i slept in india and woke up in ........
in 2000-3000 words
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One night last March, I was jolted awake by a loud noise. It sounded like someone was shoving furniture across the floor. Groggy and half-dreaming, I thought it was a construction crew working on our renovations upstairs, but then I saw the clock: It was 3:00 A.M. On a Saturday. My two-year-old son, Smith, was snuggled between my husband and me on the bed—and around the corner 10 feet away, I could hear the heavy tread of boot steps. My sleep-furry brain grasped for an explanation. Maybe our au pair was just getting home late—our petite au pair who favors flip-flops, who glides rather than clomps, and who never, ever comes home late.
"Celia, is that you?" My voice sounded small and weak and strange to myself.
The boots paused for a long moment. And then: more stomping. I began to panic. Maybe my husband, John, was actually up, pacing the living room. But I looked across my son, tangled in sheets, and there John was, heavy in sleep.
At that moment, I realized that only four people live in our house—and whoever was stomping around was not one of them. And right then, I understood paralyzing fear. *A stranger is in my house and he heard me call for Celia, so he knows I'm here—but he's not scared, and he's not leaving.*I've had nightmares where I wanted to scream but couldn't. That's how I felt as I frantically reached over to jostle John. "There's someone in the house—you need to wake up!" I whispered. But John was too deep in sleep; he didn't budge.
• • •
"You don't fit in here," Jerry, my busybody neighbor, had told me a few months before. He had been raised in rough-and-tumble Red Hook, Brooklyn, where I've lived for the past seven years. Perched happily on my stoop on my quiet block, I just smiled—I was used to his diatribes about yuppies. Our neighborhood has undergone a wave of gentrification, and I'm definitely a part of that. I shop at the little boutiques. I go to the new restaurants. I wear heels to work.
"You aren't careful!" Jerry continued. "You don't lock your door, you leave your windows open—you can't do that around here!" As usual, I argued with him. Even though I grew up on a small farm in Great Falls, Virginia, I'm street-smart, I told him. I've never been the victim of a crime.
But I'm also not delusional. Red Hook can be a tough place. Back in the eighties, a cover story in Life magazine proclaimed it the "crack capital of America." It's home to the Red Hook Houses, New York City's second-biggest housing project, and you commonly hear about gangs and crime there. So as much as I liked to spar with Jerry, his criticism unnerved me. Part of me had refused to let go of the easy way of life I grew up with. Until that morning in March.
• • •
"John—wake up!"
As I desperately prodded my sleeping husband, a large man stomped around the corner and stopped at our bed. He wore a hoodie pulled over his head grim-reaper-style—a terrifying dark hole with no facial features.
I thought I might die just then. I thought my son might be killed in front of me.
Our bed is low, so the man's knees were six inches from my head. I could smell his dirty jeans. He stooped menacingly over me and, for what seemed like weeks, stared at me. Finally, he broke the silence: "Give me your money or I'll f—king kill you!" He yelled it over and over, jumping up and down as if he were high on drugs. That terrified me even more—how could I possibly reason with a crazy man? His hand was in his pocket, presumably on his gun—it was dark so I couldn't be sure—and he was thrusting it at me.
Despite his violent, addled behavior, I did have one hopeful reaction. My money or my life? Maybe if I gave him my money, he wouldn't kill us. But at that moment, my husband woke up—woke to a stranger in his house threatening to kill his family, woke as if from a nightmare, with a horrible yell: "No!" He bolted up and shouted it again. The intruder screamed back and lunged toward him. They looked like wrestling bears about to lock arms.
Watching them triggered some deep maternal urge. All I could think was, Get him away from the baby. I felt possessed—something overtook my fear, a purposefulness that was pure animal, protect-your-young brain. I put my hand up between them and said, in a voice so calm I surprised myself, "I have money, and you can have it all. It's over by the door. I need to reach into my bag and pull out my wallet." Get him away from the baby, get him away from the baby.
"Celia, is that you?" My voice sounded small and weak and strange to myself.
The boots paused for a long moment. And then: more stomping. I began to panic. Maybe my husband, John, was actually up, pacing the living room. But I looked across my son, tangled in sheets, and there John was, heavy in sleep.
At that moment, I realized that only four people live in our house—and whoever was stomping around was not one of them. And right then, I understood paralyzing fear. *A stranger is in my house and he heard me call for Celia, so he knows I'm here—but he's not scared, and he's not leaving.*I've had nightmares where I wanted to scream but couldn't. That's how I felt as I frantically reached over to jostle John. "There's someone in the house—you need to wake up!" I whispered. But John was too deep in sleep; he didn't budge.
• • •
"You don't fit in here," Jerry, my busybody neighbor, had told me a few months before. He had been raised in rough-and-tumble Red Hook, Brooklyn, where I've lived for the past seven years. Perched happily on my stoop on my quiet block, I just smiled—I was used to his diatribes about yuppies. Our neighborhood has undergone a wave of gentrification, and I'm definitely a part of that. I shop at the little boutiques. I go to the new restaurants. I wear heels to work.
"You aren't careful!" Jerry continued. "You don't lock your door, you leave your windows open—you can't do that around here!" As usual, I argued with him. Even though I grew up on a small farm in Great Falls, Virginia, I'm street-smart, I told him. I've never been the victim of a crime.
But I'm also not delusional. Red Hook can be a tough place. Back in the eighties, a cover story in Life magazine proclaimed it the "crack capital of America." It's home to the Red Hook Houses, New York City's second-biggest housing project, and you commonly hear about gangs and crime there. So as much as I liked to spar with Jerry, his criticism unnerved me. Part of me had refused to let go of the easy way of life I grew up with. Until that morning in March.
• • •
"John—wake up!"
As I desperately prodded my sleeping husband, a large man stomped around the corner and stopped at our bed. He wore a hoodie pulled over his head grim-reaper-style—a terrifying dark hole with no facial features.
I thought I might die just then. I thought my son might be killed in front of me.
Our bed is low, so the man's knees were six inches from my head. I could smell his dirty jeans. He stooped menacingly over me and, for what seemed like weeks, stared at me. Finally, he broke the silence: "Give me your money or I'll f—king kill you!" He yelled it over and over, jumping up and down as if he were high on drugs. That terrified me even more—how could I possibly reason with a crazy man? His hand was in his pocket, presumably on his gun—it was dark so I couldn't be sure—and he was thrusting it at me.
Despite his violent, addled behavior, I did have one hopeful reaction. My money or my life? Maybe if I gave him my money, he wouldn't kill us. But at that moment, my husband woke up—woke to a stranger in his house threatening to kill his family, woke as if from a nightmare, with a horrible yell: "No!" He bolted up and shouted it again. The intruder screamed back and lunged toward him. They looked like wrestling bears about to lock arms.
Watching them triggered some deep maternal urge. All I could think was, Get him away from the baby. I felt possessed—something overtook my fear, a purposefulness that was pure animal, protect-your-young brain. I put my hand up between them and said, in a voice so calm I surprised myself, "I have money, and you can have it all. It's over by the door. I need to reach into my bag and pull out my wallet." Get him away from the baby, get him away from the baby.
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