Free She Survived by M. William Phelps

guy had never been inside my apartment–at least not when I was ever home. Let’s just say he was never an invited guest into my apartment. Number two, that particular stick he had used, I had only obtained it shortly before the attack and long after he had moved away. So, no, there was no way that he could have handled that stick with my permission.

    There was something else Melissa had been avoiding, partially because she had “mentally blocked it from [her] mind” and, equally, “because I think this is something that caused me more pain than anyone will ever know.”

CHAPTER 24
    CHAMBER OF HORRORS
    It happened two or three days after Melissa had been released from the hospital, long before Scott Saxton was apprehended and charged. Melissa still had that grave, unsettling task ahead of having to pack up her apartment and move everything. She had been avoiding going there ever since the attack. And there was no way, of course, she could ever live there again.
    â€œI didn’t see how I was going to face going back into that apartment—even just to pack and move my things out.”
    It had been the scene of so much focused emotional and physical pain, however blurred some of it seemed now, along with snapshot images of the terrible violence that had taken place there. Melissa knew a visit could be detrimental to her healing. Just seeing the stains of her own blood all over the place would be bad enough. The memories could come flooding back. The smells. The sounds, even. The silence. The stillness of everything as it was on that night and police had left it.
    However, being the strong-willed, nothing’s-going-to-stop-me person she was—independent in every regard—she believed she had to do it. If not her, who else?
    According to Melissa, she called an ex-boyfriend. “Can you come and help me?”
    No answer.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œNo.”
    Incredible. Did the guy not have a sympathetic bone in his body?
    She then called any friend she could think of. She explained the visit back to the apartment as: “Could you come to just babysit while I pack up the rest of my stuff?”
    They all told her no.
    One so-called “friend” even had the nerve to say, “Melissa, I don’t see what the big deal is. It will be daylight. Just lock the doors. You’ll be fine.”

    At the time, I kept trying to explain to them that no one knows who did this, where he might be, or if he’ll come back to finish the job. Actually, the detectives told me they had purposely put word on the street I had died, in hopes it would flush the idiot out. So law enforcement actually wanted me to lay low and try not to be seen.

    Melissa finally convinced someone she knew to go with her.
    â€œHe came for a few minutes and then left me there.”
    Nice guy. Real gentleman.
    Now sitting in her apartment by herself, fingerprint powder, like pool cue chalk, everywhere, the place nearly ransacked and looking more like the set of a horror film, Melissa could only break down and cry.
    What overwhelmed her was the unnatural odor of iron (actually, that iron smell was dried blood). Some describe it as “electric.”
    â€œSomething I will never forget. . . .”
    After her “friend” took off, Melissa sat and asked herself: Why would you leave me alone in here?
    Melissa looked around.

    There was still blood on the walls, on the bed, on all of my stuffed animals, on the phone where I called 911. On the nightstand. Why would a person walk someone back into a chamber of horrors and basically say, “Here, you work it out by yourself.” I get that maybe they couldn’t handle the scene themselves, but, my God, couldn’t they imagine what it was doing to me?

    As she began packing, Melissa zoned out. She was able to take herself out of the situation and get the work done. If you’ve spoken to Melissa and gotten to know her even in the slightest,