Image by karpov the wrecked train via Flickr

I didn’t hear him enter the room.  By the time I did he was standing over me, warning me not to scream.  He had discarded his clothes as he’d come through the door so he stood nude at the edge of the bed while I lay frozen for a moment, trying to decide what to do.  As he moved toward me, inertia turned to panic and with an adrenalin rush I rolled off onto the floor and under the bed before he could grab me.

I had moved into the building just a few months ago.  It was convenient to work, less than two blocks from the office.  In fact, I was able to go home on lunch hours to use the amenities, exercise, shower, lunch or rest before returning to work.   The downtown had recently developed residential complexes, some of whom were combined with offices.  This brought an additional transient population, and one had to be cautious being outside during the late evening hours.

Despite my understanding of the needed precautions for a single woman, I had been so exhausted from the unusual stresses of the day I had forgotten to lock the outer door.  He must have come through there, and now as I crouched under the bed, recognizing that he would pull me out any minute, I realized how foolish I had been and wished that I had been careful.

I hear the sound of the window pushed open, the one  which I had left slightly ajar in order to get the fresh breezes of the evening air.  Two male voices shout, then a scuffle ensues while I remain quietly in the dark.    An arm drops across the bed, and I see the blood stream to the floor as the window closes again.  

The newspaper carried the account the following day.  A burglar had broken into apartment 103 of the Hawthorne complex, killing the man he found lying on a bed before taking the money from the pants pocket of his victim.   When caught the thief reported how the victim protested he didn’t live in the complex, but that it had been obvious he did since he was undressed with his clothes on the floor right inside the door.