I have grappled so hard with grasping onto my faith in humanity, but especially in this situation, all of my hope has been depleted to the very last drop. I don’t beg for empathy or pity, but only ask for grace and understanding.
The landlady of my brother’s apartment complex is a former police officer. I wasn’t aware that the complex didn’t allow pets and he failed to mention what was clearly outlined in the lease agreement. I should’ve checked. I should’ve made sure. She was angry when we talked, which I understand. I try to see things objectively as possible. I can understand how she feels deceived; that we tried to hide having the dogs here. I can understand that as a business woman she has to abide by her rules strictly and enforce them with no exception. After begging for her forgiveness and not to evict my brother, who was just trying to give me a safe place to stay, she gave me 48 hours for the boys to vacate the property.
With no options, I finally resorted to a domestic abuse crisis shelter that dealt with pets after their owners have been removed from domestic abuse environments. Tomorrow, I will drive halfway in between here and Upstate South Carolina. On Sunday, I will giving my whole world to a foster family and leave them in the hands of strangers while I try to get on my feet. I am so thankful for their generosity to not only take them in, but keep them together but my heart feels as though it is being ripped from my chest. My dogs are the only true love I’ve ever known- the sole reason why I’m still alive. And now they’re being taken away too. Not taken away, I am giving them over.
My brother, when the landlady had contacted him angrily, explained my situation to her and apologized profusely for not telling her that I had brought my boys with me. He was just trying to protect me. He always had the best intentions for me- and was willing to do anything to give me the littlest bit of solace and safety.
When I had talked to her, she confronted me directly in the form of an attack that left me in something I could only describe as a confounded state of shock. She interrogated me about the abuse I had suffered and questioned in such short, reproachful questions why I ‘chose’ to flee the area. I explained to her that when filing the reports with both law enforcement departments, my abuser would not face court charges without physical evidence… no outstanding bruises, cuts, or broken bones. Only attempts at my life that wouldn’t leave evidence. He was careful and calculated in that way; to know exactly what he could get away with. “You’re a liar!” she screamed from the opposite end of the phone. “The authorities would arrest him. You’re a liar.”
The word liar broke me on a level that I can’t begin to specify. I stuttered, stupefied at her accusations. I scrambled, offering her case numbers of all of the domestic events- but she interrupted unmercifully, questioning me why she would waste her time.
I retreated, begging once more for an ounce of mercy. I apologized through sobs and I could feel her dispassion burning through the phone, gripped in shaking hands.
“You had other options, you know. I’ve seen many domestic cases in my time, girl. You could’ve lived out of your car.”
“Your problems aren’t my problem. You’ll get over it.”
“You’re a pretty white girl, someone will hand you something.”
Liar.
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