I promised to tell you a story:
When I was a sophomore in high school, I dislocated my right ankle while sliding into home base during a softball game. I was in a cast for the rest of the spring semester and started physical therapy during the summer.
A few weeks into therapy, my doctor told me I was strong enough to walk around for maybe 15 minutes a day, and after that I should put my walking cast back on. Being that I’m stubborn and by that point in the summer I had cabin fever, I decided to walk to the beach, hang out for a bit, and then walk back. (If my leg started to swell, than maybe I would put my walking cast back on.) The beach is only a few blocks from my home in San Diego, so it wasn’t like I had far to go.
On my way there I crossed a street at which a red corvette was stopped at a stop sign. A guy, mid-30s, yelled out of his car, “You havin’ a good time?” I ignored him and kept my eyes forward.
The following is an excerpt of a short story I wrote on what happened next:
I imagine he watched me cross the street, cross in front of his car. I imagine he watched me continue to walk down the street. I guess he figured I was an easy target; I was limping slightly. There’s no other explanation.
I continued to walk toward the beach. The one a few blocks from my house. My beach, in my quiet, quaint, little beach town. If he drove by I didn’t notice. He had the same car as my grandfather; that’s what I remember most. A red sports car. It was an older model, probably from the early 90s. My granddaddy loves to be flashy.
I went to a few of the beach stores. Just to look. I hadn’t been out of the house without crutches for three months. My ankle wasn’t hurting, so I went to the beach. I saw him pass me in his red sports car. It doesn’t register. It looks just like my grandaddy’s.
There are too many people at the beach; I want to go back home. Not the normal way. A longer way for more sunshine; I want more sunshine. He must have been watching me the entire time. There’s no other explanation.
I went through a neighborhood. He didn’t follow behind me. A civilian would have done that. I made a turn here and a turn there. I’ve never been in this neighborhood. No matter, I lived to the north of where I was. Go north till you hit the water and my house is right there.
I’ve never been on this street. I’m at the end of the block. There is a barrier because of construction. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices.
And here he comes. In my granddaddy’s car. He turns the corner, and it hits me. Rebecca, he is following you. Oh my God. God help me.
His car stops in front of me. He yells something at me. Something about giving me a ride. I can’t hear. My heart is pumping. He presses the gas slightly, and drives up next to me. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Oh my God. God help me. Stop it Rebecca. Think. Process the situation. He’s talking to me. My body is frozen. My brain is running a marathon.
He’s wearing camo. He’s in the military. No Rebecca, not necessarily, any loser with $50 can buy a camo uniform. Wait, the sticker. He has a sticker of an American flag on his car. He has clearance to get onto base. He is in the military. Father in heaven please help me. You’re alright, he’s still talking to you. Keep thinking.
I walk forward next to a large white van. He can’t see you, keep thinking. He puts the car in reverse. I can see the back of his car through the window of the white van. Oh my God. God help me.
“So you wanna run?” The southern accent I usually find adorable is now repulsive.
The engine turns off. He’s in the military, Rebecca. If he gets out of that car and gets his hands on you he’ll rape you. Maybe even worse. Defend yourself. Defend yourself, Rebecca.
The engine is on again. Thank you Lord. I hear him switch gears. He drives forward. I walk forward. I’m behind another car. He still can’t see me. He yells something. I can’t hear anything. I can only hear the instructions screaming from my brain.
The car switches gears, and he accelerates forward from 0 to 50mph in what seemed one second. He turned left on the corner, trying to cut me off around the block. I’m in pain. I look down, and my not yet healed ankle is swollen about twice the normal size.
It doesn’t matter, run Rebecca. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices. I’ve never been in this part of my small little beach town. I’m about half a mile east from my house. Run, Rebecca. I pick left.
I run; there are more houses. I can hear his engine stalking me. He’s on the other side of the block. I make another left. It’s a cul-de-sac. Great. The engine is getting louder. Hide, hide right now.
There is a house with a wall. I hide behind it, as the sound of the engine grows louder. He drives up right beside me, looking. I can hear the engine roaring loudly. He’s looking for me. A few minutes pass, and he turns and drives out the way he came; bored I guess.
I wait until I hear utter silence, and then I begin to run home. I zigzag through the blocks to make sure it isn’t easy to follow me. Every now and then I hear the engine of a muscle car. It’s not him, but the fear in my heart says it is.
I run into my house. I lock the gate. My ankle is huge and bruised. Not five minutes later my mother walks in the door.
She stops in the doorframe, staring at me, wanting to know what’s wrong. I tell her, she calls the police. They come, but that’s about it. There are plenty of blonde white males in their 20s between 5’9 and 6’1 with shaved heads wearing camo driving red muscle cars. This is a military town.
Needless to say, that was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I had been harrassed by men before, but I had never been stalked for hours like that. The worst part is that I have seen him around town since that incident.
At the time I was running on adrenaline and my instincts—stay calm, put distance between myself and my predator, and then escape. It worked pretty well, but what I should have done was ask for help after my initial escape. I was in a neighborhood full of cars in the driveway and other indications that people were at home. I had my cell phone, but I also didn’t think to call 911 because my focus was on putting distance between myself and my attacker. He was in a car and I only had one good leg.
Since that incident I have been changed. For about a year afterward I was terrified of young white men. It was terrible because someone would introduce themselves to me, and I would have to breathe very slowly and tell myself that he was not going to hurt me just in order to shake his hand. I knew that fear was irrational and with the help of my family and friends I was able to overcome it. I would also get scared at the first faint instance of a roaring engine, something I also was able to eventually work through.
But there have been some positive changes as well. Whenever I go to a new place, I immediately scan the room for exit routes. It’s not paranoia, just preparation. If I am in a room with a bunch of men that I don’t know, it’s also now second nature to compare their height and weight to mine, just to see how big of a fight I will have to put up if they attack me. Again, this is not paranoia, just preparation.
Every woman must be prepared to defend herself. You must know what to do in any situation. Take a self-defense class and read up on the warning signs of an attack.
I send up the petition to Our Lady that you never have to face a situation like I did, but you must be prepared to defend yourself.
~Rebecca
Since it’s a holiday week I’m going to drive my car home as is, and then I’ll take it to my insurance’s autobody shop next Monday.
Hi Rebecca,
