And why wouldn’t it after what happened. And why shouldn’t I brace myself, expect that it would when I headed back home. How could I? Afterall, who expects to have the bedroom window explode in a shower of glass through the room over the bed even the pillow where’s she’s sleeping. Talk about vulnerable. Not safe. No expectations of normalcy. Just both relief and surprise that more damage wouldn’t be, wasn’t inflicted.
And the questions keep replaying “Why?” The house hasn’t done anything wrong that she should be attacked. “Why me?” Eventually you hope the instant replays stop replaying the crashing shower of glass and you can return to the Before instead of the After. The house, like a boat, felt off kilter. I made a pot of coffee as if the normalcy of that would right me again.
And then there’s the aftermath, the repair stage and its cost, who to call, what to say. You called 9-1-1 who kept asking questions you didn’t know the answers to. Police arrived, found the brick, tried to assure you it was a random act of drunkenness youth revelers on this particular New Year’s Eve, but you wonder to what purpose, what meanness, what cause and effect?
The space is boarded up now where the drunken perp pictured himself an NBA star and lobbed the brick creating shards, and. You’re still encountering the scatter in bare feet. There’s even a dictum that bathroom products must never be sold in glass containers.
You cried when the Policeman found the brick. The Intent to Damage and destroy palpable, real, evident. Glass shards on my pillow. On leaving the Policeman said, “Happy New Year.” and I burst into tears. Again.
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