It had been pure magic.
That night she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. Looking back on everything that had transpired since, she wished she had.
Subtle changes, barely noticeable at first. The catch in his voice when she came home a few minutes late… the questions he had asked.
What happened?
Who were you with?
Why didn't you call, Dana?
She explained herself, but he never seemed satisfied. She brushed off his nosiness and irritation. It was because he cared.
Then there were other things. The lipstick in her purse placed in the wrong zippered compartment, her clothing drawers in disarray even after she distinctly remembered folding her sweaters neatly. Finally came the strange clicks on the extension when she talked to a girlfriend or her mother.
No, it couldn't be, she would tell herself. Why would Julian want to listen in on her boring conversation?
Yet the clicks continued-day after day, month after month. Finally, she summoned her nerve and asked him about it. At first, he had waved her off as imagining things. She took him at his word because the clicks seemed to suddenly stop.
But they returned-occasional at first, then once again at frequent intervals.
He'd been eavesdropping: of that she was sure. She was puzzled by his odd behavior, then angry. He was violating her privacy and that was inexcusable. Another discussion was in order. Despite his initial denials, she knew he was lying. So she pressed him.
Her first mistake. He exploded, raising the phone upward, yanking it out of its jack and heaving it against the wall.
"Goddamn it, Dana! If you wouldn't tie up the phone so long, I wouldn't have to pick up the extension to see when you finished your conversation."
Tears welled up in her eyes, her ears shocked with disbelief. She stammered, "J-Julian, why didn't you just ask me to get off the phone?"
"I shouldn't have to ask you; you should goddamn know." He was breathing very hard. Suddenly, he lowered his voice. It became quieter, but not any softer. "A wife should know what her husband wants. And where's your consideration, for God's sake! What kind of a wife are you, anyhow?"
Stunned, she turned on her heels to leave. He caught her arm, spun her around. Spittle at the corners of his mouth, red angry blotches upon his face. His fingers clamped around her arm like an iron manacle. And his eyes! They had turned into hot pits of violence. She shrank under his scrutiny. His voice so whis-pery it was sepulchral.
"You don't… ever… walk out on me, you hear?" Paralyzed with fear, she hadn't been able to respond. When Julian repeated his demand a second time, the threat in his tone even more menacing, she somehow managed a nod.
It was the first of many incidents. The slightest insult-real or imagined-sent him into fits of uncontrollable temper and rage. Though he never actually hit her, his demonic eyes were enough to cause her to cower. She didn't dare tell anyone the truth. Sinking faster and faster into a quicksand pit of despair and loneliness, she knew she had only two options-to die or to escape.
Her defection was quick and complete. One day when he was away at work, Dana simply packed up her meager belongings and left. For six months, she hid under many aliases and assumed identities. As expected, he caught up with her. But six months was a long enough time for her to recover her ground. She boldly marched into the lawyers' offices. A few months later, Julian was served divorce papers along with an official restraining order. She knew that the order had little enforcement or protection power; a weak remedy akin to the Dutch boy plugging up the dike by putting his finger in the hole.
So she took precautions. Every time Dana got into or out of her car, she scanned her surroundings, looking over both shoulders. Keys gripped in her right hand, Mace locked into the fingers of her left hand, she always made it a point to walk quickly from her car to her destination, her head pivoting from side to side, her ears and eyes alert, attuned to the simplest of nuances, perceiving imminent danger out of seemingly innocuous events.
Terrible to live like this, Dana muttered angrily to herself, but what is the alternative?
Dana knew Julian was possessed, just too crazy to be dealt with. Maybe it was because the wound was so raw. She hoped that things would get better after the divorce. Julian was no dummy. Surely he'd come to his senses and realize that his obsession was no solution for either of them.
The day their marriage was declared legally over, things became even worse. First came the midnight tapping on her door. Then the rattling of windows and the unexplained jiggling of doorknobs. One night, after weeks of having been mentally tortured by his lunatic hovering, she drew up enough strength to investigate. In a wild burst of energy, she threw open the front door only to witness an eerie dark landscape of streets and trees and houses, all devoid of human intrusion.
A portent of things to come. He always seemed to disappear just out of fingertip's reach.
The sounds continued, so Dana moved-and moved, and moved. But he always seemed to find her. Not that he ever showed his face directly; Julian was too much the coward for that. Still, she was aware of his presence wherever she went, whatever she did. He appeared as furtive shadows and distant ghosts. And always at night.
Sometimes she could swear she actually saw him, her fleeting phantom. At these times, she'd run down the street, cursing his name. People thought her crazy.
And Dana felt as if she was going crazy. Because no matter how hard she tried, she failed to catch him. Julian seemed to fade into the mist until nothing but air was left behind. Nerves frayed, Dana couldn't eat and her weight dropped dangerously low. Fearful for her sanity, she remained housebound except for essential errands. In desperation, she bought a guard dog, a German shepherd that abruptly died one day from food poisoning. She bought another dog. The second canine, Tiger, was killed by a vicious hit-and-run motorist, the vehicle throwing the dog twenty feet into the air, breaking every bone in her body. The driver, of course, was never caught.
In the animals' martyrdom, Dana finally found an inner strength. Something erupted inside Dana's soul when she carried Tiger's carcass, lovingly wrapped in a warm blanket, to the vet. Nobody should be able to get away with this.
So she began to fight back. At first, she carried a knife in her purse. When she learned that carrying a concealed knife was a felony, she switched over to a gun. Concealing a revolver was just a misdemeanor and she could live with that. With her last spare dollars, she purchased an unregistered.32 Smith & Wesson on the black market. Then she began to learn how to use it. Weekly visits to the shooting range became daily visits. Developing her accuracy, her reflexes, her eye. Six months later, she finally felt as if she had parity with the bastard.
She felt empowered.
Just try anything now, Julian. Just try it!
If he dared to make a move, so would she.
She was ready.
Frequent moves during the last year did little to enhance Dana's job resume. After months of rejection in her trained field of social work (who wanted a therapist whose own life was in shambles?), Dana gave up on employment in counseling. Determined to beat her spate of terrible fortune, she managed to land a job as a sales representative for a small family-owned medical supply company. Her job necessitated lots of travel, visits to hundreds of doctors' offices and hospitals scattered over the southern California area.