The sound from the hallway faded.
I couldn't tell whether it had been a passing vehicle or something closer.
Richard moved toward the doorway.
His shoes scraped across the floor.
I listened for another sound.
Nothing came that I could identify.
I wanted to call out.
My throat tightened when I tried.
Only a weak breath escaped.
I closed my mouth and swallowed.
The effort left me exhausted.
It was strange how quickly the simplest things had become difficult.
I had spent years learning to work through pain.
I had pushed myself through demanding days and difficult assignments.
I had learned to stay focused when people around me were frightened.
I had thought of those experiences as proof that I could handle almost anything.
But there was nothing admirable about being unable to move on your own kitchen floor.
There was nothing strong about pretending you weren't afraid when you were.
I was afraid.
I admitted it to myself without trying to make the feeling smaller.
I was afraid of Richard.
I was afraid of what he had done to my body.
I was afraid that I might lose consciousness before anyone reached me.
The only thing I could not bring myself to fear was the truth coming out.
That part had already happened.
The signal was sent.
My location was attached.
The time was recorded.
Whatever happened next, I had not agreed to keep this secret.
I turned my head slightly.
Richard was standing near the open doorway.
The hallway light fell across his face.
He looked different from the man who had forced his way inside.
His anger was still there, but it no longer seemed to fill the entire space.
He kept glancing outside.
I wondered what he was thinking.
Perhaps he was trying to decide whether to stay.
Perhaps he was trying to understand how much trouble he had caused.
I could not read his mind.
I didn't need to.
I had spent too many years trying to anticipate his thoughts.
It had never made me safe.
He turned toward me again.
“You didn't have to do that.”
I stared at him.
I couldn't believe those were the words he had chosen.
I was injured.
My front door had been broken.
He had come into my home without permission and attacked me.
Yet he was still speaking as if my decision to seek help were the offense.
I wanted to tell him that he had made the decision for me when he broke the door.
I wanted to ask him what he had expected me to do.
Instead, I remained quiet.
He looked away.
I heard a noise outside again.
This time, it seemed closer.
My heart began beating faster.
I tried to lift my head.
The movement made me dizzy, but I kept looking toward the doorway.
I couldn't see much beyond it.
The frame blocked part of the hall.
The light made everything else difficult to distinguish.
Then Richard stepped back from the entrance.
I watched his face.
He was listening.
So was I.
I thought of the people who had taught me the emergency procedure.
They had never told us that sending a distress signal would make us feel safe immediately.
The signal was a way to request help.
It was not a promise that pain would stop or danger would disappear the moment the message left the phone.
I had to remember that.
I could be grateful that the signal had gone through and still be frightened.
I could hope someone was coming and still wonder whether I would survive the next few minutes.
Both things were true.
My eyes began closing again.
I fought it.
The room was too quiet.
I could hear my own breathing and the faint mechanical sound of the air conditioner.
I tried to focus on the second sound.
It was familiar.
It had been there when I went to bed.
It had been there when Richard began pounding on the door.
It was still there now.
The apartment had not become another place simply because I had been hurt inside it.
I tried to hold on to that thought.
Then my vision darkened around the edges.
I blinked hard.
The darkness remained.
I was losing the fight to stay conscious.
For the first time that night, I could not make my body obey me by sheer determination.
I wanted to reach for the phone again.
My fingers barely moved.
I wanted to call out to whoever might be in the hall.
I couldn't form the words.
I thought of my mother.
Not because I wanted her to rescue me.
I knew she wasn't there.
I thought of her because I had spent so much of my life wishing she would see what was happening and choose me without hesitation.
That wish had followed me long after I left home.
I had told myself I no longer needed it.
Lying on the floor, I realized that some disappointments did not disappear just because you learned to live around them.
But this was not the time to settle them.
I had a different problem in front of me.
I needed to remain alive.
The thought was simple.
It was also the only thing I could manage.
I tried to take another breath.
Then another.
The phone lay beside me, its cracked screen dark now.
I knew the message had been sent.
I didn't need to see it again.
Richard said something from the doorway.
I couldn't make out the words.
I tried to turn toward him.
The room tilted.
I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping the dizziness would pass.
When I opened them, I could no longer keep the kitchen in focus.
The table blurred.
The counter disappeared into shadow.
The last thing I could clearly identify was the pale rectangle of light from the hallway.
I tried to keep looking at it.
I had done everything I could.
I had reached the phone.
I had sent the signal.
I had refused to tell myself that what Richard had done was somehow my fault.
Now I had to let go of the things I could no longer control.
My eyes closed.
This time, I could not force them open again.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: When I Could No Longer Keep My Eyes Open, the Last Thing I Remembered Was the Broken Door and the Knowledge That I Had Finally Asked for Help
I Thought Three Years and a Locked Door Had Put My Childhood Behind Me, Until Someone Began Beating on My Apartment Door at Two
Part 6 of 20
