cabin fever.
“Let’s go out.”
“No.” Not in a million years, dude!
“I’ll buy you two drinks.”
“Okay let’s go.”
We set a new plan in motion. We strategically placed our trash can directly inside of our front door. This way, if he did break in, we would see the trash can moved out of the way and we’d be able to call the police. Genius!
We went out to a club, stayed out way way way too late and got back to the apartment at about four a.m. We both searched for our keys in our purses. She pulled hers out as I pulled out a glass from the bar.
“What the fuck?” she said.
I had drunkenly put one of the glasses at the bar into my purse and carried it home.
Colleen gave me a look. “I thought you don’t steal anymore?”
“I’m gonna return it!” I said. “Just open the door!”
“You open it! I’m scared,” she replied.
“You’ve lived more years than me; I’m not ready to die.” I pushed her in front of the door.
Colleen sighed and put her key in the door, turned it, and pushed the door open. IT DIDN’T HIT THE TRASH CAN.
“Someone moved it! Someone’s been inside,” she whispered.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I yelled into the pitch-black apartment, “IF YOU’RE IN THERE, DAMON, WE’RE CALLING THE COPS.”
Then Colleen flipped the light on.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” she breathed.
I dropped my stolen glass.
The apartment was trashed. Paintings torn off the wall. Plates smashed on the floor. The TV was thrown off its stand.
We stood for a moment, mouths agape. Colleen patted me on the shoulder. “Well, I guess we didn’t need to do the trash can thing, huh?”
I started laughing. “Guess not.”
In our bedroom, the suitcases had been completely torn through, our clothing had been torn up. Looking around the room, I could feel his rage. I didn’t want to think about what would have happened if we had been home. We needed some goddamn new locks, like five of them. What the fuck.
And then we went into the bathroom . . . and found the creepiest part.
Before she moved out to LA, when my phone availability was a bit sporadic, Colleen had written me this long letter saying how worried about me she was, that she wanted to help. It was long and sweet and I kept it throughout all my moves.
Well apparently Damon had found it in my suitcase. He put it in the toilet.
And he pissed on it.
We looked down into the toilet bowl. Just kind of . . . disappointed.
“Aw, man. He pissed on the note.”
“Dang.”
“At least he put it in the toilet to piss on it. And not in your suitcase.”
“Right. That’s right. Thanks, Damon.”
Sometimes you have to laugh through the most horrendous moments you experience. Or at least, we did. My psychotic ex-boyfriend with major rage issues was stalking me and breaking into my apartment, and now my sister was involved. He knew where we lived. He had easily broken in twice now. I felt like the light at the end of the tunnel was being pulled farther and farther away. If we didn’t laugh at how twisted the whole thing was, we wouldn’t have made it through.
A few days later I got a phone call. It was an automated voice.
“You are receiving a call from the LA County Jail from—DAMON. To accept this call, press one.”
I gasped. Damon was in jail. He was finally locked up. I could have cried tears of relief. I didn’t press one to accept the call. I don’t even know what he went down for.
After I got the call, it was time to celebrate. Jail time was truly the only way that he would have stopped chasing us. It was either that, or me being dead. I was finally truly free.
I only saw Damon one more time in my life. It was a few years later, when my addiction had spiraled even further out of control. On this particular day, I needed some weed, yo. My usual drug dealers weren’t answering their phones, so I texted Damon.
I told my boyfriend at the time that I needed to go pick up weed from my drug dealer ex, to which he replied, “Okay, be back soon!” My then-current boyfriend didn’t know how extreme my past with Damon had been.
I walked inside Damon’s Beverly Hills apartment. The place was a dump—the result of years of decline. He couldn’t handle taking care of it anymore, or