Suck It.
By the following summer, sobriety was moving along quite swimmingly. I spent my time focused on the future when, I was sure, Paul and I would be happily married with our 2.2 children and white picket fence. I had nine months sober, my job, some true freedoms, and my tiny apartment in Swissvale (where Paul never even once spent the night).
And I had my darling cat, Kitty, who seemed much happier since I’d gotten sober. Except one night, Kitty disappeared. She had been sitting on the kitchen window sill enjoying the summer night’s breeze when – poof!
Kitty was gone.
My apartment was so small, I thought I’d lost my mind. Did I let her out? I opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. “Kitty!” I called. “Kitty!”
With barely a sound, a dark-skinned man wearing a black ski mask appeared from around the corner. He stepped toward me quickly from the darkness of my yard, holding a huge knife above his head.
He ordered: “Sit down.”
I sat on the porch steps.
He hovered over me, easily six feet tall, held the knife at my throat. With his left hand, he unzipped his pants, shoved his penis at my face and demanded: “Suck it.”
Instantly I remembered how to anesthetize myself, even without alcohol. Trauma can teach. I became numb.
I thought: I would rather be dead.
I shook my head.
“SUCK IT!” he growled in a very loud whisper.
I stared at the ground, shook my head again. Doing this would ruin my sex life, I thought. I didn’t move a muscle.
The man stood there, penis hanging out, perplexed. “Do you see this knife?” he asked.
I nodded without looking up.
He shoved the knife onto my neck without actually cutting me. “Then suck it!” he demanded, whacking me slightly in the face with the thing I did not want.
“No,” I said. The knife felt cold.
I’m okay with death, I thought. I did not move.
The guy looked around, considering his options. He held up one finger. “Wait here!” he growled.
Then he stepped over me and walked into my apartment where, I’m sure, he found no one lurking.
I did not “wait here” to find out.
As soon as he stepped past me, I unfroze. I leapt from the porch, tore through the backyard and raced across the street. Years of drunken, barefoot summers made this part easy. I went to the nearest lit house and banged on the door, rang the bell, banged on the door again.
When no one answered instantly, I turned the knob – not locked! I ducked inside, hiding, shaking, terrified. No people – but a landline phone sat in the foyer on a table.
I picked up a stranger’s phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“There’s a guy! With a knife! In my house!” I shrieked. “I don’t know what to do! I think he killed my cat!”
Within seconds, the older couple who lived in the house appeared, eyeing me.
I started apologizing, “I’m so sorry!” I said, bursting into tears. “I didn’t mean to break into your house! I just needed a phone!” They stood and nodded, unsure but supportive.
The police came and found no one, never found anyone. I couldn’t have identified a ski-masked man anyway.
The police found Kitty in the backyard, rolling around like nothing had happened.
Shaking and crying, I stayed in the house across the street until my parents came to pick me up. I slept at their house that night – and every night, until I found a new place to live.