My Dear Stranger (8 page)

 
Only one month in, Patrick was willing to go all He-Bitch on three girls just to defend me.  He defended me without knowing why I was fighting with 3 girls in my apartment, and I adored him for it.
  A short while after he had asked, I finally spilled, by my own mouth the events and why I went psychotic on my old friends.  I told him about Cassie fishing, and I told him what she tried to say about me deserving it.  I spilled and Patrick listened until he eventually smiled and said, “Good for you, Sadie.  They're fucking bitches and I hope you never speak to them again.”  Which I never did.
 

  And so after a time I enrolled back in college
for the second term, left my apartment infrequently- except to go to class.  And I continued, alone. 

  My phone stopped ringing, and my friends stopped dropping by.  I assume the rumors of Psycho Sadie made the rounds.  I was alone with the exception of my one male
neighbor who always stopped by- unexpectedly and frequently.  He stopped by and he was male, but he was gay, so I was safe from him.

  My
neighbor Patrick stopped by frequently, and though we never discussed the attack, he did admit once that it was him who finally heard my screams and called the Police.  I even learned later it was Patrick who convinced our Superintendent to let him in to clean up my apartment when I was in the hospital.  It was Patrick who scrubbed away all the brutal evidence of what happened to me from 4 different rooms in my apartment.  It was my gay, safe, male friend Patrick who entertained me with his frequent drop-ins, whether I wanted them or not.

  It’s funny and wonderful
for me when I think of Patrick. 

 
He and I lived across the hall, and other than one time when he and his gorgeous boyfriend stopped in for a quick drink after a party on a Friday night when we were all stumbling into our individual apartments drunk, Patrick and I were essentially casual acquaintances, until that day.

  After that day, he never left me alone again.  I woke up to Patrick in my kitchen making breakfast, and I would startle to Patrick sitting on my sink when I was in the shower as he waited to tell me some amazing adventure he had had the night before.  He was safe, and he had absolutely NO boundaries.  He was just this awesome, funny, charismatic, gay man who was safe for me.

  Patrick was older than I was by 6 years.  Patrick called me his ‘pretty girl’.  Patrick invited himself into my world, but he never asked the questions I was supposed to forget.  Though I really doubt he had to ask for details- he did see me taken out by ambulance after the attack, and he did clean my apartment while I was in the hospital.  I think he even saw the Police remove the knife that nicked and tore at my skin while I was being ‘loved’.

  So I went back to college.  I lived alone.  I had a Patrick and his usually gorgeous boyfriend of the week for entertainment, and I stopped talking.  Eventually, I even trusted Patrick enough to not be armed with a small knife in my pocket when he was in my home with me alone.  I slowly learned to trust Patrick.

  But after the attack I was different.  I was very quiet in class.  I suffered anxiety attacks in large auditorium lectures and I suffered anxiety attacks in small little rooms with bodies pressed in all around me.  I started taking night classes, so I could be alone all day watching television or scrubbing my apartment, and I came home from my night classes with less night to fill in darkness and silence. 

  I actually preferred night classes which most would think odd I’m sure.  But what happened
to me, happened in the day, so nighttime wasn’t psychologically affected by it.  I didn’t feel a psychological fear of night.  Daytime was when I felt most lost.

  Night was a time when I ran to my car quickly which was parked in the first spot right outside my apartment front door.  I locked myself in and checked my knives under the seat and in the glove compartment to make sure they were still in there waiting so I was safe. 

  And after class I had male and female buddy system escorts who walked me back to the campus parking lot.  Once home, I parked in my spot beside the front door, grabbed my little knife and ran for the door of my apartment.  And 36 steps later I was in my alarmed apartment leaning against the door safely inside.

  My dad had generously paid for an entire alarm system on every window and on the 2 doors to my apartment- the front door and the balcony door.  My apartment was
on the second floor of a four floor walkup, but it had a fire escape ladder attached to the end of my balcony, therefore it was alarmed too. 

  My 8 windows, 2 stories up were
also alarmed because the old brick walkup building had decorative ledges and artistic little niches and footholds that someone could actually climb if they were so inclined.  And so I continued in my apartment- anxious by day, sleepless by night.

  And when I would return from night classes, I would enter and check both security panels, making sure no window
nor the balcony door had been disturbed.  I would continue living, knowing only my parents and Patrick had the code.  Patrick- only having the code when it was installed because he scared the shit out of me the morning after it was activated. 

 
That next morning after its activation, Patrick didn’t know about it and he entered my apartment to make me breakfast.  And once the alarm tripped, and after I ran at him from my bedroom with a knife, he fought me until I realized who he was as he gently coaxed me sane, calming me down until the code slipped out of my mouth as I released a post-adrenaline cry on the floor with Patrick holding my hand.

  Patrick.  He was the lifeline holding me afloat in the murky sea I was slowly drowning in.

  I remember that time, and I know if I could have loved then, I think I may have loved Patrick forever.

*****

  Lighting another cigarette and finishing my freezing coffee, I can’t help but laugh.  I think this is my two hundredth smoke today.  My husband would have a heart attack if he could see me now.

  Pausing, I think I hear someone outside my garage door.  Jumping, I dive for the door and slam it shut as I twist the lock and freeze.  Pausing against the wall beside the door I try to listen.  Pausing, I try to breathe again.

  Jesus Christ!  I’m sure it’s no one but it sounded like footsteps walking along the side of my brick garage.  I’m sure it’s no one, but it sounded like someone.  I’m sure it was no one.  I’m sure of it.

  Oh my god… trying to catch my breath I can’t believe how afraid I am.  I know I’m being irrational.  I know I am, but I’m scared.  Plain and simple.  I’m afraid and my body is freaking out with the sudden change in my mood.

  I hate this fear.  Thank god I don’t feel it often, because this is killer fear.  I’m shaking and sweating and chilled and I can’t breathe very well.  My heart is pumping, and my mind is racing.  My hands are shaking and my legs feel weak. 

  Sliding down the wall in my
garage, I’m trying to relax my body. I’m too tense and I’m going to get sick from the tension soon.  I know I am.  When I get this much intensity of fear I usually become sick until I experience a full post-adrenaline dump.  I get sick from this much fear which weakens me further.

  Reaching with my legs, I hook my foot on my lounger and slowly pull it towards me.  Grabbing my smokes out of the little cup holder I light one and try to soothe my nerves while calming my body.  I remember a s
moke always helped me with this fear.  I always remember using a smoke to help with the fear.

  Inhaling deeply, and exhaling slowly, I sit back down on my butt on the floor against the
wall, and almost instantly I feel a slow, steady spread of relief throughout my body.

  I haven’t been afraid like that in quite a while.  That one was
quick and nearly debilitating, but I only have those ones maybe once a year now.

CHAPTER 8

 
I remember one of the very worst post-attack freak outs I had.  It was a bad one.  I remember how crazy I looked and I remember how crazy I felt.  It was a crazy moment I have never forgotten.

  Patrick had convinced me to go around the corner with him to this tiny little restaurant because he had a crush on one of the waiters.  And though I
rarely,
if ever
went out, I always found Patrick and his begging and whining hard to fight, so eventually I gave in. 

  And at
the restaurant, seated in the lone window seat, Patrick proceeded to charm the pants of the waiter, or almost charm his pants off.  Actually, I think if Patrick had told him to right then and there the waiter would have dropped his pants for him. 

 
Anyway, we did have a lovely meal, and I tried very hard to be as social as I could be with Patrick and the waiter, until it was finally time to leave.  And 6 drinks later for me, and 3 glasses of chardonnay for Patrick, with one phone number for him, we both stumbled out of the restaurant happy. 

  With only maybe 50 yard
s on the main road until Patrick and I turned onto our street I felt safe and really just happy after our fun dinner out.

  A
nd then I saw him on the corner of our street and the main street.  I saw him, but I don’t really know what happened. 

 
I remember the event but the details are fuzzy and kind of tunnel-like.  I remember the sounds of the street, and I remember the hum of Patrick’s voice chatting away.  I remember pain and confusion as I walked slower and slower until Patrick finally turned back to me.

  And I remember the fear.

  When Patrick began shaking my arm and snapping his fingers in front of my face I knew he was speaking to me.  I knew he was trying to get my attention.  I knew he was with me, but I felt nothing but the fear in that moment.

  Staring straight ahead, I was watching him watching me.  I was watching him as he stood still staring at me.  I was watching… until Patrick damn near broke my wrist.

  Screaming out at the pain, I was shocked back into the world of the living.  My attention was turned to Patrick because he and the pain were all I knew in that millisecond.

  Trying to function again I mumbled something to P
atrick.  I think I asked him ‘What did you do?’ I think I asked him something until he grabbed me hard around both upper arms and shook me.

  I remember looking past Patrick’s shoulder but he was gone.  He was no longer watching me watching him.  He no longer stared at me.  He was no longer there.  I was alone again with Patrick and the fear in that moment almost crushed me.

  I remember the hum of Patrick’s voice as I tried so hard to return to him.  I remember trying so hard to focus on words while I looked at Patrick’s face.  I remember his lips moving but no coherent sound reaching me.  I remember the car taillights blurring past us and I remember pain.

  Everything hurt me suddenly.  Everything was on fire in my body.  Everything was spinning and shaking and moving within me.  And then the post-adrenaline dump hit me and I threw up on the sidewalk with Patrick rubbing my back as I hunched over vomiting. 

  I remember Patrick pulling me off the sidewalk to sit on a step of a closed lawyer’s office.  I remember sitting as he spoke words I didn’t really understand.  I remember the chaos in my mind as I tried to understand why I had seen the man who had hurt me at the end of our street.

  Eventually I found my voice and moving slowly to Patrick as he leaned closer to me I whimpered,
“We have to get home now.  We have to set the alarm.”

 
And I think it was then that Patrick finally understood.  Actually, I’m sure he understood based on his sudden movements.  With my spinning head and blurred vision, I watched Patrick jump back on the sidewalk, and I watched him try to find something out of place.  I watched him try to find the man who hurt me

  With my head still between my knees, sitting on the step, Patrick finally understood.  Placin
g his hand on my head, with his body blocking me from the street as best as he could, he whispered, “Where is he Sadie?  Do you still see him?” And shaking my head no, I just sat there trying to breathe as my world continued to spin around me.

  “Let’s go back to the restaurant and call the police.  Now, Sadie.” 

  Quickly taking a look back down the street I knew he was gone.  I knew it.  So
I didn’t want the nightmare to continue.  I didn’t want to be interrogated.  I didn’t want counsellors asking me questions again, and police victim specialists asking if I remembered any more details that could help find him.  I didn’t want more of all this nightmare.