frantic haste. As I spoke to dispatch, Kim cowered behind me, begging me to keep her safe. I backed her into my home, to presumed safety, and Pooh tried to make his way in. When I used my arm as a shield, standing my ground, her aggressor became my attacker. He tried to grab my phone, presumably to disconnect from 911. I remember pushing him away as he smacked the side of my head. I was more shocked than hurt, initially. I’m by no means a small woman, but this 6’2, 250 pound man surely didn’t need to hit me to control me. We grappled. He somehow got behind me, arms around me, and I used my full body weight to slam him into the railing, attempting to break free. That’s when the blows started coming from both sides. Because he was behind me, I can only imagine that he looked like an angry King-Kong. Except, instead of beating on his chest, he was beating on my face. By then, Tiffeny had reluctantly opened the door, screaming at him to release me.
After the 7th or 8th blow, I saw bright light where there had only been blackness behind my closed eyelids, and fell, landing on an already bad wrist. Sensing the situation had gone from bad to worse, and assuming (incorrectly, it turned out) that SURELY the cops would be arriving soon, Pooh took off into the darkness, away from the nowhere-near-approaching police. Shoeless, pantsless, phone-less, and wearing nothing but boxers and a ripped wife beater T-shirt (no pun intended), he should have been easy enough to catch on the empty streets. That is, if anyone were looking. But no one was. As I tried to catch both my breath and composure, failing at both, Kim retreated to her apartment, yelling to the operator on the other side of the phone, “Tony (Pooh) has crack on ‘em!” I didn’t want to think about where that might be hidden.
Dispatch again said police were coming, and I returned home. Locking my door, wanting to turn off the lights and hide in my bed, instead I sat with my friend and waited. Like two combat struck prisoners of war, we stared at each other and shook. Nearly an hour after my nightmare began, the police finally arrived. They seemed dubious when I insisted that I wanted to press charges, informing me that Kim had denied any kind of physical altercation. So much for rescuing the helpless victim.
“It’s a he-said, she-said kind of thing, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. My friend right here saw the whole thing, I’ve been punched repeatedly in the face, my wrist feels broken, and I was ON THE PHONE WITH 911 WHEN IT HAPPENED!”
Sighing as though it were a great inconvenience for him, he wrote down a case number on a small blue notecard, “Call this number Monday. Maybe they’ll have more info for ya.” “You know your neighbor is crazy, right? She hates the cops, and that guy going through her back yard a few weeks ago is wanted for murder. I just wouldn’t answer the door if I were you.” He shrugged, as if to say, “What are you gonna do? Boys will be boys. Next time, don’t make it so easy to be a victim.”
The bruises quickly ripened over the next 24 hours, leaving me 2 black eyes and a broken wrist. For the last month, I’ve felt just like I did 20 years ago. A helpless, angry, unspoken for, victim, full of false bravado. A pathetic attempt at being a hero had led me to disappointment in our justice system once again. At the age of 16, it was my stepfather’s word against mine. I did everything right. I went to the police. I cooperated with DCFS. I retold my gross story to old men over and over. And yet, it’s my fault, because why didn’t I tell someone sooner? So he walks around today a free man. Unprovoked, I was attacked by my neighbor’s boyfriend, but I’m not technically a victim of domestic violence. My wrist is broken, but not by a domestic partner. But it’s my fault; I made the choice; I opened the door. He’s still free on the streets. But THIS time, I’m not a victim. He might have made me a crime statistic, but he won’t make me a prisoner in my own home. I won’t even be relegated to the title of survivor. I’m a goddamn thriver.
I don’t lock my doors unless I’m leaving my house or going to bed. I still prop my door open, feeling the cool breeze and smelling musty autumn leaves, allowing my troublemaking feline the freedom to come and go. The kids still stop by to wave or ask for a snack. I still love my home and walk alone at night. Because it’s not the strangers you need to worry about. It’s the ones you let in; the Devil You Know. “Stranger danger” is largely a myth, though I do keep mace on my keychain now. According to FBI data, in 2011, 54% of people were killed by someone they knew (acquaintance, boyfriend, etc.) and 25% percent of victims were slain by family members. It’s not the stranger in the streets you need to worry about, it’s the one next to you under the sheets.