This is an early draft but I would like to see if people think what I'm trying to do is getting anywhere. I know that I need to add more about how it impacted me, so if you have any tips about how I can add that in without being too corny that'd be great. Thanks!
My mind was racing, my palms sweating, my hands shaking. I was paralyzed. The carpet felt harsh and unforgiving as I pressed myself against it. I didn't care about the imprint it would leave on my cheek.
Under normal circumstances, a minimum day would involve me and relaxation. That day was like any other at the start. But now I was trapped in my room, not daring to make a sound. I admit that keeping quiet was a challenge. I am a social person. I am the person who likes to laugh at the top of their lungs or cry out in times of frustration or pain. As a cashier, I get paid to interact with people, which seems like a pretty sweet deal. Sure, it might be repetitive, (the words "Corn or flour tortillas?" come out of my mouth more times than I could ever count during a shift), but anything that exercises my vocal cords that much is fine by me.
I had been climbing the stairs to get to the second floor when, in the reflection of the glass of a painting, I saw a stranger in the backyard. I watched from a vantage point at the top of the stairs as he tried to open the doors and windows, which were locked. I had seen enough Law and Order to know that a stranger shouldn't be in the yard trying to get in. Actually, I probably didn't need to watch any Law and Order to know that, but I took comfort in being a crime expert.
Then I did the most sensible thing that I could think of. I ran to my room and locked the door. But I had little faith in the lock. My own cat could open that door if he really worked at it. (A few days earlier I would have praised Rufus for his locksmith abilities and his determination to see me.) Now I just hoped that his intelligence would prove to be greater than that of a burglar.
For the next hour or so, I could hear people in my house. They were not my mom, my sister, or grandparents. They were not people that I would let in with a smile when the doorbell chimed. They were foreign, and the situation was, to me, even more foreign. They were making themselves at home with our personal possessions, sorting them, moving them, and taking them. I could hear the sounds of lifting and shifting, the grunts of the men and the sound of a box sliding across the floor.
In a few words, I wasn't enjoying myself. I had left my cell phone downstairs, and had no way to get help. I had only my own adaptability, a trait that I have always valued. I had no choice but to go with the flow, something that I tend to do in life. But never had the flow brought me into such deep waters as the robbery did. I wasn't sure that I would be able to swim, to hold my head above the crashing waves and make the right choices.
Eventually I heard them in my sister's room, adjacent to my own. I heard heavy footsteps across the creaking, carpet-covered floor. I watched as someone on the other side made the door handle jiggle. In that moment, I was more afraid for my life than I ever have been. But the door was locked and it stayed that was.
Needless to say, the robbers left with their loot and I was safe. The home invasion- a name that, to me, seems particularly appropriate- was shaking. My space and safety had been invaded. I felt vulnerable. I felt violated. I never expected to be the victim of a break-in. Like I said, I like shows about crime; the psychology fascinates me. But in my quiet suburban neighborhood, I never expected that I would be the victim.
For me, the word "victim" is tricky though. I certainly was a victim in the literal sense, but I was lucky enough to the take the situation for something different from what it would normally be taken in as. I knew that although I could have done a lot of things differently, I made the best choices that I could have because, in the end, I was safe. More than anything, the experience gave me more confidence about my ability to rely solely on my instincts. I had been tested, and I felt like I could handle what life throws at me.
My mind was racing, my palms sweating, my hands shaking. I was paralyzed. The carpet felt harsh and unforgiving as I pressed myself against it. I didn't care about the imprint it would leave on my cheek.
Under normal circumstances, a minimum day would involve me and relaxation. That day was like any other at the start. But now I was trapped in my room, not daring to make a sound. I admit that keeping quiet was a challenge. I am a social person. I am the person who likes to laugh at the top of their lungs or cry out in times of frustration or pain. As a cashier, I get paid to interact with people, which seems like a pretty sweet deal. Sure, it might be repetitive, (the words "Corn or flour tortillas?" come out of my mouth more times than I could ever count during a shift), but anything that exercises my vocal cords that much is fine by me.
I had been climbing the stairs to get to the second floor when, in the reflection of the glass of a painting, I saw a stranger in the backyard. I watched from a vantage point at the top of the stairs as he tried to open the doors and windows, which were locked. I had seen enough Law and Order to know that a stranger shouldn't be in the yard trying to get in. Actually, I probably didn't need to watch any Law and Order to know that, but I took comfort in being a crime expert.
Then I did the most sensible thing that I could think of. I ran to my room and locked the door. But I had little faith in the lock. My own cat could open that door if he really worked at it. (A few days earlier I would have praised Rufus for his locksmith abilities and his determination to see me.) Now I just hoped that his intelligence would prove to be greater than that of a burglar.
For the next hour or so, I could hear people in my house. They were not my mom, my sister, or grandparents. They were not people that I would let in with a smile when the doorbell chimed. They were foreign, and the situation was, to me, even more foreign. They were making themselves at home with our personal possessions, sorting them, moving them, and taking them. I could hear the sounds of lifting and shifting, the grunts of the men and the sound of a box sliding across the floor.
In a few words, I wasn't enjoying myself. I had left my cell phone downstairs, and had no way to get help. I had only my own adaptability, a trait that I have always valued. I had no choice but to go with the flow, something that I tend to do in life. But never had the flow brought me into such deep waters as the robbery did. I wasn't sure that I would be able to swim, to hold my head above the crashing waves and make the right choices.
Eventually I heard them in my sister's room, adjacent to my own. I heard heavy footsteps across the creaking, carpet-covered floor. I watched as someone on the other side made the door handle jiggle. In that moment, I was more afraid for my life than I ever have been. But the door was locked and it stayed that was.
Needless to say, the robbers left with their loot and I was safe. The home invasion- a name that, to me, seems particularly appropriate- was shaking. My space and safety had been invaded. I felt vulnerable. I felt violated. I never expected to be the victim of a break-in. Like I said, I like shows about crime; the psychology fascinates me. But in my quiet suburban neighborhood, I never expected that I would be the victim.
For me, the word "victim" is tricky though. I certainly was a victim in the literal sense, but I was lucky enough to the take the situation for something different from what it would normally be taken in as. I knew that although I could have done a lot of things differently, I made the best choices that I could have because, in the end, I was safe. More than anything, the experience gave me more confidence about my ability to rely solely on my instincts. I had been tested, and I felt like I could handle what life throws at me.