AP Lit paper-- how did it turn out???
Don’t call 911, was the first thing he said to me. A faceless, nameless voice.
The two of them had casually walked into the store. They looked like thugs playing dress-up-their faces clad in makeshift hoods, really T-shirts with eyeholes. I saw one demand my customer for money. Then I turned around.
The gun was small, silver, and shiny. I’d never seen one before. I was surprised I even knew what it was. It didn’t seem real. Nothing seemed real.
He told me not to touch the phone.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Filing the police report an hour later, I couldn’t remember either.
I remembered not knowing how to open the cash register. It was my second weekend working at the country store, and my job was primarily stocking shelves. I was giving the cashier a dinner break. With 2 hours behind-the-counter experience, I hadn’t a clue where the key was kept.
I remembered being threatened. What they said, I hadn’t a clue. I remembered he hit me, or pushed me, I wasn’t sure which. My body was numb.
I remembered seeing the key sticking out from under the keyboard. I remember ducking under his arm and opening the drawer. Giving him the money.
I’d forgotten the customer was there. Call 911, he said to me, where is your phone? In a trance, I picked it up and dialed the number.
I just got robbed…was all I could stammer. Then the tears started. I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t stop crying. The police came and questioned me. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t remember. All I knew at that moment in time was fear. A fear so deep, so penetrating, so real, as if I really had died. The world was moving in slow motion.
Why couldn’t I remember?
He said one of the guys was hitting me. He told the police they were beating me, shoving me, hurting me. The police asked if it was true. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to remember.
He said they were going to kill me. He said if they had gotten angry enough… had lost patience… had I not found the key…
I didn’t want to think.
Later that night, my arm started hurting. And my ribs. I peeled off my shirt and stood before the mirror. I saw the bruises on my left arm. On my shoulder. The small, circular bruise where he had shoved the gun in my ribs. I crumpled to the ground, crying. I was scared.
I told my friends. They asked me questions, they said they loved me, and they assured me it would be all right. I recited the story over and over, numbing the fear.
You can tell a story and it will mean nothing. I can tell this story to anyone and won’t feel it. Narrating it has become a monotonous tale. Turning it into a fictional story, I managed to bury the feelings and get over the experience within days.
I don’t jump when someone taps my shoulder anymore. At night, I can put gas in my car without worrying and watching my back. I’m not afraid to be alone anymore.
But it’s not completely gone. The court dates are coming up this month and the next, and I don’t know how they’ll go. Sometimes the nightmares return. Sometimes in a movie, I see a gun and catch my breath. Sometimes I wonder when I’ll be ready to face the past. Thinking about that night… thinking about what happened… what could have happened… the memories are buried by layers of fog.
I’m not sure I want to remember.
The two of them had casually walked into the store. They looked like thugs playing dress-up-their faces clad in makeshift hoods, really T-shirts with eyeholes. I saw one demand my customer for money. Then I turned around.
The gun was small, silver, and shiny. I’d never seen one before. I was surprised I even knew what it was. It didn’t seem real. Nothing seemed real.
He told me not to touch the phone.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Filing the police report an hour later, I couldn’t remember either.
I remembered not knowing how to open the cash register. It was my second weekend working at the country store, and my job was primarily stocking shelves. I was giving the cashier a dinner break. With 2 hours behind-the-counter experience, I hadn’t a clue where the key was kept.
I remembered being threatened. What they said, I hadn’t a clue. I remembered he hit me, or pushed me, I wasn’t sure which. My body was numb.
I remembered seeing the key sticking out from under the keyboard. I remember ducking under his arm and opening the drawer. Giving him the money.
I’d forgotten the customer was there. Call 911, he said to me, where is your phone? In a trance, I picked it up and dialed the number.
I just got robbed…was all I could stammer. Then the tears started. I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t stop crying. The police came and questioned me. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t remember. All I knew at that moment in time was fear. A fear so deep, so penetrating, so real, as if I really had died. The world was moving in slow motion.
Why couldn’t I remember?
He said one of the guys was hitting me. He told the police they were beating me, shoving me, hurting me. The police asked if it was true. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to remember.
He said they were going to kill me. He said if they had gotten angry enough… had lost patience… had I not found the key…
I didn’t want to think.
Later that night, my arm started hurting. And my ribs. I peeled off my shirt and stood before the mirror. I saw the bruises on my left arm. On my shoulder. The small, circular bruise where he had shoved the gun in my ribs. I crumpled to the ground, crying. I was scared.
I told my friends. They asked me questions, they said they loved me, and they assured me it would be all right. I recited the story over and over, numbing the fear.
You can tell a story and it will mean nothing. I can tell this story to anyone and won’t feel it. Narrating it has become a monotonous tale. Turning it into a fictional story, I managed to bury the feelings and get over the experience within days.
I don’t jump when someone taps my shoulder anymore. At night, I can put gas in my car without worrying and watching my back. I’m not afraid to be alone anymore.
But it’s not completely gone. The court dates are coming up this month and the next, and I don’t know how they’ll go. Sometimes the nightmares return. Sometimes in a movie, I see a gun and catch my breath. Sometimes I wonder when I’ll be ready to face the past. Thinking about that night… thinking about what happened… what could have happened… the memories are buried by layers of fog.
I’m not sure I want to remember.