guy. He drives a school bus, talks to neighbors, works on cars in his backyard, buys presents for his daughters. I wish somebody would figure out what he’s doing inside this house.
It must be nice to be able to go swimming in this ninety-degree heat. I can smell grilling outside, the smell of summer. I daydream of barbecued ribs. I’m always so hungry.
There’s another story on the news about a soldier who won’t be home until the holidays, and I take it as a sign: I’ve been here two months. I can do six if I really have to.
I check the calendar and start counting. It’s 182 days until Christmas.
August 20, 2003: Strangle
Amanda
He wakes me up again. It’s whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. Even after four months, it’s still three or four times a day.
My strategy has become: Don’t fight. Don’t make him mad. Do whatever I have to do to stay alive and get home. But now he is making me lie on my stomach while he does that really nasty thing again. It hurts so bad. How would he like it if somebody stuck something into him that way? It’s horrible and he won’t stop. I can’t help it, so I scream, “Let me go home or kill me!”
He stops, sits me up, and looks at me funny.
“Do you want to die?” he finally asks.
“No, but I don’t want to be here!” It’s hard to get the words out through the tears. “If I was dead, at least I could see my family from heaven.”
He just looks at me for a while and then quietly says, “Okay.”
He steps out into the hallway and returns with an old vacuum cleaner, like one from the ’70s. He takes the cord and wraps it around my neck, and then starts tightening it. I feel it squeezing my throat, tighter and tighter.
I feel suddenly calm. I close my eyes. I am ready to die.
I pray silently:
Please, God, save me.
I love you, Mom. I love you, Beth. I love my girls. I love you all so much
.
I feel a release. No more pain.
Then the cord suddenly goes loose, and he throws it on the floor.
“I’m not here to kill you!” he shouts. “I don’t want to kill you! This is just about my sexual problem!”
He storms out of the room.
No matter what he says, I know he could kill me at any minute. His anger comes out of nowhere, like lightning. I never know what’s going to set him off.
As I rub my throat and sit there thinking, I realize I have a mission, like the soldiers. This man enjoys hurting women, and I want people to know it. I don’t want him to get away with it. I need to outlast him.
November 22, 2003: Numb
Amanda
I’m out of paper, so I start writing on the napkins he’s brought from fast-food restaurants. I have to be very careful not to press down too hard with the pen, because they tear so easily. I take my time, because there is so much time.
I try to numb my mind with TV so I can forget that I’m shivering in this cold house: morning shows, soap operas, sitcoms, movies, Jay Leno, more movies, just filling time. The only thing I really care about is the news. Starting at five-thirty in the morning, if I’m awake, and I usually am, I flip through the channels, looking for anything about me. There’s usually nothing, but every once in a while I see my family.
I listen to the radio late at night after all the local news shows are over. He gave me an old CD player and an Eminem CD and I listen to “Lose Yourself” over and over, trying to believe when he sings:
“You can do anything you set your mind to.”
I’ve set my mind to getting to the next day. I go days without speaking.
Because the room is always dark, the light is no different at three in the morning than it is at three in the afternoon. He gave me cards and I play solitaire. I finished all the crossword puzzles in my book. I’ve colored every page of a coloring book he gave me. He brings me the newspaper sometimes and magazines that he must get for free because they are so boring and I’ve never heard of them.
Being alone is bad, but it is far worse when he comes
It must be nice to be able to go swimming in this ninety-degree heat. I can smell grilling outside, the smell of summer. I daydream of barbecued ribs. I’m always so hungry.
There’s another story on the news about a soldier who won’t be home until the holidays, and I take it as a sign: I’ve been here two months. I can do six if I really have to.
I check the calendar and start counting. It’s 182 days until Christmas.
August 20, 2003: Strangle
Amanda
He wakes me up again. It’s whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. Even after four months, it’s still three or four times a day.
My strategy has become: Don’t fight. Don’t make him mad. Do whatever I have to do to stay alive and get home. But now he is making me lie on my stomach while he does that really nasty thing again. It hurts so bad. How would he like it if somebody stuck something into him that way? It’s horrible and he won’t stop. I can’t help it, so I scream, “Let me go home or kill me!”
He stops, sits me up, and looks at me funny.
“Do you want to die?” he finally asks.
“No, but I don’t want to be here!” It’s hard to get the words out through the tears. “If I was dead, at least I could see my family from heaven.”
He just looks at me for a while and then quietly says, “Okay.”
He steps out into the hallway and returns with an old vacuum cleaner, like one from the ’70s. He takes the cord and wraps it around my neck, and then starts tightening it. I feel it squeezing my throat, tighter and tighter.
I feel suddenly calm. I close my eyes. I am ready to die.
I pray silently:
Please, God, save me.
I love you, Mom. I love you, Beth. I love my girls. I love you all so much
.
I feel a release. No more pain.
Then the cord suddenly goes loose, and he throws it on the floor.
“I’m not here to kill you!” he shouts. “I don’t want to kill you! This is just about my sexual problem!”
He storms out of the room.
No matter what he says, I know he could kill me at any minute. His anger comes out of nowhere, like lightning. I never know what’s going to set him off.
As I rub my throat and sit there thinking, I realize I have a mission, like the soldiers. This man enjoys hurting women, and I want people to know it. I don’t want him to get away with it. I need to outlast him.
November 22, 2003: Numb
Amanda
I’m out of paper, so I start writing on the napkins he’s brought from fast-food restaurants. I have to be very careful not to press down too hard with the pen, because they tear so easily. I take my time, because there is so much time.
I try to numb my mind with TV so I can forget that I’m shivering in this cold house: morning shows, soap operas, sitcoms, movies, Jay Leno, more movies, just filling time. The only thing I really care about is the news. Starting at five-thirty in the morning, if I’m awake, and I usually am, I flip through the channels, looking for anything about me. There’s usually nothing, but every once in a while I see my family.
I listen to the radio late at night after all the local news shows are over. He gave me an old CD player and an Eminem CD and I listen to “Lose Yourself” over and over, trying to believe when he sings:
“You can do anything you set your mind to.”
I’ve set my mind to getting to the next day. I go days without speaking.
Because the room is always dark, the light is no different at three in the morning than it is at three in the afternoon. He gave me cards and I play solitaire. I finished all the crossword puzzles in my book. I’ve colored every page of a coloring book he gave me. He brings me the newspaper sometimes and magazines that he must get for free because they are so boring and I’ve never heard of them.
Being alone is bad, but it is far worse when he comes
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