Weekly Blog #5

*Note: This is only part of the greater story of when a man attempted to break into my house when I was home alone.  This blog is from when my mom came home and I started filing the police report.  I wanted to actually tell all of the juicy parts, but this blog would end up being at least four times as long.  But, I’m sure I’ll be able to work the rest of the story into another blog J

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I could sleep better now, knowing that for the next three years, at least, he would be rotting away in the state prison in Harrisburg.  The cold sweats of anxiety lifted from my skin as I was told that I would not have to testify; he had decided his life would be better off in prison than, again, living a life of parole. I could not concentrate knowing that the man who had drastically changed my life was a few yards away and that I may have to look him in the eyes. It had done me no good to bring my book along.  Had he really had a goatee?  Flipping through his criminal record, it seemed absolutely pointless that the police and lawyers would not just believe me, and his history, to know that the power-wheelchair was a hoax and this criminal was pure evil. 

In time, the chief detective dutifully relayed that the court date would be set according to his criminal history and the caliber of the crime; I would be sent a subpoena in the mail. For how professional and experienced these nine police officers were supposed to be, it was taking an awfully long time to get the fingerprints off of the doors and windows and to access the damage to our back fence.  Is my youth coming across in some weird way to these officers?  I can’t help it that I have an extremely sharp short-term memory.  Isn’t it the point to write a detailed report so that he can be charged accordingly?  I continued to file my report—on to the fourth page—apparently this was “outstandingly” detailed and a little excessive at this point. 

She unwillingly began to calm down after my mom went outside to explain the entire hubbub.  Officers started yelling warnings in retaliation to her panicked, confused swearing.  However, my sister had now come back home to utter chaos.  As I sat down in a moment of silence, I realized that I was wearing a really grungy and embarrassing outfit for all of this excitement.  Like a slap in the face, I finally needed a glass of water.  Color began to come back to my vision and I was regaining a sense of normalcy in my limbs.  A much-needed hug from my mother finally triggered the decline of my hysteria.