Intro

He'd almost killed me--

a few times, in the last week.

I'd finally worked up the nerve to report my case to the County Magistrate's office.

For the past two days, the local police hadn't been anything but a patronizing gang of incompetent morons.

I was a paranoid, sleep-deprived wreck.

It'd been three days and I hadn't eaten due to a combination of stress and fear.

He could be watching me walk into this courthouse.

But who would know?

My family and friends-- what family and friends?

I hadn't told anyone of my whereabouts for the past few months, due to genuine uncertainty, and a level of isolation I cannot condense into one journal entry.

Oh, and of course, I was absolutely mortified that things hadn't gone as planned.

I'm safer in here than I am back there. Here goes nothing.

I managed to shove the glass, rotating door open, and was immediately surrounded by an archway metal detector, accompanied by three, male, security guards.

"Everything out of your pockets and into these bins," one of them blurted as he pointed to a stack of gray, plastic tubs placed messily before a mini-conveyor belt.

Good thing I don't have weed on me.

The building was engulfed with turn-of-the-century,traditional courthouse architecture. The walls were tall and ivory, lined with plaques from once prestigious judicial members.The floors were dripping with marble, making each step echo with purpose.

My purpose, however, was extremely foggy-- I needed legal guidance, A.S.A.P.

I'd followed the directions given to me at the entrance. The branch I needed was located on the fourth floor, I proceeded feebly towards the elevators. Around me were lawyers scrambling for their last hearings of the day, dressed to the 9's in business formal attire. Police officers and security guards secured the ground floor and lobby area. From what I saw, about 95% of the officers were middle-aged and bursting out the seams of their khaki uniforms with matching beer bellies, and steroids necks.

They hire anybody, I swear.

The doors 'binged' open to the fourth floor. I followed the signs to the magistrate representative's office. Inside was a crammed, yet cozy space, with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The floors were an emerald plush carpet-- the seats, a deep mahogany leather.

It seemed as though everyone else had left for the day, except for one person I could hear typing rapidly behind a massive, emerald, winged arm-chair.

I stuck my head into the quaint little office, as an attractive, middle-aged woman popped out from behind the brim of the gorgeous upholstery.

"Hey there, how can I help?" she smiled, as she perched her reading glasses on top of her head.

I hesitated, as I remember how the officers had basically harassed me the night before. She was different though; compassionate. Her expression seemed warm and sincere, I felt a connection, which prompted me to spill my entire recent endeavor.

As I confided details about the level of force used to crush my vocal chords, she hurriedly, whipped out a piece of paper, and a writing utensil.

"Everything you're saying. Write it all down," she gently placed the pen in front of me, and smiled, "You're doing the right thing."

For twenty minutes straight, the words streamed out of my memory and onto the paper. It was as if I was back at the scene of the crime, watching my life flash before my eyes as I screamed for my life off a bridge in downtown Atlanta,GA.

I could feel his beefy hands, strangling my neck, as I was hanging backwards over the passenger seat headrest. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, she quickly handed me a box of kleenex.

"I know it's painful. But this is what we need in court in order for a judge to grant a fast protective order," she softly placed her hand on mine.

Was I really that stupid?

My life was in shambles all over again.

It was as if I was writing a story about someone else's life-- what had happened to me?

[**For legal purposes, I would file for an emergency protective order, which would keep this man away from me or any of my family members. The order would be valid for up to 1 year. She also explained that I would then, have to go before a judge, and she would have the final say.**]

Once I'd finished writing my dispute, I pushed the paper across the desk for her to proofread. She gently placed her reading glasses on bridge of her nose. Her eyes widened with each line, she grabbed a tissue as her eyes began to water. She dabbed at her eyes, daintily, as she continued,

"If what you're saying is true," she paused as she squinted, disturbed by the words written down,

"Would you be willing to stay a night at a women's shelter?"

My eyes widened in horror.

A SHELTER?!!

I blinked, motionless for a good 30 seconds.

What the fuck!

Her faded blue eyes, hadn't broken contact with mine since the initial proposal. She could tell I was having second thoughts.

"Are there kids?" my face winced as my eyes narrowed, side-eyeing her pristine, gold-plated name tag, neatly paired next to a fresh deck of business cards.

Her eyes widened as if to brace me for the response.

"Well, yes. The shelter you'd be going to, If you decide to accept the offer, I assure you, is a phenomenal facility with wiFi and cable."

"Where is it located?" I inquired further.

I couldn't believe this.

Atlanta was blowin' me, yo.

"Picture this,"

**In my Sophia Petrillo voice [Golden Girls reference]** :

"Georgia.

Winter. January, 2018."

As if things couldn't get any worse, not only would I be further up-rooted from my initial path, but now, I have to spend the night with Bebe's Kids and women who probably steal.

Fuck.

I pictured rats scurrying across my belongings, as smallpox slowly claimed the lives of fellow, hobos in cots around me.

I'll be drowning in staph infested ruins by February.

"Is it around here?" I pressed.

"I can't tell you that," she snapped sincerely, as if to assure me that her stern demeanor was solely for confidentiality reasons.

A shelter?

A shelter.

What the fuck was last year even about?

This same time last year, I had my own apartment.

My daughter was with me.

I was a clarity-filled, apple-cider-vinegar-sippin', money-making, electric ball of 'yaaas'.

Exactly one year later, and I'm clearly just a sad rack of 'mess'.

I'm a fuck up.

Tuh, Clearly.

Judging by the solicitude of her gaze, I could tell she was leaning for a 'yes' from yours truly.

I briefly outweighed the pro's and con's in my head, before giving a solid response. I took a deep breath before breaking the silence, "Honestly-- at this point, What the hell."

I was on the road to the next chapter of my life.

Rad.

[to be continued].