the hood

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, gathered my clothes from the floor, pulled my hair into something like a bun, stabbed my eye trying to put on mascara, successfully put on mascara, turned on the living room light to find my purse, and walked out to my car. I though it was odd that my door was partially open. I thought it was more odd that my glove box was open, and the faceplate was removed from my CD player.

I was afraid. My heart bashed against my rids and the world was under water, slowed and silenced. I got in, and the seat slid away from me. I was torn: Should I turn it on? Were the break lines cut? Was I being watched?

I drove to work and hid from the windows, afraid someone was watching. At seven, I called Rachel to find the same thing had happened to her car: nothing stolen, nothing broken--just moved and searched through.

In a week's time, our landlord will replace our locks. We will hide behind chains and deadbolts, just in case. I have never been afraid, and I hate the tension and guilt that it brings. Everyone becomes a suspect. In the Economic Crisis that fills the news, everyone has a motive. Were they scoping the scene out to make a quicker, larger steal? Or, and I truly believe this, were they "harmlessly" looking for drugs?

The police said they'll be watching, and so will I. I'll be watching the neighbors to gauge their nervousness, watching what pieces of lawn furniture disappear, watching the locks in my car slip back multiple times before being satisfied and walking away.