“We’re here, ma’am!” One of the officers reaches me first, steadying me as I tremble. “Are you okay?”
I nod, breathless. “He’s inside. Please—he said he was going to kill me.”
A couple of officers rush past me and I see Timmy slipping out the exit stairs at the other end of the hall.
“I’m the one who called,” I explain, in shock.
“We got several calls, ma’am,” one of the officers says. “Are youokay?” He’s standing right in front of me, but his voice sounds muffled, like he’s speaking through a fluffy cloud, as if I’m in a dream.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “He tried to kill me.”
They come and take a quick look around the apartment, which by now is a mess, one of them snapping pictures.
“Do you need an ambulance, ma’am?”
“No, I think I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t have my insurance sorted yet. I really can’t afford it. I’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you come with us,” he says. “We’ll go to the lobby, and we need to ask you a few questions about what happened.” I nod, in complete disbelief.
They lead me to the elevator bank, and we ride down in silence. Their expressions are solemn, and I feel like I’m going to throw up, but I manage to hold it in.
We take a seat at the long table in the lobby, several officers gathered around me, looking at me with concern.
It’s not long before I see them dragging him toward the police car with his hands behind his back. I hope he can’t see me through the glass. All I can see are the red and blue flashing lights.
He thrashes and spits, but I can tell that his strength is mostly gone, burned out by his manic rage. He catches sight of me through the glass. I look away, but not before his gaze catches mine—those eyes that once looked at me with so much love—now glare with hatred. My stomach twists as the lights from the police cars outside reflect off his pale, sweaty skin.
I watch from the window as they shove Timmy into the back of one of the cars. The door slams shut with a heavy, final sound. I feel a twisted mix of relief and sorrow as the car drives away. How did we get here?
“So what did he do exactly?” the officer asks, taking my statement. “Take me through it, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, he was very upset about my next door neighbor, and next thing I knew he was attacking me.” I explain what happened with theantlers, and being thrown to the ground. I describe how he threatened to kill me, and how he was smashing items in the apartment with a hammer that he threatened to use on me. How he told me he was going to slit my throat.
They ask a few more questions—details about the attack, what led up to it. I answer mechanically, the words falling from my mouth without thought or emotion.
“Do you want to press charges, ma’am?” one of them asks. I’ve never been asked that before, but my brain tells me that that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Yes, I say,” robotically. “Yes, I want to press charges.”
The officer glances at one of his colleagues, and then he returns his attention to me.
For a moment, I feel like we’re just sitting here in silence, my brain racing, my heart still thumping in my chest.
I watch as the neighbor walks past, a smirk on her face, as if she’s amused by seeing me in this situation, and her presence makes my brain zap.
“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance, ma’am?” an officer asks, snapping me back to reality. I realize he’s been talking to me this whole time, but his voice just sounds muffled, too, like we’re in separate rooms.
“No,” I whisper, numb. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he presses gently. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”
“I can’t afford it,” I mutter, my voice hollow. “My insurance isn’t set up yet. I just… I just need to be alone.”
The officers exchange another glance, but don’t push further.