Homo ewritus: Someone's Going to Murder Me, Aren't They?

I have the semi-irrational fear that one day I'll get murdered.

It's only semi-irrational because according to that Tyra Banks show about murder, it's still definitely going to happen.

Because of this, I have to sleep with lights on, live in constant fear, and am unable to message back Tinder matches.

He seems nice! Oooh, and The Killers is a common interest!

I've been in relationships nearly constantly for the last four years mostly because I need someone to sleep in my bed so that if a murderer does bust through the door, there's a sacrifice handy.

But why? Why am I an adult who still sleeps with the lights on? Why do I have to check under the back seats every time I drive at night (in case a zombie got in)? Why do I have to lock and unlock the door three times before I go to bed?

I haven't slept well, recently, but as every responsible adult knows, the only way to deter murderers is with every light on and a blanket all the way over your face like a magic shield.

And last night, as I fetal positioned in my cocoon of insanity and shame, I thought...

"Huh. Maybe this isn't normal."

So I've decided to use this blog as an opportunity to pin point why exactly my fear of murderers exists.

You know, save for the obvious reason: that they're the most scary and everyone should be afraid all the time.

I've uncovered five events that I think could possibly be the source of all my trouble, the first of which takes place two weeks ago.

Allow me to set the scene --

Sunday night. A summer breeze, like luke warm dog spit, swept past the emptying streets of Los Feliz.

Exhibit A: Mr. Cyrus From Los Feliz

It was late. 10 pm. My lady friend and I were just stepping out for the evening.

We were... Los Feelin' it.

I zipped the oversized man-hoodie I had stolen from my brother, and pulled down the little boys' shorts I bought from the Target children's section.

Suffice to say, I was looking snappy.

It wasn't surprising then when the yelling began. It was faint at first, couldn't quite make out the words, but it was clearly an intoxicated man across the street. Then the accosting grew louder, it was coming towards us. Finally I could understand what this gentleman was screaming:

"IS IT TRUE? DO WOMEN LIKE BUTT SEX? HEY! DO YOU LIKE BUTT SEX? DO WOMEN LIKE BUTT SEX?"

I could sense how important this matter was to him, but (sex) my friend and I had decided to ignore him. Soon he was right on my heels, I could practically smell the booze as he persisted, asking me if I, indeed, enjoy the "butt sex."

I couldn't take it anymore and finally spun around, ready to show this lost frat boy a piece of my mind... but he wasn't a frat boy at all. No, the image of this man stopped me short, the words caught in my throat. My friend kept walking, unaware, but I couldn't take my eyes off him.

He was over six feet tall. His hair was modeled presumably after Ms. Miley of Cyrus -- bleach blonde and swoopy. His teeth were so crowded that the sides faced out and looked crooked and sharp. He wore a red cotton dress that reached his knees, and no shoes. The peculiar thing, however, was the inky red liquid smeared all over his mouth, dripping down his chest. In one hand he clutched a limp bag of blood.

All I could manage to stutter out was:

"N-no, sorry, thank you. No thank you. Sorry, no."

My training as a little meek white lady was finally paying off.

Turning around turned out to be an even bigger mistake when the man's eyes latched onto me. His drunken comments grew louder as he stepped forward, herding me into a wall.

"So do you like butt sex? You're making me so hard right now. My tongue's hard. Did you know that girls can make guys' tongues hard?"

I did not know that.

"Look, see?"

I did see.

"Do you have nice bosoms? Let me see your bosoms."

I did not have nice bosoms, but that was something I'd endeavor to keep from him at least for the time being.

At this point I'm nearly backed against a wall, my life flashing before my eyes as I considered the few times I'd ever heard someone utter the word "bosoms."

Then, in a moment I'll never forget, this man held the bag of blood in my face, sloshing from side to side and said:

"Here, want some?"

And you know when you can just see AIDS? Because this was one of those times that I could just see AIDS. Before I could politely decline, however, my friend spun around and saw what was going on.

This girl went from sweet koala to angry grizzly in five seconds flat.

She told him off and held out her hand to me -- like my special needs caretaker...

Which she kind of is.

We proceeded to run across the street, illegally, as this man shouted repeatedly:

"SATAN, SATAN, SATAN..."

We took refuge in a hipster bookstore that I could only assume would act as some kind of bougie force field against the unhip creatures of the night, like this gentleman.

After all, Miley Cyrus hair is so 2014. Idiot.

Eventually we did go home, but that night I had to drive with all the lights on in my car and nearly hit a house as a result. When I got there, I locked my door (three times) and laid in bed, face under my blanket, trying to blot out the memory of my recent close encounter with Mr. Cyrus.

But like I said, that can't have been the cause -- it only happened two weeks ago! So we'll have to dig deeper I think.

EXHIBIT B: The Strangly Boyfriend

I've previously discussed the story where my once-boo decided to spice things up with a bit of hittin' and stranglin'.

The 'murican way.

So we won't get into it too much, but basically a man twice my size, drunk as a skunk and just as smelly...

Came home to find me on the internet.

And thought he'd convince me to be less on the internet if his hands were around my throat.

Didn't work. (Just like him!)

What it DID do, however, was utterly terrify me for the coming years. Admittedly I was already predisposed to a fear of someone cutting my head off and feasting on my neck juice, but the image of him body slamming my front door and caving in the chain lock was enough to keep me awake for months.

But I suppose I can't blame him either, can I? After all, the primary reason to keep him around was to keep the OTHER murderers at bay.

It's a vicious cycle.

Exhibit C: Columbine

If we're going back further, might as well head into childhood. I remember Columbine primarily for one reason -- because it was the moment I knew I wasn't safe anywhere.

Gotta grow up some day.

I was seven-years-old and from then on my mother made it her mission to make sure I didn't end up the casualty of some kid's angsty teen choices.

She could have admittedly done a better job of stopping my angsty teen choices.

Before she'd let me out of the car at school, she'd quiz me on how to run if someone was shooting at you...

In a zig zag!

On who to be friends with...

The dumb kids, "because they've got nothing to worry about anyhow."
Plus, I found I got along with them pretty well, for some odd reason...

She even told me what to do if someone was bearing over you with an AK-47...

Play dead... or offer them a nice shiny quarter! Everyone loves a shiny quarter.

Which is all fantastic advice, except for, you know, it makes you think about murder all the time.

So that DEFINITELY could have been a factor in my insanity, but again, I don't think it started there.

Exhibit D: Our Old Friend Mo

Sure, maybe that kind of explains that constant fear. But I was tormented before that, wasn't I? Why couldn't I ever sleep alone?

For this one, I think we need to take a little detour into Molester Town.

Jesus christ, stopped tailgating my pussy!

I mentioned this previously and never got much into the details, but I figured it might be fun to dive into when we're talking about murderers. Can't forget about child molesters!

The Academy sure didn't!

So I was bad touched as a kid. Is bad touched the right word? Fondled? Diddled? Let's go with bad touched, shouldn't be making light of this. Anyway, I was bad touched as a kid.

Presumably because I was sooo sexy.

The perpetrator was my mother's boyfriend. He was someone we trusted, someone who was portrayed to me as an adult you should listen to. Fun fact: three out of four children who are assaulted are assaulted by someone the child knows well. He was supposed to be the good guy.

She stayed with him for a while when I was a kid. I remember it started gradually... when I would complain about stomach aches, he would recommend I rub my stomach -- which I didn't. Because...

And when I didn't, I recall him coming in late at night, and I'd wake with his hands under my clothes. The first time I asked him what he was doing, he became flustered, angry. He told me that he was rubbing my belly because I didn't.

He left; I was lucky he scared off easily, but I sure as hell didn't fall back to sleep after that.

So was that why I was afraid? I mean, some Mos, they threaten kids' lives... but this guy didn't. I didn't tell anyone, not because I was afraid... but because I was ashamed. I was a shy kid and I definitely didn't see the need to burden my parents' lives any further.

As you may recall, the abuse ended when my mother found child pornography on his computer.

YA DON'T SAY!

So I don't think it accounts for my fear of murder because--

-- I didn't get murdered. But it may account for my fear of people coming in late at night. To be honest though... I think I was afraid even earlier than that.

Exhibit E: Bun Bun

I figure the final place I can string this line back to, the earliest I can remember, is the Bun Bun incident.

We don't usually talk about the Bun Bun incident.

When I was maybe four, I had the greatest thing a four-year-old girl could have.

Aside, of course, from a unicorn.

A pet bunny rabbit.

Bun Bun was everything. She was my light, my love, my personal poop factory.

I would do anything for her.

And a neighbor's dog seemingly had very similar feelings, because he felt the need to get close to Bun Bun. Teeth around her soft bunny belly close. I'm sure he was just trying to love her, but he loved her too hard.

"Right, George?"

Now Todd, you remember Todd, right? My loving, faultless father who never lied to us?

Todd found Bun Bun and buried her in the backyard. When we came home, however, he couldn't tell us the truth. He told us Bun Bun ran away.

And I can say with complete certainty that, after learning this, I have never been more devastated in my entire life.

All afternoon I cried, I ached, I prayed to God...

And by nightfall I had finally come to terms with the cold truth: Bun Bun wasn't coming home.

But Todd, that mother fucker--

Just couldn't let sleeping Buns lie. He couldn't take the guilt of deceiving his small children so he gathered us up and told us the truth. Bun Bun didn't run away. Bun Bun was disemboweled by a rottweiler.

I think this traumatized me more than anything else I've experienced.

I now knew murder was possible and that my dad was a real nogoodnick.

It's like staring into the eyes of Hitler.

But you know... to be honest, I don't think any of those are the reason that I have a pathological fear of getting hacked to pieces by a hatchet. I think the reason that I'm afraid of getting hacked to pieces by a hatchet is because sometimes people hack other people up with hatchets.

And maybe part of the reason I fear it is because I don't understand it. I don't understand why someone would want to do that to another person.

I don't understand how someone who claims to love you can wrap their hands around your throat to force you into doing something. I don't understand how an individual can choose to mow down a classroom full of kids with gunfire. I don't understand how a man can invade a little girl's bedroom at night and destine her to feel powerless.

Sure, I could guess. It might make them feel influential. If he accosts a couple of young women in the street, and they are forced to run away from him, he might feel like he had that ability over them. That if they're fearing him than they're thinking about him.

If he's dating you and he feels the need to control you, I guess he might resort to his strength. Hard to say no to someone who could snap you in half at will. Maybe that makes him feel important.

It's possible that that's what those people think. And if so than they've failed to take a lesson I learned from my fallen comrade, Bun Bun.

Be with the angels, Bun Bun!

It's easy for animals to kill. Every omnivore and carnivore is built for it. But people aren't just animals. People are remarkable. The people worthy of power are the ones who aren't just animals. They are smart enough, capable enough to overcome the desire to do bad things. They've earned the right to influence people, because people want to be influenced by them.

When I see another person has chosen to shoot up a school, I don't see a mastermind, I see an animal. It doesn't take guts to walk into a classroom full of unarmed students with ammo strapped to your body, it doesn't take intelligence to warp a child's mind, it doesn't take ability to hurt someone you love. I feel sorry for those who think it does, who think it proves something remarkable about them. All it's proved is weakness.

That's what I tell myself at least when it's 4 am and I can't go to sleep. I tell myself that if a man with a olden-daysy bayonet cracks through my front door that at the very least, before he shish kabobs me, I won't fear him. I'll pity him.