A letter to the man who stalked me for two years.

Dear Stalker,

8 years have passed since I arrested you. Do you still believe a $200 fine to be a proportionate penalty for violating my right to privacy? That the disgrace of your actions were appropriately repaid by the embarrassment you endured when I confronted you and your wife and kids on the street? It wasn’t, and they haven’t let me assure your fat ugly head.

You still owe me, stalker. You owe me big time and it is a debt I won’t forget.

You made the mistake of trying to be a regular guy the day you casually meandered past my work with your unwitting family. You made me look crazy. Like you’d never known me, never been arrested for trespassing (enter stalking, stealing, public masturbation, defacement of my property)only weeks before. “Perhaps you’d recognise me if my bedroom window were between us?” I had screamed, my face red, heart exploding in my chest.

Demanding your other half tell me whether she knew what you’d been doing; pocketing my clothing, ejaculating on my laundry, rubbing semen all over my clothes, she stood still, as if faceless and stared right through me. Much later I felt sad for your tiny kids stared up at the angry lady yelling at daddy, grubby faced with coke cans in hand and hair glued to their chanceless faces and laced with drying snot. But never sorry for you. You,  finally visible. In daylight. Wiry dark hairs sprouting from unusual moorings on your face, your dry, stretched lips, strangely dyed hair and those grubby nicotine stained fingers. Your thick throat, darting eyes and your quivering chin.

The moon hung high and full in the sky. An eerie quiet persisted, but nothing was unusual apart from this feeling. Barefoot, I crossed the pavement to my car in the driveway. And I saw him. Just a shape to start with, outlined in the darkness, a sinister contrast in hiding behind a jasmine shrub in a crisp, snowy blooms glowing, turned blue by a lunar light. Then in those split seconds that I realized I was being watched in the dark, a threat. He lunged at me with outstretched arms, his tone demanding and determined, “Don’t scream,” you said, as though through gritted teeth.

You see Stalker, the memories I have of you will be quite different than the ones you will, no doubt, have kept of me. Where you might harbor thieved splices of my life from behind suburban shrubbery to remember late at night, I remember you for being the repulsive, ugly, gutless and desperate creature that gave me a reason to doubt my safety.

I haven’t forgotten you, and you still haven’t paid your debt to me.

I was only nineteen years old. Just a kid. I knew your face, it was the face I come within inches of, only a few weeks earlier. The only thing keeping us separate a pane of fog beaded glass, the only thing hindering your escape my courtyard fence. Under the yellow flickering light, your sneering pink head, was distorted from full view and disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized. And  with it, took every last breath of whatever it was that had deluded me earlier- I was safe, I was home, I was okay. Every window in my house was open, receiving the cool change from the furious heat in our country summer.

And I still hadn’t forgotten;

I could see you approaching my car in the rear vision mirror. You were unsure of whether I could see you, nonetheless determined. “Wind it down,” you snarled, grappling at the doorhandle which-thank all fuck-I’d locked. “Why are you doing this to me?” you’d said. What did you mean? Us who? Your family? Why was I pursuing you to face up to your problem? Like every time you put your hands down your pants and watched me from a hiding spot in the garden, it had been a mistake?

It’s no mistake and there is no question stalker.  It is simple. You are a contemptible disgrace.

You don’t know that I know exactly where you live. Which suburb, which street, which  unglued number on the dilapidated door of the unit you hide yourself within. You’ve moved since my brother visited you and you sent your girlfriend to the door. You’ve moved again since the phonecall you made to me, pleading in that strangely deserving, insistent tone that I withdraw my charge because of the damage the case was doing to your family.

What the fuck, Stalker? All obvious arguments aside, you don’t get to fucking CHOOSE.

I haven’t forgotten you, because you see,  if I leave a window open, or blind unrolled in my home, a persistent alarm rings in the back of my mind til I close it. Until that constant alarm in my head shuts down, until I can enjoy the freedom of an open window or freely enjoy the full moon from my window without fee, your debt remains unpaid. It’s a long standing debt I that can’t be settled, a cost you and one that no one could ever afforded to pay. I will wear the loss, Stalker, and I won’t forget you.

Fuck you.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

%d bloggers like this: