I Did Everything Wrong

I guess I’m okay. I should be fine. Everyone’s acting like everything’s normal.

But, looking in the mirror, I don’t recognize the face that peers back. Her pupils are deep black pits that make me dizzy. I can’t look away as I plunge deep into the pitch-black emptiness of my soul.

I’m on the sidewalk by a train overpass in the dead of night. A boy hands me back my phone after he punched in a number and let it ring once. 

I was heading back to my boyfriend’s house. He wouldn’t answer the door, so I walked to the nearby Timmies to borrow a pen and jot down a quick note. 

Why are you doing this? We need to talk. 

I knew what he was doing, why he wouldn’t answer the door. I was torturing myself, wanting to see what I already knew was true.

I grip my phone, glad he didn’t run off with it as I had feared. There’s something off about this boy. It could be how he shuffles his feet or watches every car that drives past. 

“Too many cars out tonight.” He states.

I watch a car as its headlights shine past, then fade into the distance. “That’s a good thing,” I say, eyeing him from my peripheral. It’s the weekend, so he’s likely lost and alone in a drunken haze. 

I turn to go. 

He attempted to reach out to his friend for a ride, and I played my part by handing over my phone—time to go.

“Mind if I tag along with you?” He asks, keeping in step with me. 

I take a sip of my hot chocolate. It doesn’t seem like I have a choice; he’s already following me. He was headed the opposite way before he stopped me.

“I’m just going up this street. It’s close by,” I lie, pointing to the street full of nice-looking houses not far off. 

“Me too.” He says. 

As we walk past the street lamp, his huge flat-brimmed baseball cap reflects a pattern of little shapes. His eyes lock on the hot drink in my hand. “Can I have a sip?” 

“Uh, ya sure. You can have it.” I hand my small drink over. He takes the tiniest of sips, his face wrinkling up in disgust. “Gross!” 

He stops, removes the lid and dumps it onto a little patch of grass. 

I gape at him. He is, without a doubt, drunk. He’s just a kid, I remind myself, and kids do stupid things. I walk faster down the street as another car drives past. 

Standing by the now empty Timmies cup on the ground, he calls out. “Can I bum a smoke?” 

“I don’t smoke.” I extend my arms in an empty-handed manner.

“Hey,” He smirks as he jogs to catch up. 

What now? 

“I’m just gonna be weird for a moment, OK?”

Weird, for a moment? Kid, this whole thing has been weird. He reaches for me and grabs my wrists. I glance from his face to his hands. He pulls me back down the street. What?

Before I know it, we are at the underpass, standing by a little dirt trail that goes up close to the train tracks. 

“I’m gonna be weird for a moment.”

Now I’m in the middle of the path, his hands still on me. What is happening? This isn’t real. 

“I’m just gonna be a little weird for a moment.”

This is wrong, all wrong. This is not where I was standing. How did I get here? I shouldn’t be here.

Using a move I had learned from childhood, I wrenched my hands in a twisting motion. He wasn’t expecting it, so it works, and my hands are now free. 

My phone! It’s a green, eco-friendly flip phone that never leaves my hand. I flip it open, pull up my contacts and click to call for help. I dialed my boyfriend, who wasn’t picking up for me tonight since he was too busy. 

The screen is gone, ripped from the number pad that sits in the palm of my hand.

I run, somehow passing him and make it to the sidewalk. Should I go under the underpass to Timmies or towards the houses? The path to Timmies is dark and has a steep drop to the road, not to mention the cement ground, ceiling, and walls.

My hesitation costs me. He’s at the bottom of the path, taking away my choice as I scramble to escape him. A railing lines the sidewalk, with a steep drop to the road below. I should get on the road so that a car can see me.

There are no cars as I run down the sidewalk, but I’m slow. My feet are tripping over my flip-flops. I have no control over my feet; they can’t hold the flip-flops in place. 

My mother used to tell me you can’t run in flip-flops. I used to pride myself on the fact that I could. But I can’t. They give my attacker time to catch up. 

Kicking them off is hard since I can’t feel my feet. He is already on me, seizing my hair and wrenching me back with a violent tug that forces a scream out of my mouth. 

“Why did you do that? Why did you have to scream?” He’s holding my hair and dragging me backwards close enough that I can hear him as he whispers, “Now I have to kill you.” 

I buck away, and my hair slips from his grasp or rips out. I make it to the road, and I run across. A car will see me here and will stop to help.

There are no cars, no one to see me. I head towards the houses. Someone will hear if I scream or bang on a door. Someone will help me. 

I look back. One of my flip-flops is in the middle of the road. He’s expressionless as he starts to run. 

Everything is hazy. The houses are too far away, there are no more cars, there’s no one.

My scalp screams in pain as he grabs it again. When did my hair grow so long? He throws me to the ground, and his hand is around my throat, gripping, crushing. 

I try to pull his hand away, scratch at his arm, and push back with everything I have, but he doesn’t budge. 

I reach for his face; it’s more sensitive. I can scratch it and hurt him but can’t even reach it. His arms are longer than mine. I’m jerking, reaching, scratching, trying anything to hurt him. He doesn’t even react. I am helpless, powerless. I can’t fight him off, and I can’t save myself. 

His hand tightened as he pressed his knee into my chest. I can see the sky but can no longer feel my legs. Where did my arms go? 

Blackness edges my vision. 

“Why did you have to scream?” He repeats. What is he doing? I can feel his movement and hear some rustling. Is he getting a knife? I can’t see him. 

It doesn’t matter what he’s doing. I am going to die. 

My body is heavy, but I can’t feel it as darkness engulfs my sight.

Death is not scary; it's just going into the darkness. It’ll be peaceful to die. The feeling of the dark is soothing, like falling asleep.

“What’s going on?” A voice. My eyes flutter open. When did I shut them? 

“This is none of your business, old man.” The kid’s tone is different. It’s full of lead and warning, unlike the small, timid one he used with me. “This is my old lady. We are just having a fight.” He adds, removing some of the lead from his tone.

“That’s your old lady?” The voice sounds unsure. 

I need to say something, anything! But I can’t speak with him pushing on my throat. I need to see who’s there, but they are behind me. They need to see my eyes.

The hold on my throat relaxes a bit, attempting to be convincing that this is a typical scuffle between an ordinary couple. 

I can't tilt my head just enough to see an upside-down version of an older man with his dog. I lock my eyes on him. Don’t believe him. Please help me. 

He looks at me, but his face stays the same. He believes him.

The grip on my throat forces my head back. I can feel hot tears welling in my eyes. He can’t think this is normal. 

“If that’s your lady, let her up.” He challenges but still sounds unsure. 

There’s no reply. I lay in the grass like a corpse, waiting for others to choose my fate. Time stretches so long that I think my attacker has intimidated the older man away.

Then, without warning, I’m standing. My attacker is gone with no trace. I search for him, expecting him to be waiting in every corner. It still feels like he’s pushing me down; my throat still feels his grip.

“He ran down that way.” The man with the dog points towards a sidewalk leading to a tunnel under the train tracks. It’s just a dark hole in the cement. I move a few steps back but can’t look away.

I was going to die.

The man clears his throat, forcing my eyes away from the tunnel. He’s looking everywhere but at me. “Might want to, er, fix your shirt.” 

I look down. Half of me is hanging out of my shirt. When did that happen? After I fixed myself up, I told my saviour, “He was going to kill me.” 

I was going to die.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s what he wanted.” He says as his dog barks. “Let’s get you to Tim’s and call the police.” 

I shadow him as we cross the road. When I reach for my flip-flop, I go to pick it up. My knuckles were white, clutching the number pad that had once been my phone. I never let go of it. 

I was going to die.

“He was going to kill me,” I say again.

 My saviour eyes me but continues walking. He talks, maybe so I won’t repeat the same thing, but it’s running through my mind nonstop. He was going to kill me. I was going to die.

“I never walk my dog this late.” He starts. “But she was crying at the door for a good ten minutes.” I try to think back. Was that only ten minutes? It felt like it had lasted forever, but also like it had all happened in mere seconds. “I’m glad I listened to her.” 

I was going to die. 

A dog saved me. My saviour was the dog. I look at her. I’m a cat person, but a cat couldn’t have saved me like this dog did. 

“He was going to kill me,” I whisper towards her. 

“Ok, let’s keep walking.” The man urges. 

We make it to Timmies. The man sits me in a chair, then heads to the counter to ask them to call the police. I watch the man behind the counter speak to the guy with the dog. He gives a skeptical look similar to the one he had given me earlier when I asked to borrow the pen. 

Where did the dog go? 

Two girls walk in full of laughter. They asked if I was the one who screamed. It takes me a moment to remember that I did scream. He didn’t like that. 

“I would kick him right where it counts.” They snicker. “He would have dropped to the ground crying.”

I didn’t think of that. I had thought of my legs only after I could no longer feel them. These girls would have been ready and able to fight him off. Why hadn’t I been able to?

The police arrived and escorted me to an ambulance, where my evaluation was over within a few minutes.

I’m unsure if I smiled when I greeted them, so I smile now. 

“You look fine. You can go to the hospital for another look, but it would be a waste of time.” The girl says.

Why did she bring up the hospital? “Do I need to go to the hospital?”

“No. The police will ask if you want to. It’s a procedure. Just tell them I cleared you. You’re fine.” 

The girl is putting things away as her coworker gives me a look I can’t read. 

Going to the hospital would be pointless. I’m fine. 

The same police officer takes me from the ambulance to his car, where I sit in the front seat. 

“They tell you to head to the hospital?” He asks.

“No, they said I was fine.” 

He looks uneasy. “Anyone you want to call?” 

“No.” 

“Ok. I will drop you off at the station. My colleague will take care of you. The hospital would have been closer. I need to go with the dogs and catch this creep.” 

Dogs are going after my attacker. Where did the dog that saved me go? I scan the parking lot, but I don’t see her.

He drops me off at the station, where a lady takes me into her office. Sitting at her desk, she turns her phone around to face me. “Call whoever you need.” 

I don’t want to call anyone; I just want to crawl into bed, but I pick up the phone and dial my mother’s number. 

“What’s happened?” She asks. 

“I’m at the police station. Can you pick me up and bring me home?” I never call my mother, so this must seem odd. She agrees. 

Someone photographed my arms and neck, but I didn't see the pictures. I guess there’s a hand mark from where he held me down. I can still feel a hand crushing my throat.

The lady behind the desk told me they would contact me the next day as she guided me to the lobby, where my mother was waiting with a smile. 

After getting in the car, my mother asked what happened.

“I was attacked,” I say. 

“Oh.” She hesitates. “I thought you got into a fight with that boyfriend of yours.”

“No,” I say. Her concern visibly lessens.  

“You know you’re not supposed to walk around at night, especially not alone.”

I get dropped off at home, throw my clothes onto the floor and crawl into bed. I almost died. It doesn’t seem real. Maybe I made it all up. 

The next day, my friend sent an instant message. Why wasn’t I answering her texts? I told her that someone attacked me and they ripped my phone in half. 

“Were you drunk?” She asks. 

“No.” 

“You like the attention.” She remarks. 

I must have done something that caused him to want to attack me. I used the wrong tone of voice, or I was too friendly. I did give him my drink; that was stupid.

Later, my boyfriend came and knocked on the door. 

“I heard you got attacked.” He says. 

“Yes.” How did he know?

“For real?” 

“Yes.” 

He backs off the porch. “What were you wearing?”

“Does it matter what I was wearing? I thought I was going to die!” My eyes sting.

“Yes, it matters what you were wearing!” He talks through clenched teeth. 

He’s not here to apologize for disappearing. He is not here to stay. 

“I only went out to talk to you! Since you were with someone else and too busy to answer your phone.” 

He’s taken aback. “You were at my house?” 

“Yes! I wanted to talk to you.” 

He looks around, then back at me. “What were you wearing?”

I surrender. “My back polo shirt over my zebra tub top and jeans.” 

“Those ripped ones?” 

“Yes, the only jeans I own.” 

He shakes his head. “Wearing that was a mistake.” 

I shut the door and watch him as he strolls down the road.

It’s my clothing. I almost died because I wore jeans that were ripped. Tears flow when I pick up my favourite outfit and throw it in the trash.

I had been ready to die. No one noticed that my entire world had changed. I can still feel the grip tightening on my throat.

Later, dragging my feet along the floor, I walk to the washroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. 

“Are you okay?” I whisper to myself.