Kyle asked me to buy him an energy drink. Since I thought we’d only be there for two minutes, I left everything behind.
Inside the store, I asked the clerk if I could use the phone.
“The public telephone is at the back,” he said without taking his eyes off the television.
“I have no money. My husband left with my belongings.”
“They usually come back. Wait outside.”
The payphone was broken and no longer worked. I went back to the sidewalk and sat down in the narrow strip of shade next to the building.
It was then that I finally understood that the incident wasn’t an isolated prank. It was the latest cruelty in a pattern I had pretended to ignore for years.
Kyle and his brothers hid my car keys before an important interview, causing me to miss it. They placed a very realistic eviction notice on our apartment door and watched me tearfully pack before admitting it was fake. They made terrifying phone calls to me, ruined my clothes, and recorded my reactions whenever they could.
