Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Lesson Learned

Today’s guest blogger and I spend a great deal of time together. Melissa Ecker writes paranormal and erotic romance but she has some fun non-fiction stories as well. I invited her over to share one with us. *Hands the reins to Melissa*
Thank you, January. I appreciate you hosting me. The story below is one that Mr. Melissa and I laugh at now…
I remember when I was a little girl and, more than anything in the world, I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels. In my mind, I silently reprimanded my mother for not having the foresight to name me “Kelly” after my favorite Angel. I imagined myself as a bad-ass, smoking-hot chick with a Dirty Harry gun who took orders from a mysterious man who lived in a speaker box. Yeah, well, I was a kid, cut me some slack. I was also the kid who walked around talking to herself in a British accent, but we'll save that for another blog.
Anyway, I grew up having these fantasies of someone trying to snatch my purse in a parking lot or attempting to carjack me at a red light. Now, I know that sounds crazy and, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t longing to be a victim by any means. The main point of the fantasy was that I would totally go “Charlie’s Angels” on some bad guy and kick the crap out of him before throwing him in my trunk and personally delivering him to the police department without so much as breaking a nail. 
Fast forward a few years to the sort-of-newlywed me. I think the hubby and I had been married about a year when he got the bright idea to test my reflexes. We lived in an upstairs apartment and I had just returned home from grocery shopping and was trudging my purchases up the stairs and depositing them on the kitchen floor. I was considerate enough to not ask him to help since he worked a graveyard job and I knew that he was sleeping in anticipation of that evening’s shift. 
While I was putting away the groceries, I heard a strange noise coming from the rear of the apartment. I ventured toward our bedroom to investigate. I peeked through the half-open door and saw the hubby’s sleeping form under the blanket on the bed. Just then, I heard the noise again, louder this time; a mechanical, clicking type sound. I stepped into the room, just past the door and realized the noise was coming from behind me. 
It was dusk and the room was kind of shadowy, but not dark yet. In my peripheral vision I saw movement from behind the door. My heart skipped then jack hammered against my rib cage as I slowly turned around and came face-to-face with a tall man whose face was distorted by a pantyhose pulled over his head and he was pointing a pistol at my forehead. Okay, here is where my Charlie’s Angels skills were supposed to kick in. According to my fantasies, I should have roundhouse-kicked the gun out of his hand and planted my knee in his crotch before ripping the phone cord out of the wall and tying him up like Dolly Parton in 9 to 5 when she took down her booty-grabbing boss.
Well, it didn’t actually go down like that. I didn't knuckle up and open a can of whoop-ass on him. I simply didn’t react at all as my life literally flashed before my eyes, I deduced that my hubby was probably dead under that blanket on the bed and I was next. My legs gave out and I dropped to my knees and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping for a quick and mostly painless execution-style death.
Then he says, “It’s me, it’s me.” I opened my eyes to see the would-be assassin pull the pantyhose off his head and, low and behold, it’s my at-that-time-not-so-better half. It took about thirty seconds for me to realize that I wasn’t really going to die. The hubby had arranged pillows in the bed to make it look like he was sleeping and then hid behind the door to see how I would react if confronted with an intruder.
He didn’t immediately apologize for nearly giving me a heart attack. What he said was, “If I had been a real criminal, you would be dead. You failed.” Once the blood returned to my brain and my limbs were usable again, I tore into him like a tornado into a mobile home. He had no idea what hit him.
So, I asked myself...why didn’t I tear into the intruder like that when I feared for my life? It’s simple really. Only a few seconds had passed between the time I saw him and turned into a Jello shooter on the floor to when he revealed himself and alleviated the imminent danger. My body didn't have enough time to react to the fear invoked adrenaline that produces the fight or flight response (I stole that opinion from a security expert I consulted after buying pepper spray and a pocket knife). Another thirty seconds and I may have tackled him at the knees from my advantageous position on the floor and put him in a rear wrist lock before strangling him to death with the second leg of the pantyhose dangling alongside his head. Okay, I’m probably injecting some fantasy there. It's more likely that I would have opted for the flight response and dove through the window and fell two floors down into the dumpster in the alley.
Anyway, after some reflection, he apologized and admitted it had been a bad idea even though he insisted his heart was in the right place. He wanted to make sure I would defend myself in a real life scenario. Fourteen years later, I forgive him and now keep my loaded forty caliber Glock (complete with Trijicon night sights and two extra high cap clips) in an undisclosed, yet easily accessible, location in my bedroom. And, yes, I know how to use it. So, I don’t think he’d try something like that again. 

Thanks for having me, Jan. We'll do this again soon.  

For more information about Melissa, visit her website and her blog Melissa's Maniacal Musings.

1 comment:

  1. I woulda killed him. No, really. Is he like a self-defense instructor or something? lol. Nice that you got yourself a piece. Take care. ;)