“Just let me sleep,” I begged. “We’ll talk in the morning, or after work or something.” I had no answers, only more questions. Given his behavior all night long, did I want to be done? Was there anything to salvage? Was this who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life?
Refusing to listen, he continued to punch me. Blocking him only further enraged him. So, one might imagine that leveraging his weight when he dove at me and thereby allowing him to fly off the bed didn’t do much to improve his attitude. Sure enough, I was soon running to get away from him. My teal bathrobe was ripped under the arm and at the neck as he struggled to maintain a hold on me. Squirming out of it, I only managed to make it to the wall near his side of the bed before he caught up. And that’s when I took my first real punch, one that was meant for me and me alone.
Trent connected with my cheekbone and eye. There was no time to feel the pain, to acknowledge the burning. He was already fixated on trying to hit me again. This time, I pushed him back. Drunk as he was, he stumbled and fell, his back hitting the wooden side rail of the bed. We both froze for a moment. I knew this wasn’t going to do anything other than further infuriate him.
“You know I’m going to have to kill you now, right?” he asked, as the twitch, his rage tell, started up in his face. Before I could even respond, he had propelled himself off the floor and directly at me.
Though I took two more hits in rapid succession to my chest and neck, I never fell, never flinched, never thought past how I was going to make it from the room alive. Once more I pushed him back. As he fell, creating the much-needed space between us, I bolted from the room and raced directly to the kitchen.
For some reason, my first thought had been to ice my face. After all, I had work in the morning. He came after me, of course, but he was drunk and worn out. All I had to do was keep avoiding him until he dropped. Since he was still limping from the foot injury, it wasn’t too difficult. He passed out in the master bedroom, using the step up to the bed as a pillow for his head. When he woke, hours after I’d called in sick, he took one look at me and asked what had happened.
“You happened,” I told him. “You did this to me.”
This is the part that shames me most: he wasn’t sorry. He refused to admit his guilt. There was no apologizing, no begging for forgiveness, no promising that it would never happen again. Instead, I made the choice that changed the direction of my life...and stayed. Pride kept me here. We had one thing in common: neither one of us wanted to admit we were wrong. For me, it was admitting that we shouldn’t be together. So, I made all the excuses for him. It was a bad drug reaction. He didn’t mean it. This wasn’t who he really was. Six months later, when we made our vows, my downfall was complete.
A little more than six months after we were married, his anger was out of control again. After a massive temper tantrum that had me hiding in the bedroom, he’d stormed out to the garage. Fifteen minutes had passed with no sound from there. Peeking out the door I was shocked to discover that he was gone and so was his truck. Though he had been drinking all day, he had driven. Using the Find My Phone app, I learned he was at the Touchstone Rose bar. There wasn’t time to hesitate. My stomach knotted. Who knew how long he’d be? Who knew what kind of mood he’d be in upon his return? Honestly, I didn’t want to find out. Taking the advice of our marriage counselor, made during one of my private sessions, I had kept bags packed and at the ready for a situation such as this. We didn’t have kids. There was nothing tying me here. This was what I reminded myself repeatedly as I loaded all my possessions into the vehicle, pausing to run through my checklist. I had all my electronics, all my cords, the antidepressants I’d had to start taking in order to function. I had all my clothes, all my important papers and financials. Confident I had everything I owned, I settled in behind the steering wheel and drove off. I had my own bank accounts. I had my own business, which was both forgiving and flexible. Just like that, I’d decided to be single, to start over once more.
Since then we’d spoken through text because I refused to answer his calls. He wanted me back, but there was nothing he could do to convince me to return. Nothing. He was out of empty promises to make. And I was ready for a better life.
Now, six months later, I was determined to keep the better life I’d built. Struggling to control my emotions, I called the police. After explaining the reason for my call, I was transferred twice and left on hold for Sergeant Bowers.
Finally, I heard a woman’s voice. “This is Sergeant Bowers. How can I help you?”
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. “My name is Tegyn Sellers and I’m being stalked,” I began quietly. “Or harassed. I don’t know what to call it. I just want it to stop and it’s getting scary.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” she urged patiently.
“Well, I guess it all began roughly six months ago, soon after my husband and I separated.” I gnawed on my lower lip.
“Are you back together?” she asked.
“No. We never will be.” I sighed. I found it so difficult to admit this mistake.
“Okay, and what’s happening exactly?” Sergeant Bowers prodded me to continue my story.
“I started getting letters. They look like ransom ones you’d see on television, all cut out from magazines.” I shifted in my seat and flipped through them with a still gloved hand. “I saved all the envelopes and the letters in case something ever happened.”
“That’s good.”
“I try to be organized. There’s a progression from just being mean, trying to break my spirit, criticizing my looks, to now threatening me with a reminder: I know where you live.” I swallowed hard. “And since these are hand delivered, not mailed, I know it’s true.”
“Have you had any fallings out with neighbors?” she asked the first of a series of logical questions.
“No. I don’t talk to anyone. I’m quiet. I mind my own business. I don’t party. I rarely have anyone over, maybe just a friend here or there.” I shrugged even though I knew she wouldn’t see it. “I don’t know what brought this on. I have no idea who would want to upset me like this.”
“So, not your future ex-husband?”
“No. This is too organized. Too detail oriented. There’s no way he could pull that off. He’d have to buy magazines. He’d have to read. Then there’s the arts and crafts aspect of assembling. And…most of all…he has no idea where I live.” I shut the file and pulled off my glove. “I’m getting scared. I don’t know what you can do. First, I have no idea who this is. Second, I’m single. I live alone. I don’t even have a dog.” I choked back a sob. “Maybe I should get a dog.”
“Do you want a dog?” Sergeant Bowers asked quietly.
“Not particularly. I enjoy traveling. It’s my life.” I let out a mirthless laugh.
“Wait…are you that Tegyn?” She perked up. “You know…Tegyn Talks Travel.”
“Guilty,” I murmured.
“So, you’re something of a public figure. I know you’ve done appearances on the local morning show. You’ve been featured in major magazines. And…” Her voice trailed off and I sensed she was requesting my full resume.