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“A bloody knife…in my bedroom…I’ve been stalked for years…at least I always felt like I was…my roommate at college, she was almost strangled by a home invaded…blood…a message in blood on my bedroom wall…” the words are just pouring out of me, amid body shaking sobs and frantic gasps for air that isn’t reaching my lungs.
“Slow down,” he says, firmly and calmly. I have no idea how anyone can be calm. I certainly don’t know what it is to be calm. “You’re saying someone was in your bedroom?”
I nod and hiccup.
“And they wrote something in blood on your walls?”
“And left a bloody knife on the bed,” I say.
“We have to call the cops,” he concludes and produces his phone from his pocket.
I’m still hyperventilating as he makes the call, but it’s getting better. I’m leaning on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, listening to his voice as he speaks to the 911 operator booming in his chest and strange as it is, I still know nothing can go wrong. Not if he’s holding me.
