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proceedcycloneA rock came crashing through the living room window as she lathered peanut butter on toast, again, in the kitchen. “Murderer!” someone yelled outside followed by the squealing of tires as a car sped away. After a few minutes of silence, she felt brave enough to approach the window. Glass was scattered across the sofa underneath the window and she could feel the cold night air seeping into the room. As she peered through the blinds, she could just see the garage door where she’d painted over “Die, bitch!” yesterday. She sighed and stooped in front of the TV to pick up the rock that had stopped there before grabbing the dustpan and broom in the hallway closet.
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen table. It was probably her mother checking in on her, which she did a lot of these days. Most of her friends had shown concern for her at first, but then they all slowly stopped calling and texting. As she lifted the phone, the screen brightened and she could see the message was not from her mother at all. The message, from an unknown number, said, “I hope someone kills the person you love most in the world so you can feel the way you made Derek’s family feel!” Apparently, it was time to change her phone number again. She’d had to get rid of all her social media accounts, too, after she received hundreds of death threats.
She hadn’t intended to. That counted for something, right? Her lawyer called it “self-defense” and, apparently, the judge agreed as her case never went to trial; she never even spent a night in jail.
She had to–or she’d thought she did, at least. He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. And she was scared. Scared he was going to harm her. It was a visceral response that she didn’t doubt in the moment, but now–outside it, away from it–she wasn’t so sure.
She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she turned down the hallway, she’d felt Derek grab her arm and pull her back.
"Ow, you’re hurt—" She swallowed her words when she saw the look on his face. He was calling her a slut, yelling that she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. He was in her face and she could feel the spittle hitting her skin. She backed up a step, but her back bumped against the wall behind her. She started to wildly look around him as he continued to berate her. In the crowded bar, no one seemed to be looking in her direction. He pushed her shoulder and demanded that she listen to him. She pushed him away. She pushed him with both of her hands, as hard as she could. She didn't mean to hurt him; she just wanted him to be away from her. But he slipped on a stray piece of ice on the floor. On his way down, his head hit the corner of the table nearest the hallway before finally landing, silently amidst the loud music of the bar, on the floor. After a few seconds, she had a new fear; he wasn't moving. Slowly, the blood started to pool under his head. There was so much blood.
Shaking the memory away, she looked down at her oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d showered. She ran a hand over her hair tied loosely on the top of her head, shrugged, and pulled the blanket on the bed back. As her head sunk into the pillow and eyelids began to close, she wondered, still, how she was supposed to live like this or whether, whatever this was, could really be considered living at all. And, if not, was she suffering right alongside Derek’s family? Or did the pain she caused negate her claim to any of her own?
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen table. It was probably her mother checking in on her, which she did a lot of these days. Most of her friends had shown concern for her at first, but then they all slowly stopped calling and texting. As she lifted the phone, the screen brightened and she could see the message was not from her mother at all. The message, from an unknown number, said, “I hope someone kills the person you love most in the world so you can feel the way you made Derek’s family feel!” Apparently, it was time to change her phone number again. She’d had to get rid of all her social media accounts, too, after she received hundreds of death threats.
She hadn’t intended to. That counted for something, right? Her lawyer called it “self-defense” and, apparently, the judge agreed as her case never went to trial; she never even spent a night in jail.
She had to–or she’d thought she did, at least. He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. And she was scared. Scared he was going to harm her. It was a visceral response that she didn’t doubt in the moment, but now–outside it, away from it–she wasn’t so sure.
She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she turned down the hallway, she’d felt Derek grab her arm and pull her back.
"Ow, you’re hurt—" She swallowed her words when she saw the look on his face. He was calling her a slut, yelling that she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. He was in her face and she could feel the spittle hitting her skin. She backed up a step, but her back bumped against the wall behind her. She started to wildly look around him as he continued to berate her. In the crowded bar, no one seemed to be looking in her direction. He pushed her shoulder and demanded that she listen to him. She pushed him away. She pushed him with both of her hands, as hard as she could. She didn't mean to hurt him; she just wanted him to be away from her. But he slipped on a stray piece of ice on the floor. On his way down, his head hit the corner of the table nearest the hallway before finally landing, silently amidst the loud music of the bar, on the floor. After a few seconds, she had a new fear; he wasn't moving. Slowly, the blood started to pool under his head. There was so much blood.
Shaking the memory away, she looked down at her oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d showered. She ran a hand over her hair tied loosely on the top of her head, shrugged, and pulled the blanket on the bed back. As her head sunk into the pillow and eyelids began to close, she wondered, still, how she was supposed to live like this or whether, whatever this was, could really be considered living at all. And, if not, was she suffering right alongside Derek’s family? Or did the pain she caused negate her claim to any of her own?