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Journal Entry November 27th 2011:
Friday night I came home after seeing some chums in North London. I left [partner] with them, and came home early because I was due in the office on Saturday morning. After some faffing about, I went to bed.
I woke when the bedroom light was switched on. The man was a stranger; I kept expecting him to somehow become my brother or my partner, as if my eyes had to be deceiving me. They weren't, not about him, not about the carving knife in his hand.
I started to scream, begging my neighbours to hear me, crying out for help and he came towards me telling me to stop it. 'I JUST WANT MONEY!' He yelled and threatened to cut me if I shouted. So I stopped. I pointed him at the money box. He tipped it out, found no money, started shouting and came at me with the knife, moving the blade towards my face.
As the knife came I tried to grab it. I aimed for the handle and got the bottom end of the blade, and he pressed that into my thumb to get my hand off. My thumb bled a lot and I got faint. Big picture still in my head: the palm of my hand and all the little creases filling up with blood. But I didn't let go. I didn't let go for the rest of the night.
We wrestled and pulled, sometimes he let go in a kind of wild remorseful mood swing, then he would tell me that he had to have the knife as it was evidence, he would attack me for the knife and try to touch me, he would push my hand down and try to prize my fingers apart for the knife, but from the moment I grabbed it, I never ever let it go. I was covered in blood, all out of my thumb.
He pulled his pants a bit down, took out his penis and told me that I was going to suck his cock or he would cut my throat. I told him NO, I screamed at him not to touch me, and I knew there were a few things that would never happen, not while I had the knife and I would never give up the knife. He went for the knife again, trying to pin me down on the bed, trying to get himself between my thighs, I lifted my knees, planted my feet in his chest and kicked him back onto the dresser. He howled and claimed I cut him, as if he, and I and the bedsheets weren't covered in what he called my 'claret' already!
He sat on the bed, tried to make me sit by him. I coaxed him to talk and I listened, tried to build a bond. I explained to him that while my head wanted to believe he didn't mean me harm, my body was terrified and I was going to vomit. I stood there, naked, covered in blood in front of him, and I puked straight onto the floor. I told him, that I needed the toilet, and at the time I truly believed I was going to defecate. He walked onto the landing, and my guts just stopped, I slammed the door behind him, pushed a suitcase in front of it, grabbed my phone from off the laundry basket and phoned 999. He roared outside the door, crashing around, threats and fury. Upstairs, downstairs rummaging through the house, the kitchen, my fear he would find a bigger, better knife. The WPC at the other end of the phone warned me not to tell him I was talking to her; too late, he was shouting and screaming at the door again. 'Crowbar!' He yelled. It went quiet.
Suddenly it started again, solid heavy blows/kicks against the door, the whole thing feeling as if it was going to come off on its hinges, I felt it crack behind me horizontally across the centre, just as the WPC told me that the police had arrived at the wrong address. The bottom of the door burst open, he pushed it forward, the case and I followed and he came into the room.
'Now you're fucked!' He said, pulling one of [partner’s]’ LARP swords out of a scabbard. He couldn't quite believe it didn't hurt me. I could finally get out the bedroom door and I did, he ran down the stairs behind me, I tried the front door, fumbled, ran into the front room, ran out into the hall, got the door right this time, out into the streets, they were empty. I don't know what I was expecting, a swat team in the bushes perhaps or a man with a megaphone? He followed me too, and ran off. I ran back inside and bolted the door. The police were there in less than 2 minutes. I heard them at the door and knew it had to be them, but I was afraid it was him. I opened the door, and stood there naked, covered in blood, crying, knife in hands. They told me to drop the knife, and I did, the knife and the phone on the floor. They came in and covered me up.
The police were fantastic. They took me to hospital, where my thumb got stitched up. [Partner] was so supportive in every way. Our neighbours let us sleep in their brand new bedroom; we couldn't come back in, even to collect my phone because it was part of the crime scene. Seeing the house next day with that tape they use across the entrance, cats very confused.
We thought he had taken a lot of money, but he hadn't. I had been telling him the truth about the jewellery box; there was £600 cash there. He had missed it because it was in white envelopes; clearly he expected it to be marked 'SWAG' or something.
Me, I am OK. I know, I know I was very lucky, but I feel light headed. I keep waking up. I smell a bit more intense...I have had two baths, but it's just slightly more sweat than I am used to, don't know what that is.
This is garbled, but I can't write much more for now.
When these stitches heal, I will have a tiny tattoo on this thumb to always remember; I may not have the valour of a soldier, I may be too silly for a hero. But when nightmares come - and they do come and they are not movies - I must always remember that I have it in me to grab the knife and keep hold.
Friday night I came home after seeing some chums in North London. I left [partner] with them, and came home early because I was due in the office on Saturday morning. After some faffing about, I went to bed.
I woke when the bedroom light was switched on. The man was a stranger; I kept expecting him to somehow become my brother or my partner, as if my eyes had to be deceiving me. They weren't, not about him, not about the carving knife in his hand.
I started to scream, begging my neighbours to hear me, crying out for help and he came towards me telling me to stop it. 'I JUST WANT MONEY!' He yelled and threatened to cut me if I shouted. So I stopped. I pointed him at the money box. He tipped it out, found no money, started shouting and came at me with the knife, moving the blade towards my face.
As the knife came I tried to grab it. I aimed for the handle and got the bottom end of the blade, and he pressed that into my thumb to get my hand off. My thumb bled a lot and I got faint. Big picture still in my head: the palm of my hand and all the little creases filling up with blood. But I didn't let go. I didn't let go for the rest of the night.
We wrestled and pulled, sometimes he let go in a kind of wild remorseful mood swing, then he would tell me that he had to have the knife as it was evidence, he would attack me for the knife and try to touch me, he would push my hand down and try to prize my fingers apart for the knife, but from the moment I grabbed it, I never ever let it go. I was covered in blood, all out of my thumb.
He pulled his pants a bit down, took out his penis and told me that I was going to suck his cock or he would cut my throat. I told him NO, I screamed at him not to touch me, and I knew there were a few things that would never happen, not while I had the knife and I would never give up the knife. He went for the knife again, trying to pin me down on the bed, trying to get himself between my thighs, I lifted my knees, planted my feet in his chest and kicked him back onto the dresser. He howled and claimed I cut him, as if he, and I and the bedsheets weren't covered in what he called my 'claret' already!
He sat on the bed, tried to make me sit by him. I coaxed him to talk and I listened, tried to build a bond. I explained to him that while my head wanted to believe he didn't mean me harm, my body was terrified and I was going to vomit. I stood there, naked, covered in blood in front of him, and I puked straight onto the floor. I told him, that I needed the toilet, and at the time I truly believed I was going to defecate. He walked onto the landing, and my guts just stopped, I slammed the door behind him, pushed a suitcase in front of it, grabbed my phone from off the laundry basket and phoned 999. He roared outside the door, crashing around, threats and fury. Upstairs, downstairs rummaging through the house, the kitchen, my fear he would find a bigger, better knife. The WPC at the other end of the phone warned me not to tell him I was talking to her; too late, he was shouting and screaming at the door again. 'Crowbar!' He yelled. It went quiet.
Suddenly it started again, solid heavy blows/kicks against the door, the whole thing feeling as if it was going to come off on its hinges, I felt it crack behind me horizontally across the centre, just as the WPC told me that the police had arrived at the wrong address. The bottom of the door burst open, he pushed it forward, the case and I followed and he came into the room.
'Now you're fucked!' He said, pulling one of [partner’s]’ LARP swords out of a scabbard. He couldn't quite believe it didn't hurt me. I could finally get out the bedroom door and I did, he ran down the stairs behind me, I tried the front door, fumbled, ran into the front room, ran out into the hall, got the door right this time, out into the streets, they were empty. I don't know what I was expecting, a swat team in the bushes perhaps or a man with a megaphone? He followed me too, and ran off. I ran back inside and bolted the door. The police were there in less than 2 minutes. I heard them at the door and knew it had to be them, but I was afraid it was him. I opened the door, and stood there naked, covered in blood, crying, knife in hands. They told me to drop the knife, and I did, the knife and the phone on the floor. They came in and covered me up.
The police were fantastic. They took me to hospital, where my thumb got stitched up. [Partner] was so supportive in every way. Our neighbours let us sleep in their brand new bedroom; we couldn't come back in, even to collect my phone because it was part of the crime scene. Seeing the house next day with that tape they use across the entrance, cats very confused.
We thought he had taken a lot of money, but he hadn't. I had been telling him the truth about the jewellery box; there was £600 cash there. He had missed it because it was in white envelopes; clearly he expected it to be marked 'SWAG' or something.
Me, I am OK. I know, I know I was very lucky, but I feel light headed. I keep waking up. I smell a bit more intense...I have had two baths, but it's just slightly more sweat than I am used to, don't know what that is.
This is garbled, but I can't write much more for now.
When these stitches heal, I will have a tiny tattoo on this thumb to always remember; I may not have the valour of a soldier, I may be too silly for a hero. But when nightmares come - and they do come and they are not movies - I must always remember that I have it in me to grab the knife and keep hold.
