Saturday, February 12, 2005
 
I put my oversized, warm, grey sweatshirt on.  I grab the towel and put it around my neck (I need to stick my head under the faucet since my morning hair isn’t cooperating, as usual).  Suddenly, I hear a banging noise.  I look down, one cat is at my feet.  Where is the other one?  What has she gotten into this time?  I look out the bathroom door to the washer and dryer.  No cat there and the machines sit quietly.  The banging pauses, and starts up again.  I look towards the kitchen, and the second cat comes running to my feet.  Obviously she hasn’t fallen or gotten into something.  The pounding continues and crescendos.  Pictures on the wall begin to shake from the power of this fury.  I follow the source of the strength and sound as I walk around and find my front door vibrating as if there was an earthquake.  Someone is pounding my door down with all their strength.  Could it be him?!  The anger behind the banging makes me suspect that it is.  I run back to bathroom, to my cell phone.  Who do I call?  My friends?  The police?  Maybe I’ll try to wait it out.  My front door gets a break from the beating, but only for a fleeting second, before the powerful, angry knocking starts up again.  My heart is pounding just as hard and loud as the person at my door.  Fear washes over me.  Where do I go?  What do I do?  I look at the phone again.  This person will not stop.  At least a full five minutes have passed by now.  I keep hoping that they will get the hint, but the banging persists.  Hunched over, so as not to be seen, I creep up to the door.  I almost look through the peephole, but something inside me says, “Fuck it.”  I suddenly gain this sense of security and invincibility.  No one is here to protect me, and I don’t know who is on the other side, but I am now brave for some odd reason.  With my hair soaking wet and going in every direction, I cling to the towel around my shoulders.  Nervously, I unlock the top lock, then the second.  Carefully, I turn the knob, and open the door slowly and just enough to see the person’s face.  It is a man, but it isn’t him.  This is a foreign man, possibly from a Middle Eastern country.  With a thick, almost incomprehensible accent, he asks for someone.  I tell him he has the wrong address.  Sternly, he tells me it is correct and gets out his directions.  As he unfolds his paper, he sees the number is wrong, apologizes and quickly walks away.  I close the door and lock it quickly.  With my heart still racing, I fall against the wall, and let my fear overtake me.  I fight back the tears.  The tears of pain and paranoia.  The same tears I have cried in the past because of him.  And I wonder, will I ever feel safe again?