Downstairs I can hear Police CSI investigators banging the doors as they shuffle in and out. Desperately tired I wait till its time to see my case worker then on to work. Returning to work had seemed a good idea but now I am not so sure. Rumours run this clostrophobic little town and anyone seeking to keep a quiet life is seen as mysterious. Locals wash all things in public. Outsiders are periodically subjected to witch hunts and, not for the first time the village folk seek to lynch me. I try to understand why. I hear the snippets of gossip behind my back and most is born of ignorance and jealousy. Rebuilding ones life is met from all sides by attempts to destroy you.
I hadn't slept for days, not properly anyway. My veins felt full of venom and fear and endless attempts to inure out why I am targeted again. I managed to fall asleep last night for an hour when we were loudly woken up by pounding as the front door was broken down. I heard violence and shouting. My dog was terrified so I tried to comfort him. Things went quiet for a while then a gentle knocking at our flat door announced Police. A young police woman asked us what we had heard. Doors banging and fighting on the stairs is common here, not worthy of intervention. Apologies and promises to keep it down run out. My dog couldn't settle so I took him out. An ambulance was there taking away whoever had been battered and police questioned other victims. Who it was who broke down the doors to violently rob our neighbours we don't know.
Returning from our mid night walk police still questioned the victims. After this we slept a little.
Up again at five as doors continued to bang. I took the dog out again to get a paper. They smashed through our front door then smashed in to the bottom flat below us. The door lies on the floor, ripped from its hinges. Police tell me they are securing the scene till CSI get here. Debit litters the floor, a huge hole where a battering ram was launched from in the wall opposite. The front doors locks all trashed.
As I walked to the paper shop I saw a homeless person, cocooned in bedding beneath the canopy of the furniture shop. Cover from the rain at least and the winds worst excesses. I wonder if this poor figure got more sleep than us.
Now we can go to my flat but with all securities gone I fear to leave this place undefended. Each weekend has seen an event, this probably the worst I admit. I don't often write up these things. Why would anyone be interested?
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