reason #134 why i love my dog

February 2nd, 2010 | Written by hurricanic

There’s a serial rapist in the Waldo area of K.C. these days, stalking and attacking single women who live alone.  He learns their patterns, their comings and goings, and well…sometimes chooses to wait for them in their living rooms upon their return home.  Sometimes he waits for them in their backyards, until they open their backdoors to let our their dogs and then, well…forces his way in.  It is literally freaking me out.

I haven’t been sleeping very well, waking up to every sound my house makes as the wind blows against my old windows.  Even when I am able to drown out the creepy sounds, I have been dreaming about it all.  Just two nights ago I woke up from the deepest part of sleep with my heart in my throat when I, in my dreamlife, had been getting ready in my main bathroom (since my master bath is under renovation…entry to follow soon).  I was putting something away in the medicine cabinet and closed it shut, only to (as the door was closing) see his reflection appear in the mirror.  It was like a scene out of a thriller movie.  There he was, propped casually against the door jam, smirking smugly knowing I was trapped.  CREEPY DREAM!!  I shot straight up in bed, looked at the alarm (it was 4:17 a.m.), and wondered if this was somehow God’s way of warning me the rapist was in my house.  Kodak, meanwhile, was peacefully asleep – not that he would hear anything anyway, regarding a possible break-in, since I can only fall asleep to the sound of white noise, so the loud hum of a space heater lulls both of us to sleep each night.  Kodak wouldn’t notice anyone was actually inside my house until he was opening my bedroom door.  Now, he might rip the guy to shreds once he opened said door, but this theory has never been tested before.  It’s a little disconcerting knowing he would probably only raise his lazy head off his dog pillow and sigh, annoyed he’d been interrupted from his sleep, and then roll back over so he would rest more.

My father talked to me tonight on my cell phone as I entered my home after an run to the Plaza with a friend, listening to me as I checked every room, closet, shower, and storage area for creepers.  The coast was clear.  He did it last night as well.  I’m not sure why this makes me feel safe, or why I would choose to subject my father to hearing me freak out at the realization that I wasn’t alone.  I am a cruel, cruel daughter now that I think through how traumatic that would be for him.  I guess I just think that he would be able to call the cops knowing I was in distress.  Anyway…regardless…having him talk me through the rooms of my house every night makes me feel safe – or not alone, which is half of not feeling safe.  Weird logic, but perfect sense when we’re discussing a serial rapist targeting single women who live alone.

In all seriousness, I’m a little on edge around here, not sure if I’m really needing to feel fear at this level.  I keep almost all the house lights on at night so I don’t have to wonder what lies in the shadows.  I’m also thankful for studio props that I can steal for a couple weeks – it’s great having access to vintage wooden baseball bats I can slide under my bed.  My dad thinks a gun is a bad idea.  We’ll see.  I mean, seriously – you get in my house, I will take you down.  That is if I wake up in time.  This Ambien makes me sleeply.

Permalink | February 2nd, 2010