To put it bluntly, I was murdered.
And I know you must be wondering who would want to murder an eighteen-year-old girl on her birthday. Well, it wasn’t an intentional murder. Well, not that I’m aware of. I don’t even think that it was planned until he realized the ramifications of what he had done and what kind of s**t I put him through.
My mother and my step-dad live in a small area of Redding (which is just a few hours south of the Oregon border). Our neighbor was always known to be violent. It wasn’t uncommon for us to hear him yelling at his wife or kids for what seemed like the most mundane of things. His temper had to be common knowledge to the entire neighborhood, with how loud he yelled.
Anyways, I had just gotten home from school – woo for birthdays that land on bloody Monday – and I was walking to my room to put my backpack away. When I opened the door and the cat started greeting me, I heard someone knock on the door. Great. Another missionary. I spent a few moments remembering what happened the last time a missionary came to our door and how much of a sucker I was. I can’t say no to anyone for the life of me…
I went back over to the door and opened it without a second thought. To this day – whatever day it is – I still regret not thinking to be more safety-conscious.
It was Guy, our neighbor. I’m not sure if that’s his actual name, but that’s what my step-dad and mom always called him. Guy.
He overpowered me. I tried to knock him out of the way when I saw that he was coming in – without permission, no less – but he was six feet tall. I barely exceeded five feet. Hell, I wasn’t even taller than my mom (or so she claims, I still think I had to have been an inch taller than her 5’2). I backed up – too scared to actually turn around and flee.
But the coffee table was right behind me. The back of my knees encountered the coffee table and down I went. My legs buckled underneath me – without my permission, I might add – and the rest of my body soon followed suit. I was still trying to figure out how to get out of the house until my head hit the edge of the coffee table that my knees had already run into.
My brain went fuzzy after that. I knew what was happening to me, but I couldn’t really do anything about it. I couldn’t even think clearly enough to cry or scream. I was forced to just lay there as my body was abused and violated in the worst way possible. Towards the end, I remember seeing the light in his eyes, the light that told me he just discovered what kind of trouble he could get in.
So he did the only thing that would keep me quiet. He closed his hands around my neck and squeezed.
I think I died before my body started screaming for oxygen. I don’t remember the attempts to breathe. I just remember being there with the vague notion that I was going to die, and then I was gone.
I don’t know about what the rest of normal dead people go through, but I never saw a white light. I did however, see my life flash before my eyes. All the amazing times I had, all the people I loved, all the people I would miss. And, in that brief moment when I knew that I was going to die, I wanted to weep.
But I was too slow. My soul cried, but my body could not. I had no body any longer.
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Random Musings of a Bipolar Tangerine
Stuff goes in here. I'm not quite sure what stuff, but things will go here. Perhaps my thoughts, my current situation with pain or medication, or even random amusing things I find on the internet. Won't be too exciting unless you're THAT bored.
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Bipolar Tangerine
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