I ran outside and down the stairs, hoping that maybe I could catch something, anything, before it shattered. But from the street below, I realized that was a stupid idea.
“Take this,” he yelled as my clothes came dancing down in slow motion. Next, he threw pieces of that small dining room table, already smashed to bits, followed by the two mismatched chairs. Neighbors came out of the apartment building across the street where Sean Penn and Madonna lived; the building that looked like a castle. Now, my belongings lay in front of it smashed and broken to bits, compliments of Bobby, the man I tried to help.
“Do you want us to take care of that guy?” One of the neighbors asked, flexing his arm muscle.
“No, I just wanna get out of here.” I left everything behind.
I thought later, why did I say “No” to the neighbor. Why did I let Bobby get away with hurting me and ruining my things? The answer is that somewhere, deep inside I've always had faith. I may not have known it but somewhere; there has been a speck of it because even though Bobby had ruined my life, I couldn't bear to sink to his level. I would let God or karma or my higher power take of care of him.
Bobby stayed in my flat for the rest of the month. I never did get my deposit back.