February 29

He really seemed like an ordinary kid. He didn't look like he'd want to kill anyone. But he did, and that someone was me.
I rented him a room in my house. He seemed grateful. He was a communications student at Montgomery College. He tried living with his stepfather, but that didn't work out. He gave me a check for $750, $500 was December rent, $250 was half the deposit. He'd pay $750 again in January, and get February free, and move out because I planned to put the house on the market March 1.
He had to borrow the January payment because he lost his job when he took a day off to go to court in Towson. He told me a former roommate called the cops on him, thinking he stole his X box, but he really just borrowed it. He got another job selling beauty products. I didn't want any.
He also told me he was quitting smoking pot.
But in February I started noticing things missing from my room. Two gold chains, one that my mother gave me. I thought they'd turn up in a suitcase. Then $40 was gone from my bureau drawer. Did he take it? Did one of his friends? I was furious, but what could I do?
He didn't usually come home at night. He'd come home about 7 am, and sleep. Then he didn't. He called to tell me he'd move out mid-February and I could pay him back the security deposit. I said, no, I don't owe you the security deposit. That was February rent.
Next time he came home, at about 7 am, he knocked on my door, showed me the lease he had signed, and told me I could write him his check. We went back and forth about it for 20 minutes, me saying No, I don't owe you $500, and him saying, You'll write me my check now. I wondered how he could be so dumb. He said, Now you're making me angry. I was not intimidated.
He didn't come back except for one Saturday, when he went to his room for a short time, then left again.
On Feb. 29 he returned at 7 am. I was up getting ready for work. He wore a hoodie and a mask on his face. I asked him for the house key and he gave it to me. I asked if he was taking all his stuff, and he said he'd take only what he could carry. I turned and walked into my bedroom to shower.
I had no reason to be afraid.
I was nearly done with my shower. The light in the bathroom went off. Never had before. I stepped out, turned it back on. His hand reached in, turned it off, and he attacked me.
His hands went to my throat. I started yelling--vocalizing. I knew I had to wake up Ashley, a sound sleeper, in the next room.
My mind: This could be it, this could be my death, I wouldn't mind being dead.
I Have To Breathe.
I fought him. I called him a stupid fuck. So stupid! I felt his arm give my head a twist, about 90 degrees. It didn't even hurt. Was he trying to break my neck? Stupid fuck!
My mind: Alfred Hitchcock. Years of cinema studies paid off--"It's very difficult to kill someone with your bare hands." I knew he couldn't kill me.
I reached for his balls and felt empty denim. Kept reaching. He backed up. Was he surprised I'd know to do that? Was he surprised that a kind older woman like me would fight and call him a stupid fuck over and over again?
He moved his hands to shove his thumbs into my throat. I couldn't yell. I couldn't breathe. I pulled at his right thumb and got it out of my throat, but still couldn't breathe. I tried to tell him I'd give him money, but I couldn't talk at all. I pretended to lose consciousness, pretended to weaken, then kicked a shelf on the floor behind him, making noise.
I had heard Ashley on the phone to the police. Not her words, but hearing her voice was enough to let me know he couldn't kill me.
Ashley came into my bedroom. The door had been blocked by something he put there. He took off. I fell to the bathroom floor. I yelled, He tried to murder me! He tried to murder me!
I was furious. And mystified. How was attacking me a good idea?
It seemed the police arrived 20 seconds later. I was on the floor with a towel on me, crying. It couldn't have been that soon--they didn't catch him.
Before the attack he had been in my bedroom, in my wallet, and taken $40.
The cops took photos of my injuries. Later, the bruise on my right arm would be in the shape of an avenging angel. Archangel Michael, some of my friends said.
I haven't had nightmares because I fought back, my therapist told me. My son changed the locks on the front door, even though I had his key.
I wasn't a victim. I'm not a victim. I'm a warrior.
They haven't caught the bastard yet.