black covered men

Its 1992. Im 11. I am in Ms. Markeys 5th grade class at the school down the street. One day I'm cleaning my room after school. My room was always messy and still is. Suddenly I hear screaming, slamming, crying. Above it all I hear my mothers fearful cries "what is going on? why are you here?" My knees go weak. I look around desperately. Im terrified. I have no idea what is going on. I stumble over something in the floor. I almost fall down. On the wall by my door I can see my telephone. I want to call 911 but I'm scared to go toward the door. I consider hiding in my closet. But I can still hear my moms panicking voice and now, my little brother's terrified crying is audible also. I have to try. I swivel, dive for the phone. My bedroom door opens. A man dressed in all black with a mask over his face and carrying a large gun stands in my hallway. I sink to my knees. "Please don't hurt me" He offers no words of comfort. "Come with me"

My breath will hardly come to me as I shakily follow him down the hall to my parents bedroom. Just inside the door my mother is huddled down, crying. "Please don't hurt my kids" In the living room I can see more men, dressed the same way. My dad is face down on the ground. My little brother is beside him. He is 5. He has wet himself.

My mother and I are held at gunpoint.

For a while everything is a blur. The next thing I remember there are people rummaging through my house. Someone is in my brothers room changing his clothes. A woman tells me that she is here to help me. I believe her. I still don't know what's going on. She takes me to the bathroom and washes my face. She braids my hair which has matted itself to my face, sticky from crying.

Soon we are chased out of the bathroom. I take her to my room. I'm embarrassed that its messy. I wasn't finished cleaning it yet. She says not to worry, her daughters rooms are always messy. We exit my room, going I cannot remember where or why, and pass the bathroom on the way. A man has found a bag of baking soda. A clear plastic baggy of baking soda. He holds it up suspiciously.

Suddenly I know why they are here.

That's baking soda! I swear! I yell. The men seem taken aback. One black covered man hands the bag to the other. The woman ushers me away.

We go into the kitchen. I sit there for a long time. Im numb. The woman asks if there is anyone I want to call.

For some reason I wanted to talk to Ms. Markey. They wouldn't let me.

They called up the DARE officer who did a short drug prevention class at school every week. She didn't know me. I didn't know her. They stuck the phone to my ear. I told her I was scared. She told me a lot of things. I don't remember any of them.

At some point I found myself in the living room again. One of the men is feeding my fish. I look at him. "Don't want them to go hungry while you are gone"

Gone? Im leaving? The panic returns.

Back in the kitchen, another man pokes at my bird. MY BIRD! She hisses and retreats to the top perch. I jump up out of my chair and cover her cage with her sheet. The man offers a slightly bemused apology and then several people watch as I try to give her fresh food and water without taking off the cover.

Finally, my grandmother shows up. My parents are arrested. We stayed at grandmas house that night. I didn't sleep at all.

My parents were released on bail. Soon after, the truth of the situation started to emerge. The police had come in expecting to find hard drugs. Cocaine. Heroine. What they found was a few ounces of pot.

I had been held at gunpoint, my home had been invaded, over a misdemeanor amount of pot.

The local newspaper ran a story, identifying my parents by name, even telling our street and the block we live on. There were pictures of the inside of my house. There were pictures of the black covered men busting in through our front door. There were pictures of the huge evergreens, unlike any others in my town, which flanked our porch on both sides. The trees which my friends used to identify "Disolvedgirl's House"

Then I realized that the pictures were not taken by one of the black covered men. They were taken by Becky Cooper. A reporter. Was in my house. With the black covered men. Becky. A woman. The woman. The woman who braided my hair, washed my face, asked me questions and told me she was trained to deal with kids in traumatic situations. She had lied. She was nothing but a backwards, lying trailer trash looking bitch who came into my house with no cause. The black covered men had brought her with them. Had tipped her off. Even in my 11 year old mind, I wondered how many of them she was fucking.

People knew. Kids confronted me at school. Some with contempt, others with seeming pity. I started going to counseling. The councilor told one of my best friends moms about it. Suddenly, the girl didn't talk to me much. I stopped going to the councilor.

Eventually, as I went off to middle school, kids moved away, new kids arrived, people began to forget about it. I myself thought I forgot about it for a long time. No, I don't have nightmares, I told my parents. No, I don't need to talk to anyone about it.

I have nightmares now. And violent thoughts. About how much I would live to rip out Becky Coopers hair and feed it to her, bloody scalp and all. About how much I'd like to put all the black covered men in cages and lower them into a swimming pool and watch them die. About how I would cut off their dicks and leave them on their wives windshield to find in the morning on her way to work. About how I would like to capture Becky's daughters with the messy rooms and scare the shit out of them and make her watch.

I've never hated anyone as much as I hate the black covered men and Becky Cooper.

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