Tonight is the 3rd night in the last 4 that the man in the apartment below is beating the woman in the apartment below. A couple minutes ago there were crashing sounds and loud thumps, then she screamed, then something sounds like it was thrown against the wall, then she screamed “Final notice! Get out of my house!” I think a few minutes later he said something about a Band-Aid. It’s been quiet—wait. Someone is stomping around now.
I want to call the cops. I did that once before, when I lived in Buffalo, the night when I thought the man in the apartment next door was beating the woman he lived with so hard the walls were shaking and I thought he might push her through the wall right into my living room. I called the police, who pulled up to the curb with their lights flashing. Soon as there were flashing lights, the noise next door stopped. The police knocked on the neighbors’ door. No answer. Then they knocked on my door. I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t want this guy knowing I’d called. Whenever he saw me out on the street after that, he gave me shitty looks.
So here I am tonight, wondering if I called the police, would he know? I wonder if this is who they are—I doubt this is the first week he’s hit her. They moved in together; they’ve been together some amount of time. Maybe it’s a mess they make together. Maybe she doesn’t want him to leave, and calling the cops would make things worse for her. Or for me.
He’s back. I think the cops just got here.
Yup. Cops are here.