Intruder

It's him again. He's been here before, deep in the night, always trying to find a weak spot -- an open window, an unlocked door. He tries each one methodically, and I follow him on the inside as he prowls on the outside. First, as always, the front door. He quietly tries to turn the knob, and I stare at him through the peephole. Can he see me, staring at him? I think so, or he imagines so, because he's looking right at me as his fingers are grasping the door handle.

He gives up on the front door and moves around the side to the front patio, and I can see the build of his body silhouetted against the sliding glass doors of my patio window by the street lamps out front, some distance away. I'm glad the curtains are drawn, but I curse myself once again for choosing a first-floor apartment. It's not safe. It invites problems.

He's moved now to the first bedroom window, tugging it gently, soundlessly, but it's closed and locked tight. I do a check of every door and window every night before I go to bed. Momentarily I'm worried that tonight I forgot, but no, I did it by rote, now a habit that I don't even remember doing.

Now, the second bedroom window -- his last option before his plan is thwarted for the evening. He tries it too, finding it closed and locked. Instead of moving away in defeat, he stands boldly just outside the window, unable to see in because of the drapes, just staring -- knowing that I'm behind the window and looking back at him, filled with anxiety.

I imagine there's a smile on his face.

He hasn't been thwarted at all. He's managed to hurt me without touching me, making me feel vulnerable and afraid just by his presence.

I stand there and cry softly, knowing I'll never feel safe.