Red Flags: Trust Your Gut.

Red Flags: Trust Your Gut 

 

What is like to live alone for the first time?

 

Exhilarating and terrifying. When a young woman goes about her days and nights in a manner of true independence, there’s a quiet purity to that (even if she’s a total partier. I mean the being on her own part.)

 

Having had it with bizarre roommates, I decided to live on my own in an apartment in a decent area. I was probably twenty-three or twenty-four.

 

I kept to myself, working my sales rep job, traveling frequently, doing my own thing with friends, family, dating. I loved decorating my little place, making it my own.

 

When new neighbors moved in upstairs, I went out of my way to say hello to the skinny, young, pretty girl and slightly older guy, big and swarthy. She was friendly, he was not.

 

First red flag.

 

Within about a week of them moving in, I heard him shouting at her long into the night. It went on for hours. I could only hear her crying, him yelling. Then I heard a thump. Then another one. Screams. More crying.

 

Shakily, I called 911. I explained that there seemed to be a domestic disturbance upstairs and could they come check it out?

 

In a state of high anxiety, I felt as though there were flies buzzing about me. Was this really happening? I wasn’t raised around violence. I felt like throwing up. I also felt trapped. I did not want to witness (hear) this violence, but I had no choice.

 

The officers arrived, asking me questions. I told them only what I’d heard. Cursing, shouting by the guy; screams and whimpering from her – like a wounded animal. Then the thumps and her cries, which worried me. They went upstairs to check it out.

 

You have to understand – I would have given anything to not be listening to their drama unfold. To not be involved. But…this (how do you refer to some jerk beating a woman – this just doesn’t cover it) was happening right above me. It sounded like she was in serious trouble. I couldn’t not do anything.

 

Everything got very quiet when the cops arrived. The noise upstairs stopped completely. The cops were no fools though – the guy had apparently roughed her up pretty badly, and she had bruises and contusions. They didn’t mess around – they arrested him.

 

I heard her cry all night. The next day, he returned (I could hear him on the stairs). I looked out my window and he flipped me off and slid his finger across his neck.

 

Second big red flag.

 

Scared, upset, and angry, I called the cops back to report the threat. This was ridiculous.

 

A few days later, I saw her on the stairs. Her face was bruised and she was limping. I started to ask her how she was doing and she responded: Fuck off. Leave us the hell alone, you bitch!

 

I was taken aback, but I wasn’t mad. I didn’t take what she said personally. It certainly would have been easy to. I just felt incredibly sad for her. She clearly loved him.

 

You see, I had experienced my own bad boy. Never violent like that with me, though I did feel scared of his raging temper on several occasions. I left my guy. His temper and cheating were way less than I deserved. But I understood the draw.

 

A few weeks later, I heard a thunderous roar on the stairwell. There must have been twenty young guys headed upstairs chanting, “Bachelor party!”

 

Wishing I had somewhere else to be, I was stuck at home working. I put on my music and settled in at my desk.

 

It wasn’t too long before I noticed a drip drip in my kitchen. What the hell? The ceiling was hanging down in the middle like a cow’s udder; plaster wet and falling, the ceiling about to pop. I didn’t know what the heck was going on upstairs, and didn’t care, but I didn’t want whatever was coming down to fall!

 

Rather than head upstairs on my own, I called the Super. An older gentleman who’d been around, he took one look at the ceiling and said simply, “Keg. I’ll be back.”

 

About the same time as he slammed my door, the udder burst all over my kitchen. There was beer everywhere. I don’t even like beer!

 

I heard the Super, knocking upstairs but no conversations. I set about cleaning it up and hoping I wouldn’t be held responsible (I wasn’t, of course).

 

Within about thirty minutes, the cops were back. This time they brought the paddy wagon. Apparently, this party was all minors. I waved as my neighbor walked out in cuffs. He spat at me.

 

Beyond red flag.

 

Months go by. I eventually tired of hearing the heartbreaking beatings, loud parties, and threats – I decided to move. I  just never felt comfortable or safe there. Sometimes I was terrified to go to sleep.

 

Was it my own fault because I’d gotten involved?

 

On moving day, my next-door neighbors came over to say goodbye. A friendly, older couple, the man took me aside privately and told me: I chased off the idiot upstairs several times when I saw him peeping through your windows. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t want to freak you out.

 

I remember feeling pure rage. Rage at the violation, the invasion of privacy, and the sheer audacity it took for someone to peep into my windows. (I was also furious with my nice neighbor for never reporting it. I was mad at everyone.)

 

Awesome. Not only was Upstairs a wife-beater, he was also a Peeping Tom? Seriously? Or was his peeping something more – looking for a way in, perhaps.

 

I still shudder thinking what could have happened – not only to me but also to this skinny, pretty young confused girl. I’ll never forget the muffled sounds of someone deliberately hurting – no, beating — someone else. Cries for help she made but ultimately didn’t want; though I knew at some point, she would.

 

But I also learned this: trust your gut. Get out, because things don’t ever get better when someone threatens you or worse, hits you.

 

I always wondered what happened to that couple. I hope she made it out alive.

 

I’m glad I did.

 

Have you experienced something similar? Please share your comments below.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

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