There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about a woman I knew only by way of polished misinformation, poorly written news stories, and a shoddy investigation that left her murderer free.

I think about the victim — who was poor, mentally ill, and physically abused throughout her lifetime — and it’s difficult for me to reconcile the disparity between those who are blessed in any fashion, and those who seem destined to live preternaturally challenged lives, where nothing comes mercifully, kindly, or easily, not even death. This victim was one of those people. She should have been protected, but was not. Investigators should not have failed her at every turn, but they did — and the more they failed her (and every other potential victim) the more defensive, closed-minded, and self-serving they became. The end result of that kind of arrogance is that if a suspect is ever brought to trial, barring a confession, a defense attorney will have a field day creating reasonable doubt in the minds of jurors.

Fortunately, jurors in the case of Phillip and Nancy Garrido will not know such doubt. There is no question that the convicted sex offender and his wife kidnapped Jaycee Lee Dugard when she was 11 years old. The Garridos brought Jaycee and the two children she bore while in captivity to a parole meeting recently where, eighteen years after being kidnapped, Jaycee’s true identity was discovered and Garrido confessed.

Outside of the kidnapping and multiple rapes of a child, the most unsettling thing about the Dugard case is the staggering number of times law enforcement failed in their duty to properly monitor a registered sex offender.

Contra Costa County Sheriff Warren E. Rupf did something highly unusual when he stood up and roundly criticized his own office for a failed 2006 opportunity to rescue Jaycee. A deputy who responded to a call about a “psychotic sex addict” with several tents in his backyard, who was living with children, left the scene after briefly talking with Garrido on his front porch. That deputy claims he didn’t know Garrido was a convicted sex offender, even though the Sheriff’s department had the information.

“I cannot change the course of events but we are beating ourselves up over this and continue to do so,” Rupf told the press. “We should have been more inquisitive, more curious, and turned over a rock or two.”

Rupf’s office did fail, but there were many failures before that, starting with Garrido’s early release after serving only 11 years of a 50 year sentence for the kidnap and rape of a 25 year-old woman.

Garrido has worn a GPS ankle bracelet and has had regular meetings with his parole officer several times a month since his 1988 release. He was also subject to random home searches, and the latest of these reportedly occurred about a month before Garrido brought Jaycee to his parole meeting, which begs the questions — How thorough were these searches? How could the tents in the backyard, Jaycee, and the two children have been missed for eighteen years? Did the parole officers ever talk to Garrido’s business clients, any one of whom could have informed them about the “daughters” that Garrido lived with?

The catastrophic failure of Garrido’s parole wasn’t even redeemed in the end. After receiving a report from two extra-diligent employees of UC-Berkeley — a campus officer and an events coordinator, who took it upon themselves to run a background check on Garrido when he showed up looking “weird and unstable”, with two pale, “robotic” children in tow — the parole officer did not rush out of his office to check on Garrido at home. Instead, he waited for Garrido to come to him.

What would have happened had Garrido not brought Jaycee and her children to the meeting? What might have happened had Garrido’s “voices” told him to end his crimes in a different way? Garrido started talking about the voices profusely in 2006. In 2007, he started a website, and in 2008 he filed articles of incorporation for a religious organization he called “God’s Desire”. Did his parole officer know any of this? If he did, then why was he not concerned about Garrido’s deteriorating mental status? And if the parole officer didn’t know, how could he have missed three years of such obvious and increasing zealotry?

Garrido stole eighteen years of Jaycee Dugard’s life. The two daughters she bore as his victim, ages 11 and 15, have known little of life outside of Garrido’s mad confines. Dugard’s parents, extended family, friends, and schoolmates spent years mourning her loss; haunted by not knowing where she was or what happened to her.

Sheriff Rupf rightly criticized his own deputy’s inaction, but the failure of law enforcement went much deeper than the Contra Costra County Sheriff’s Department. The full-on, pervasive failure of the parole department to competently monitor a known kidnapper and rapist over the course of nearly two decades is without excuse, and it is they who need to provide answers to the public — and to the victims of this incredibly tragic and largely preventable crime.

By now, many people have heard of Caster Semenya. The 18 year-old South African runner first made the news for her stellar run in the African Junior Championships, but had her victory tainted by competitors who insisted that the IAFF, (the International Association of Athletics Federations), should test Semenya’s gender to see if she is 100% female, not just physically, but biologically.

A recent article in Time explained:

. . . that female athletes who in the past have been suspected of being men may have suffered from Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (AIS), a condition in which a person who is genetically male — that is, their 23rd chromosome pair is XY — is resistant to androgens, the male sex hormones that include testosterone. As a result, the testes present in that person’s abdomen never descend, and neither they nor their parents ever realize they are actually boys. Those with complete AIS will have a totally female body on the outside, but will lack ovaries and a uterus. Others may demonstrate partial AIS. . .It’s those characteristics that Semenya’s competitors see in the world champ, leading them to predict — and hope — that her forthcoming gender results will leave her ineligible to compete with women.

Rather than a mere physical exam, where genitalia is the determining factor, the IAFF is calling for a months-long process of gender testing, involving several specialists and exhaustive testing.

I find it disturbing that anyone, least of all an 18 year-old, would be subjected to forced gender testing in order to appease their competitors. It might be another matter if Semenya was a boy disguised as a girl in order to compete, but that’s not the accusation. Semenya was born and raised as a girl, and those in the position to know — her midwife, parents, grandparents, and a former roommate — attest that she does not have, and has never had, a penis.

Lacking proof of actual male genitalia, Semenya’s competitors hope that the IAFF testing will reveal some other anomaly that will effectively kick Semenya out of the women’s category. Among the specialists that will participate in Semenya’s anticipated de-womanizing is a psychologist. I wonder what the outcome might be if Semenya’s DNA comes back as XX, but her thought processes are considered more male. Would the IAFF consider this an unfair “advantage” in women’s sports?

And what happens if Semenya isn’t an XX or an XY, but an oddly tall (5′7″)and vigorous XO? Genetically, she would be a female, but one with a missing chromosome. Should anomalous genetic makeup disqualify Semenya from women’s sports? If so, then shouldn’t other genetic freaks, like NBA basketball star Ming Yao, also be disqualified since his 7′6″ frame clearly gives him an advantage over his tall but genetically normal competitors? Should he and other overly tall basketball players be checked for mutations of the NSD-1 gene, which can cause gigantism? Is it fair to other players to allow Yao to professionally compete?

If the IFAA determination is that DNA is more important than genitalia in separating men from women in sports, then why not test all effeminate males? That’s a rhetorical question, because male athletes have not been subjected to gender testing like females regularly were up until 1999, when the International Olympic Committee passed a resolution to stop the practice.

Gender testing began when it was believed that males might disguise themselves as females in order to enter, and conceivably win, a women’s event. While this would be a valid concern, it was not the accusation against Semenya. The IAFF has repeatedly stated that they do not believe Semenya was being deceptive about her gender. “It’s a medical issue. It’s not an issue of cheating,” IAFF spokesperson Nick Davies said.

So at 18 years-old, Caster Semenya — born a girl, raised as a girl — will find out whether science agrees with the midwife who delivered her, the parents that raised her, and the children who taunted her for not acting like the girl they believed she was.  This is probably not what Semenya thought her victory would bring. Instead of being greeted with cheers and hailed as a hero, Semenya has been met with questions, derision, and public humiliation. Instead of having the difference she was born with accepted, sought-after, and nurtured, like Ming Yao’s was, Semenya’s fellow athletes have sought to have her thrown out of the sport.

Clearly, I think the IFAA decision is wrong. If they do not believe Semenya “cheated” — in other words, if they know that she was born with and has female genitalia, which they appear to — than they should not embark on a genetic fishing expedition to appease those who find Semenya’s talent and ambiguous appearance unsettling.

8/24, Corrected for spelling error. This article also appears on the Huffington Post for those who would like to comment.

When I was nine years old, I was very excited about ordering the Jumping Spider toy that Bazooka Bubble Gum was offering for .25 cents and a few wrappers. After I sent off my envelope, I waited for the mailman every day like some kids wait for Santa Claus. The summer ended, school began, winter came, and still the Jumping Spider didn’t arrive. It never did. I was so mad that I went on full Bazooka strike, refusing to buy any more hard squares of pink gum, and warning all my friends not to send them money.

A year or so later, it occurred to me that sending a bulky envelope full of change through the mail system probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do. The envelope could have easily ripped, and may have gotten shredded in the USPS’s letter sorting machines. I ended my Bazooka strike then, realizing that the Bazooka people might not be the heartless, dream-stealing, penny-thieving, child haters I once thought they were.

However, at least I had a tangible reason for feeling the way I did. A real thing was actually lost — not just a philosophical thing, or a principle, or an argument. And while I was upset with Bazooka, I never once thought, “Hey, I’ll show them how mad I am and bring a gun to their next event.” Not only because that would be a really sick way to think, and an ignorant thing to do, but because the chances are that the folks at Bazooka would have just found me scary and, well, kind of repugnant.

Watching the rage-filled Republicans (as opposed to the more sensible ones) at the town hall meetings on health care reform, I don’t see reasonable debate and sincere questions. I see a mob out for blood where no crime has been committed, and conservatives who refuse to take any responsibility for how the actions of their party have affected the country and other citizens. I see a rage that is totally out of proportion to the issues being discussed.

So far, taxes are the same as they were under Bush. The unemployment and foreclosure rate has not changed drastically. The cost of living now is no higher than it was eight months ago. So far, the very real and tangible things that directly impact our daily lives have not changed — but some Republican protesters are behaving as if they’ve been personally robbed by the health care debate. They’re charging into town screaming and angry, some with loaded guns, and with a lynch mob mentality that smacks of constrained racism.

The fury of mobs is often stoked by convoluted stories that spread like wildfire, and that increase in animus with every telling. During the election, the angry Republican mob insisted that Obama was a Muslim and hoped that would scare people. They claimed he lied about his schooling, his work background, and even the origin of his name. Now that he’s President, they claim that he has a fake birth certificate and that his health care reforms will kill Grandma via “death panels”.

Members of the mob have insisted that their bloated anger is not about race or hate, but about “conservatism” versus liberalism. However, their level of rage is out of line with any tangible, or even foreseeable, deficit in the quality of their personal lives. It exceeds the boundaries of heated political differences. I believe the backstory, and the motivation for such raucous displays, is found in the presence of guns.

Guns were not displayed for President Carter, who was far more liberal than Obama, and who led this country during a time of double-digit inflation, high interest rates, and oil shortages. Nor were they brought out for President Clinton, even while the right-wing was working very hard to have him impeached. And even when the majority of the country disagreed with the war in Iraq, no one brought guns to the protests. So I have to ask why now, why with Obama?

I am not a knee-jerk reactionary when it comes to issues of culture and race, but the arguments made by the mobs in defense of their atrocious behavior simply don’t wash. They seem to be using the issue of health care reform to express an anger that goes deeper than mere politics or philosophy, and there is a maliciousness to their public gun toting that goes far beyond debate and protest.

I don’t think that any die-hard Republican, much less one who joins or encourages the mobs, will ever come to the understanding that their party is largely responsible for the economic disaster we are in today. I don’t think they’re likely to pry themselves from the dogmatic notion that government programs (and regulations) are like Satan in the angelic world of a free market society, where competition is believed to weed out the gluttons and thieves — even when competition is scarce due to huge conglomerates and monopolies.

I disagree with many core Republican philosophies, but I realize that a multi-party system is fundamental to a thriving democracy. I am deeply disappointed that moderate Republicans have not stepped up the plate in any substantial number to condemn the mob mentality, ignorant speech, and underlying racism that has become front and center of their party.

Racism, no matter how overt or guised, should not be tolerated, much less encouraged by any political party. Racism is not just a belief, but an act of fear, cowardice, and regression – it has nothing to do with patriotism, “freedom”, the Second Amendment, or any other political cloak the mob has used to swaddle their hatred and sense of racial entitlement.

(. . .part two of  this post)

So after learning the secrets of prosperity and manifesting my own destiny, it was a foregone conclusion that Sally, the Kona blue Ford Mustang GT Premium, would be mine. I have visualized the overnight congratulations letter arriving on my doorstep this Monday or Tuesday, and am already considering my options.  I can’t help but think of practicality — while Sally is gorgeous, shiny, and full of blue-sky, oceanside, summer spirit, I just can’t see roughing her up on a dirt road, like the driver in this picture. Maybe with my lifestyle, a Ford Explorer would be the better option.

In any event, now that I have visualized my new ride into being, it’s time for phase two of manifesting my destiny. My therapist believes that I can visualize myself into a happy place, and the Law of Attraction gurus are all in agreement that thought equals destiny — that we each attract into our lives what we most believe in and think about.

So Sally is a done deal. All I have left to figure out is what I’m going to do once the keys and a check for $9400 is in my hands.

Resuming my kickback position on the couch, I close my eyes and wait for my imagination to start playing. Twice, it takes me to a place I don’t want to go, but it is Saturday night and the moon is pale gold. . . enough of that.

With its romantic leanings  nipped in the bud, my imagination goes wandering down Jane Street, a long stretch of road dotted with coffee shops, farmers markets, art kiosks, and hundreds of people I’ve yet to meet.

I see myself parking Sally on the side of the road, under the shade of an old Sycamore. I grab my backpack, and then open the passenger door so that Hanna, my faithful dog, can walk along the street with me.

At the coffee shop, I get an iced coffee for me and water for Hanna, and then head to the park across the street to soak up some sun.  There’s a young couple pushing their daughter on the swing. The mother is wearing a faded Obama t-shirt. I want to ask her how she feels about health care and other issues seven months into the administration.

A teenage boy sits on a bench nearby, looking aimlessly into the sky. I wonder what he is thinking. Even from a distance, he looks sad. And familiar.

As I watch Hanna roll in the grass, it strikes me that the boy is not that different from images I recently saw on photojournalist Maisie Crow’s web site. Her photographic series, “Love Me”, as well as her videos, tells the stories of people that are often forgotten. I poured over her work for hours the other day and thought — not for the first time — that somewhere in-between survival, raising children, climbing, falling, and scraping by, I missed my calling. I have always wanted to tell the stories of people, like those in Maisie’s photographs, as well as those who have always been The Others in my world.

I get up from my place under the tree and look up and down Jane Street. I wonder:  Why can’t I talk to the 16 year old runaway and the 86 year old farmer who sells his corn on the side of the road?  What is stopping me from visiting people at art fairs, beaches, and flea markets — in soup kitchens, night clubs, and skyscrapers?  What is holding me back from taking to the road with a video camera, a laptop, and camping gear? From writing by the light of a campfire, and getting a little closer to the higher spirit that I feel every time I’m near an ocean or mountains?

I walk across the street, and the woman selling tie-dyed t-shirts and hemp bracelets smiles at me. We strike up a casual conversation about weather and art, and then I ask her — what’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done? She tells me a story so wonderful that I can’t wait to write it down.

I grab another cup of coffee from the shop, and head back to my car. It occurs to me then that there’s more to America than Jane Street, and more to to be had in this life than specks of comfort and mounds of fear.

It occurs to me that over the years, I’ve traded in every one of my dreams for what amounted to a roof, four walls, and inconsistent comforts. I’ve ignored my urge to run, and instead capitulated to the voices that told me that my dreams were impractical, improbable, and of no use.

I take a deep breath, and then look at Hanna. She seems to know. She jumps in the back seat and stretches herself out for a long ride. I take a sip of coffee, and start the engine. . .

The other day I was in my therapist’s office, whining about all the usual stuff, like unemployment, mounting debts, insomnia, frustration, and how getting ill really kicked my ass (and so many other things) this year.

My therapist suggested I use the power of my imagination to induce a little self-hypnosis at home. Maybe I could find some peace by visualizing something that made me happy.

I came home to a pounding, sweltering, 86 degree apartment. With the air conditioner on the fritz, and a half-dozen workers outside putting on new siding, it was like my own mini-Gulag. I took an ice-cold shower, threw on some shorts, and then went to retrieve my noise reduction headphones from the closet. A book fell to the floor.

My landlord, Sharon, is a proponent of the laws of attraction. She sent me this book and its companion CD last year. I listened to the CD the same way I listen to the nonsense spouted by intellectually-bereft new-age gurus like Byron Katie. Few things chill me more than thoughtless bromides like Katie’s “I am the perpetrator of my suffering – but only all of it.” I’ve written about the tyranny of pop-psychology before, and won’t repeat myself here except to say that no, I don’t believe that if a madman stabs your child to death, and you suffer, that you had a thing to do with perpetrating your feelings of loss and grief, not even a little bit. I also don’t believe that your failure to “think positive” caused your house to be robbed, your cancer, or your flat tire on Hwy 101.

Anyway, the book fell, and I decided to read it before self-hypnotizing myself to some happy, quiet, cool place that was far away from the pounding hammers and nauseating heat of my reality. It took me about five minutes to get through all 59 pages, in which “the secret” was revealed as: Give (tithe) so you can receive; open yourself to receiving rewards and other good things; you can receive anything you want if you accept it mentally; your thoughts make your world; your  thoughts are what you subconsciously attract to yourself; let go of the past, etc., — and if all of this fails to bring you riches, success, and happiness, it’s only because somehow, somewhere you’ve not really mentally accepted good as your due, and are hanging onto some attitude that is rejecting being blessed.

Ah. Think it and be it — I know it well. I spent the years from my teens into my late twenties reading books about how to fit in, get ahead, make friends, and succeed. I chanted self-affirmations, developed a firm handshake, and learned that making other people feel good made them feel good about you. I envisioned a room of my own and a life spent stoking creativity. The reality was quite different which can only mean, according to the laws of attraction & seed-of-faith theories, that I didn’t believe enough.

I got up from the couch to make some juice and check my email. Marlboro had sent me a reminder me to enter their 100 Days of Summer sweepstakes. (I know people think it’s somewhat hypocritical that I’m a health food freak who smokes, but hey — just because you have one unhealthy habit doesn’t mean you should slack off and have ten).

The prize on day 75 was a Ford Mustang GT, which rivals only the Eddie Bauer edition Ford Explorer as my dream car. Yes, I like my Fords. I’ve had a Focus, a Ranger and, in better times, a big Ford F-150 that made me feel like the queen of the road. This year’s economic hell has me downgraded to an old Ford Bronco that needs work, but never fails to start and run.

I laid back down on the couch and started thinking about the prosperity book I’d just read. The first law of attraction was that in order to receive you had to give. And although I think it’s bad juju to tally up mitzvahs I did, and pleasantly found that I’ve given more in the past few years than I’ve received. I should have stayed with that thought, but instead — as usual — I had to ask why. That’s when I remembered my somewhat arrogant tendency to jump to the rescue, even when people don’t ask. I have a helper personality — I probably would have made a good butler or personal assistant. I like fixing things and finding things. So I’m not sure those mitzvahs count.

Then I thought about Ford. And Marlboro. Two brands that I’ve been loyal to for almost thirty years.  Surely that counts, and if the law of attraction is true — that your thoughts dictate what you receive materially — well then, I’m definitely winning that car, because I think about Ford every time I step foot on my rusty siderail, and I think about Marlboros at least several times a day.

I’m mentally accepting that this Kona blue 2010 Ford Mustang GT Premium is mine, along with the $9400 check that completes the grand prize.  I expect that the notification of my win will be delivered via overnight mail on Monday or Tuesday. I haven’t decided if I’ll keep Sally (that’s her name) or ask to exchange her for a Ford Explorer.  I can easily visualize me and Sally navigating the narrow incline of the Pacific Highway — taking the long way to visit friends like Suzanne, Danny, and Kris — but I can also see Hank and me finding a sponsor, and taking off on a year-long journey of meditation, people, adventure, and discovery.  Either thought makes me deliriously happy.

(To be continued).

On a narrow bed, she would awaken paralyzed, lying on her stomach with her arms wedged beneath her. The coiled snake would be on her pillow, inches from her face, its eyes staring into her own. She knew she could not move then, even to blink, and that she had to take the shallowest of breaths. The snake always came in the dark, and didn’t usually leave until the first morning light flickered behind the pink bedroom curtains.

Her paralysis would go away slowly, beginning with a tingle in her numbed arms. She would be careful when shifting positions, not fully trusting that the snake wasn’t just hiding somewhere, like under the covers or under the bed. She’d roll over slowly, lifting the sheets and blankets and peeking underneath. If she found nothing there, she would hold her breath and, as silently as she could, bend herself into a frog position at the end of the bed. When she could no longer keep herself from inhaling, she would screw up her courage and jump as far away from the bed as she could. On hands and knees, she would crawl around her bedroom, looking under the bed and dresser, inside of shoes and toy boxes, to make sure the snake was really gone. When she was sure it was, she would she get back into bed, rolling the blankets around herself like a cocoon. Wound tightly, with blankets covering her face, her suspended heart would begin beating frantically and loudly, like popcorn in a hot pan.

It was so many years ago, but today Hester Price sits on a straight-backed chair in a darkened corner of her small apartment, waiting for something to go away.

The busybody neighbor stands chattering outside as usual, with a cigarette dangling from her whiskey-soaked mouth, and her ancient red poodle panting at the end of a green leash. Her drunken voice carries over the metallic screech of lawn mowers and hedge trimmers. Even with the windows closed and blinds drawn, Hester learns that the hostile man in #12 — the one who leaves angry ALL-CAPS notes in the laundry room admonishing others for their failings — is still videotaping neighbors from his upstairs window, hoping to catch the perpetrators of unleashed dogs, crooked parking, and overfull lint traps. He has made it his mission to track down the rule breakers so that they can be punished and held to account.

It’s Thursday and soon the garbage truck will come, with its gurgling diesel engine and steady stream of warning beeps. The left side of Hester’s apartment will shake as the communal dumpster is picked up with metal claws and slammed back down to the asphalt.

As she does every week, Hester considers how much she has to throw away or give away. She thinks about going through cupboards and closets and boxes, but the task seems daunting. Nothing is rooted; everything is impermanent and scattered, like a ten thousand piece puzzle with no design.

Besides that, there is the whole matter of going outside, where there are snakes with cameras lying in wait; snakes with sweat-stained shirts and in crisp black uniforms; snakes that hate without reason and strike without cause. There are pits and pits and pits, and no way to avoid them.

The pits were always there, of course, but The Stalker took them out of the darkness. He shined a malicious light inside and forced Hester to look until she understood that all the excuses she ever made, and all the hopes she once had of escaping, were futile.

The Stalker was an ignorant man, a miserable, squat figure with a lisp and a hairy neck, who read Soldier of Fortune magazines on his lunch break and hawked conspiracy theories to whomever would listen. He insisted that his wife home school their children so that they would learn The Real Truth, like how the federal income tax is illegal, and the CIA killed Elvis. For two years, Hester deftly avoided engaging in small talk with The Stalker – it wasn’t hard since the phones were always ringing in the customer service department – but then one day he came to work particularly excited about locking his eight year-old daughter in her bedroom all weekend for returning ten minutes late from a Girl Scout meeting.

The world, The Stalker bragged, would be a much better place if all parents were as strong and intent on teaching their children responsibility as he was. His daughter needed to know that 5:00 meant 5:00 and not 5:10. Ten minutes spent dawdling on a sidewalk could lead to bad influences; drugs, boys, pregnancy. He wasn’t raising a slut.

“That’s insane,” Hester said. “I can’t believe anyone would do that to a child. I feel sorry for your daughter.”

The Stalker’s response was vicious and immediate. He screamed so forcefully that he drooled. Spittle ran down his chin and onto his blue t-shirt as he ranted about the Bible – spare the rod and spoil the child – and who the fuck did Hester think she was to judge him – and this is probably why she’s single – because she has no values and hates men.

After a two-day suspension for his outburst, The Stalker returned to the work floor, quiet but seething. He took to staring at Hester with such hostile eyes that she wondered if her call to Children’s Protective Services resulted in a visit. She complained to management, but was told that as long as The Stalker was doing his job, there was no rule against staring at someone, even if they did it aggressively and for long minutes on end.

The Stalker grew bolder, and began showing up to work early. Every day, Hester found something new missing from her desk – a stapler, a pair of scissors, a roll of tape, a tube of lotion, a paperback book – but no one ever saw The Stalker take the items. “You can’t accuse someone without proof,” Hester’s manager said. “If it’s that much of a concern to you, don’t keep anything personal in your desk.”

Hester found her car tires flat after work twice, and her sideview mirror torn off once. Lunches that she left in the cafeteria refrigerator were found in the trash. Her home mailbox was suddenly flooded with religious tracts and pornography. “You need to calm down,” said the manager. “At this point, it’s he-said, she-said, and I’m not going to take sides in what appears to be a personality conflict.”

It was the janitor who caught The Stalker pouring urine from a bottle on Hester’s phone and chair. The Stalker was fired then, and Hester went to court to get a restraining order.

“This is all a lie,” The Stalker screamed at the judge. “She’s an atheist who hates Christians! She’s a lesbian who hates men!”

The judge granted the order, but the piece of paper didn’t help her sleep at night. The coiled snake returned, but this time it never really went away. It hissed behind her shoulder even when she was awake, bringing with it every memory Hester had tried to shed from her past.

It doesn’t hurt that much. Don’t be a baby.
I’ll kill your sisters if you tell.
I’ll destroy you, I’ll ruin you, I’ll make you pay.
You’re in trouble.
You never know where I’ll be.
I’ll always be able to find you.
You can’t escape.

You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble, you’re in trouble.

Hester sits with her knees drawn to her chest. The neighbor gossips, the garbage truck beeps, a dog barks, and nothing feels safe. Hester’s thoughts stutter and tremble. She feels the cruel futility of sand ladders and muddy ropes – of climbing and falling a thousand times only to be back in the same place. She’s exhausted. She’s ready.

She leans her head back and offers her neck.