Violent Acres

My friends give me lots of mixed reviews when it comes to this website. Some of them are really into it and read every day while others are only politely interested. Yesterday, a friend of mine told me that reading my website made him uncomfortable because it was sort of like reading my diary.

Obviously, this friend has never read my actual diary.

I started my diary when I was 7 years old and I wrote in it 2-3 times a week until I turned 16. Inside, you can find detailed accounts of my day, ambiguous pro/con lists, atrociously written poetry, sex fantasies, and relevant notes from my friends jammed in between the pages. I am a pretty nostalgic person and I still thumb through it from time to time. Sometimes I simply laugh at my melodramatic teen ego and sometimes I wish I could travel back in time so I can kick my own ass.

The reason I quit writing in it, though, was because it was stolen by my first husband’s girlfriend shortly after I turned 16. Confused? Stay with me.

Now as you all know, I got married very young. On top of that, I wasn’t in love with the guy and I had no desire to be in any kind of a relationship with him. But what you don’t know is that when I was a teenager, I was fucking lousy at articulating my feelings to other people. For example, were I in the middle of a failing marriage today, I would simply say to my husband, “This relationship isn’t working for me. I want out.” But back then, I’d give vague little speeches about needing a little time to myself in my own apartment and then I’d quit returning his phone calls.

Obviously, he didn’t take this too well. In fact, he went through three very distinct phases as he dealt with me, his cowardly wife.

The first phase was the ‘Showing Up On My Doorstep Every Night Crying’ phase. I wish I could tell you I was kind to him, but I wasn’t. I did not let him in and I did not offer him even a smidgen of comfort. Instead, I shut off my lights and pretended I wasn’t home.

The second phase was the ‘Jealous Angry Rage’ phase. In this phase, he started following me around and threatening any guy who talked to me. One time, I went out to a restaurant with a couple of co-workers and he showed up there, screaming and demanding I come home with him. I refused and the restaurant employees called the cops on him. Fun times.

The final phase was the ‘I’ll Make You Jealous Phase.’ In this phase, he started fooling around with his next door neighbor in a pretty obvious attempt to make me jealous. This technique had the opposite effect on me though, considering that I privately dubbed the girl a godsend. I thought as long as he was messing with her, I was completely off the hook. Even better, I could blame our entire relationship ending on him. I could whip up some fake tears and say, “I just needed some time alone and you cheated on me! Now I can never forgive you!”

Do you see now why I wish I could have kicked my own ass?

Anyway, this is where we were at when I came home from work one night to find my front door slightly ajar. At this point, I was living in an efficiency apartment in a lousy neighborhood and it wasn’t likely that I’d just leave my own door open, so I was almost immediately on edge. Very slowly, I pushed my door all the way open, reached over, and flicked on my light. Instantly, I realized my apartment had been ransacked. My dresser had been knocked over and all of my clothes were strewn around my room. All of my dishes had been pulled off of their shelves and smashed against the wall. Papers and books had been shredded, knickknacks had been crushed, and the word ‘Bitch’ was written in ketchup above my bed.

I noticed this all while standing in the doorway of my apartment. I reached over and flicked off the light. I closed my door. Terrified, I thought: there is no way in hell I’m going in there. So, I locked up my apartment and drove to a friend’s house. I spent the night there because I was too scared to go home.

The next day at work, I got a phone call from my brother.

“I know who broke into your apartment,” he said.

“Who?” I demanded.

“That girl that Derrek has been seeing. What’s her name? Janice.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Because Willie and a couple of guys went with her. Willie told me. Also, she stole your diary.”

“She what?”

“Yep.”

Call me crazy, but I was more livid about my stolen diary than I was about my ransacked apartment. My diary documented a significant portion of my life. It was arguably the only valuable thing I owned. I wanted to be sure it was really gone before I confronted her, so I headed back to my apartment. I very thoroughly cleaned and searched my entire place and sure enough, it was missing.

[Quick side note: I know a lot of you are wondering why I never called the cops. Fuck you. I hated cops.]

The next day at school, I was very casually walking down the hall with a friend of mine when I spotted Janice by her locker. Very calmly, I said to my friend, “Can you please hold my books for a minute?” She obliged.

Then, I walked up behind Janice, grabbed her by the back of her head, and slammed her face first into a locker. I spun her around by her shoulders so she was facing me and slammed her into the locker again.

“GIVE ME BACK MY DIARY, BITCH!” I howled.

Almost immediately, a crowd of onlookers formed a semi circle around us.

“I don’t have your diary!” she cried.

I grabbed her by the hair and threw her down on the ground. “YES YOU DO!” I shrieked. Then I started kicking her in the thigh.

“GIVE IT BACK!”

Thwack.

“GIVE IT BACK!”

Thwack.

“GIVE IT BACK!”

Thwack.

She started sobbing. “I swear I don’t have it! You can ask Derrek!”

“Fine!” I screamed, “We’ll ask Derrek!”

Again, I grabbed her by the hair and attempted to drag her down the hall towards the pay phone. This obviously didn’t work as well as I had initially envisioned because her hair started coming out in clumps. So I jerked her to her feet and started pulling her along by her wrist. The crowd of onlookers started to follow us, but then the bell rang and everyone hesitantly started heading to class.

This was the only fight I’ve ever been in at school that wasn’t instantly broken up by a teacher. The reason for this had to do with the layout of my school. One side of the school contained all the classrooms and most of the lockers. In the middle, there was an auditorium which was empty the majority of the time. On the other side of the auditorium, we had two gymnasiums and cafeteria which were only busy at certain times of the day. Janice’s locker just happened to be in the hall between gym and the Auditorium which was probably the best place in the school to fight without interference from the faculty. Also, on the north side of the auditorium was a pair of double doors. In the little foyer area, there was a pay phone. This is where I lead Janice.

I picked up the pay phone, popped a quarter in the slot, and shot Janice a dirty look. The phone rang and rang. Obviously, Derrek wasn’t home.

“Do you know where he is?” I asked her.

“No! I swear I don’t!”

Uncertainty, I uncrossed my arms and stared at her. She was still crying and mascara was running down her cheeks in thick, black streaks. Each snuffle and sob was echoing throughout the empty halls. I thought to myself, I can’t deal with this shit right now.

I said, “I guess I’ll deal with you after school then. Come on, let’s go back to class.”

“We can’t go back to glass,” she whined, “The bell already rang. We’ll get in trouble!”

“No we won’t,” I insisted, “Just follow me.”

Now, in another article, I alluded to the fact that I often stayed out of trouble because my Mother had a lot of influence at my school. This is true, but not for the reasons you might suspect. In all actuality, I had spent the majority of my high school career confiding in my guidance counselor and as a result, she developed a seething hatred of my Mother. So every time I fucked up in school, she would show up and smooth things over for me because she was afraid I’d get in trouble at home. Being the rotten little bitch I was I took full advantage of this.

[Some of you are probably wondering why my guidance counselor never called Children’s services if she knew what was happening to me at home. The truth is she did. She probably called them two or three times a week and she even set up secret meetings with me and various social workers in the principal’s office. These meetings always went the same way. I would ask the social worker if she could guarantee me that my brother and I would be placed in the same foster home. The social worker would tell me she couldn’t do that. So I would tell her that my Mother never disciplined me inappropriately, ever. (I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mrs. R.)]

But, back to my story.

I took Janice to my guidance counselor’s office and very brazenly asked Mrs. R for a hall pass.

“Janice and I had to work some stuff out,” I told her, “We got so carried away with our talk that we didn’t notice the bell rang.”

She wrote us the passes with nothing more than a simple warning that we not make a habit of missing the bell.

Back in the hall, Janice said, “Holy shit, how did you do that?”

“Shut up.” I replied.

Before Janice and I went our separate ways, I demanded she meet me across the street at the ice cream shop after school. I figured I’d deal with her and the whole sorry situation then.

Read Part 2 of this story here.

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