I was almost a part of history because of how I almost died.

I was almost a part of history because of how I almost died. Or I should say, because of who almost killed me. You see, there was this famous killer that was up and going in the bay area in the late 1960’s. I won’t say much more than that. I’ll let you pick which one you think it is I’m talking about. Although, perhaps my story will inadvertently give it away.

It was late October and it was around three o’clock in the afternoon. I was sitting in a little clearing about a half mile off the main walking trails, in Otanama state park. This place was a little sanctuary for me. I had dragged a picnic table away from a campsite not far from there and I was sitting on it, smoking a joint, drinking some wine, and holding a picture, a picture of my ex-girlfriend.

It was taken three weeks prior at a dance. I was holding her hand and she held mine. She looked radiant in her blue dress and I looked equally dashing in my tuxedo. After the picture was taken I told her I loved her. And I meant it with all my heart. She said it back. And I believed it. She told me she was going to the bathroom. I kissed her on the cheek. She turns and goes. I don’t see her again for another hour. I go to look for her. I find her in the backseat of a car where another guy is fucking her brains out. She’s screaming, “Oh god, I’m gonna cum!” at the top of her lungs.

And so there I was on my little picnic table in a clearing in the forest. Drinking my wine, smoking my joint, and hating this bitch. I had written all over the picture, things like “Whore” and “Slut” and “Cunt.” I was writing on the back of it, planning ways to kidnap her and torture her. I had a very detailed explanation of how I wanted to shove barbed-wire in her snatch and make her gargle her own blood. I was not sane and I was vengeful.

It was at that moment that I first heard the sound of something moving in the woods.

I brushed it off, chalking it up to normal weed paranoia. I kept fixating on my picture, letting my thoughts and wants grow darker and more hateful. The sound came again, closer this time. I turned and looked over my shoulder and there he was.

He was tall, dressed all in black. He had a paper grocery bag around his head, bunched together at the neck with string and spray painted black. He had cut small ovals for eyes. In his right hand he had a small pistol and he held his left hand behind his back.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. He didn’t move and he didn’t speak. After a moment he flicked his gun hand at me, side to side, meaning he wanted me to move off of the table. I got up. He motioned for me to get down on the ground. I did. I heard the leaves crunch under his feet as he walked up to me. He brought his full weight down on my back, putting his knee right on my spine. He grabbed my hands with brutal strength, tied me tight. He turned around and pulled my feet up to my hands, tied them all together. I heard him cock the gun, and he jammed it into my right ear. He leaned over and whispered in my left.

“Mother says ok. There are lots of squirrels around here.”

I had no idea what to make of that, so I didn’t say anything at all. He smashed the butt of the gun into my right ear and the right side of my head lit up in blood and pain. He screamed into my left ear.

“MOTHER SAYS OK! THERE ARE LOTS OF SQUIRRELS AROUND HERE!”

“YES!” I yelled back at him. He got off of my back and stood in front of me. I saw him un-sheath a gigantic hunting knife. He moved the blade right up to my right eye and made several twisty motions with it before getting on my back again, his knee right on my spine, his full weight bore down on me. I waited for the stabbing to begin, praying that it would not be long and painful. But he didn’t do it. After a few seconds he got up and grabbed something off the picnic table. I couldn’t see what it was because he was completely behind me. He walked around to my front and shoved the picture under my nose.

“Who is this?” he asked. I stared down at the picture of my ex-girlfriend, at the vile words I’d written onto her. He flipped it over so I could see the back. I stared at the horrific plans I’d laid and wished upon her. “Who is mother says ok this?” he asked again.

“She’s mine.” I responded. I don’t know why those particular words came out of me. I meant something along the lines of “She’s my ex-girlfriend,” but that’s not what I said. “Oh,” he whispered, backed away with the picture, staring at it, standing silent. For a moment I thought he was going to ask me how he could find her. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d asked for that.

He walked back around me and cut my ties. He placed the picture back under my nose and whispered in my ear. “Enjoy.”

The blood from my ear was trickling into my mouth, tasting of copper and sweat. He told me to keep my head down and not move for five minutes. If I did, he said, He would shoot me from behind the trees. I did as I was told and waited five minutes before getting up and leaving.

When I got back to my house, I cleaned up my ear. I took the picture and burnt it. I took the ashes and buried them. I planted a tree over the burial spot. Over the next couple of days I saw this guys victims become icons in the news. In the years afterwards I saw them become mentioned in text-books and encyclopedias. My name was never brought up. The police never knew about my run-in with him.

I saw my ex-girlfriend frequently over the next years. I ignored her and pretended like she didn’t exist. She acted like that hurt her. If she only knew.




~ by thethingswethink on March 15, 2007.