Forever Changed
The trust I carried, stolen in a single night. I have said goodbye to this as my safe space.
Story by GRACE TAYLOR
I went to sleep that night with an unconscious faith in humanity. The sliding glass door to my safe space left unlocked and uncovered by their heavy drapes, remaining drawn for the sunshine earlier that day. It was a peaceful September night, laying low before an early morning shift at the Recycling Center. Work at 6 a.m. meant I was in bed and asleep by 11 p.m.
After a long, hot, relaxing shower, I fed my cats, kissed my boyfriend goodbye and fell into a deep sleep to the sound of “Sex and the City” muttering in the background. I rarely slept alone, but Zander’s friends were playing Xbox and he had a night off from work.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” he said, kissing me tenderly on my forehead. “Have a good sleep love, I’ll try not to wake you when I get back.”
At peace, I drifted off.
One hour later, my mind jolted back into my body.
A bright light. Probably Zander, I half-consciously assumed from my dream-like state. Blankets torn off my body in one fluid motion. The bright light was closer now. My warm, unclothed body exposed to the cold air. The sliding door was still open.
“What are you doing?” Starting to think Z hit up the bars instead of his boys.
No response.
That’s all I could say.
What are you doing? What are you doing?! What are you doing?!!
By this time, I’d come out of my sleepy haze enough to realize. I stood up and made my way towards his light.
Three steps forward for me, three steps back for him.
His stature remained steady. I grabbed a blanket to cover myself and unconsciously grasped my phone. I took few more feet towards him and his entry point.
“What are you doing? Why are you doing this! Who are you!”
He stood still in the entryway of the sliding glass door. Just a couple feet between us. He remained, bright light blinding his identity. I tried to make out the features behind the flash. Eyes. All I could see were eyes. Wide. Unwavering. Unapologetic.
Silence. Not one word muttered.
I couldn’t take those eyes looking at me any longer. I sprinted to the main area of the house, screaming behind my sobs. No response. I was alone.
9–1–1.
Stumbling over my speech the line connected.
“You need to come right now. A man came into my room with a flashlight and took my covers off me while I was sleeping. I am so scared you need to get here right now. Nobody else is home. I’m so scared. Please.”
“Do you know if he is still in the house? Did you see him run away?”
“No. I ran.”
“OK, sweetie. I want you to lock yourself somewhere safe and find something to arm yourself. Units are on their way. I need you to stay on the phone with me until they arrive.”
Seven minutes passed. Locked in my roommate’s room, now sporting his colorful shorts and Sonics sweatshirt, and armed with a ski pole. I wanted to call Zander. Where were my roommates? Was he still inside? Did he let my cats out when he left the sliding door open? What the hell is happening?
I had never in my life been so relieved to see the police at my front door.
Flash forward to today and I leave a trail of purposefully ignored objects between me and that door. Space heaters, backpacks, laundry baskets, anything to assure I might wake up before someone completes that path. $30 spent on thick fabric to hopefully transform that transparent entry point into just another windowless wall. But it’s still only enough to block out the daylight, the only time I truly feel safe in this huge tainted room.
“Zander, can you please put your flashlight away?” He’s trying to get ready for his 6 a.m. shift without waking me. “Just turn on the overhead light.”
The flash creates a wall of invisibility where your face disappears into the memory of his wide eyes, I wanted to say. Don’t make me sleep alone. I know the doors are secure and everyone keeps reassuring me it won’t happen again, but… don’t make me sleep alone.
I’d been hearing of instances of window-peering perverts, but had they ever entered? What do you even call what happened to me? Was it sexual assault? He stole $30, does that make it a burglary? A sexually charged burglary? A power move? Or simply, a warning.
The following weeks, a seemingly diligent investigation. Daily phone calls. DNA swabs to rule out against lab work. Three hours with a charming sketch artist, piecing together his face from the corners of my foggy memory. Frequent visits to retrace the steps of the night. Each repetition feeding my doubt of discovering the character behind the piercing glare.
Near tears, my sketch artist murmured from behind her pencil, “Oh, honey. You’re never going to be quite the same. I’m so sorry.”
I see the sketch I spent hours helping create. Eyes, plastered across social media. The Bellingham Herald got his race wrong. They say it’s just another case of voyeurism.
Calls and updates from my investigator fade. Thoughtful words and offers of tranquil beds fade. A hope for closure turned into a distant vision as weeks pass. Months. I’ve become at peace with the fear.
October 16, a month post-intrusion and I am sleeping alone in my room for the first time since it was turned lifeless and cold. A space once vibrating with passion and creativity, now transformed into a void where fear and vulnerability are instantly triggered and my trust has gone to die. My sanctuary, once golden and blushing, turned black and blue. It is not what it once was. I am not who I once was.
He stripped away my bubble of ignorance. But maybe, in some twisted sense of awareness, it was for my own good. I may sleep with my lights on and a weapon next to my pillow, but at least I’m ready for round two.