Page 46 of Choke

The woman asks me questions.

What happened?

When did this start?

Has it happened before?

Am I hurt?

BOOM

I hear the door come apart, and at the same time, I hear sirens. The chair blocking the door and its pile of makeshift weights clatters as my mother pushes her way into the room.

Oh god. What if they don’t make it to me before she does?

“Please!” I cry to the operator. “Tell them to hurry. I’m upstairs!”

It’s all I get out before I drop the receiver and reach for the closet handle. Holding it closed while she fights against me to get it open. Screaming incoherently the entire time.

My arms scream from the effort, muscles burning. My chest aches from sobbing, and tears stream down my face.

If I let go, I’ll die.

I don’t even realize that the screaming has stopped. That no one is trying to pull on the door. I sob and sob and desperately pull the handle with everything I have.

A quiet knock against it pulls me back to reality.

I register how silent the house is. My breath hiccups in my chest; my fingers are still wrapped around the door knob so tight that they ache.

She’s tricking me.

She’s standing right outside the door.

She’s waiting for me.

Again, there’s a knock, somewhat firmer, followed by a strong, distinctively male voice.

“This is Officer Davis with the Carrodock Regional Police.” He calls, “You are safe to open the door, miss.”

Stepping forward to ease the tension off my arms feels like a betrayal. They scream at me not to be so stupid, let go, or trust the voice.

Is she really gone?

She’s there.

The male voice repeats his call, telling me again that it is safe to open the door.

I release the handle but cannot bring myself to open it, pressing myself as far back into the closet as possible—if I could disappear into the wall, I would gladly do so. A second later, it slowly opens. The gray-haired man on the other side offers a sad smile and holds out his hand. I don’t know him, but I know in my heart that I am safe with him, so I take his hand and let him lead me out of the small closet.

My room is a scene from a horror movie. The door is smashed to pieces, and books and papers are everywhere. The bedding is shredded, and a large kitchen knife is haphazardly on the floor near the closet.

The officer puts a reassuring arm around my shoulder.

“We’ve already called your dad, honey.” He says in a low, slow voice. “He’ll be here in 15 minutes, and you can go home with him. Put your shoes on.” He suggests as he hands me a pair of Converse.

As he leads me through the house, I am gutted by the destruction. Dishes smashed everywhere—condiments sprayed on the walls. TV smashed. A knife protruding from a photo of me hung on the wall.

All destroyed.

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