More of the dark stuff -
I arrived home one night to find a vicious, half-drunk, karate-trained friend of a friend had decided to take what I would not give him. He'd broken
into my home and laid in wait for me. All I could think of while he punched me was how surprisingly appropriate my evening's "entertainment" had been.
I'd been at a Buddhist temple meditating on, "I shall surely die tonight."
After hours of him hammering this message into my head I was a bleeding mess, but he'd still not got his way, and he sat down on the carpet,
threatened me some more, and started snoring.
Despite threats he'd made and fear for my children I struggled down the road to the phone box, which worked for a change, and dialed emergency. It was
either take the risk of calling the police, (he'd promised to kill us all if I did,) or live in fear of him.
Four coppers soon showed up, but didn't want to come in when they saw the mess I was in. (This was before Aussie cops got into the habit of shooting
on sight.) I dragged the quivering cowards in and pointed out it would be stupid to wake him and read his rights before they handcuffed him, as he
wasn't going to remember anyway.
So he woke, hands already cuffed in front of him, cops standing over him.
"Arrest her, arrest her!" he roared at them, struggling to grab me.
"Arrest her?" they asked, puzzled. "What did she do?"
"My fists, owww, my fists, look what she did to my fists".
So they took a look at his poor bruised and bleeding fists, the knuckle bones showing, and then stared at me in horror, demanding to know how I'd done
Shane answered for me.
"It was her head! Her head was too hard!"
Sometimes it pays to have a thick skull.
To the disgust of the coppers, the judge, at the arraignment the next morning, ordered Shane be released on bail.
However the silly guy thought it would be an idea to stalk them out to the car park and bash them up, landing one in hospital. Even cops get fed up
with the justice system sometimes, so, between that, and Shane having promised in front of them he was coming back to kill me and the kids, they
decided to look after things their way.
A few weeks later I was back at the doctor's because of bad dreams. he was very sypathetic at first, explaining it was natural to still be afraid and
keep reliving the event. When I told him no, I wasn't frightened, I just didn't like dreaming night after night that I was killing this arse-hole,
because I didn't like doing that, he kicked me out.
Six months later, in court Shane's weasely lawyer tried a little character assassination.
"You are a masseur, are you not?" he asked in a contemptuous tone.
I knew he had my card, I'd given it to him the previous year when I'd stood up as a character witness for this mongrel who'd just beaten me up.
"No, I replied, smiling innocently."
"I can prove you are masseur! He insisted. Do you deny this is your business card? Do you deny it says on this card you are a masseur?"
"I not only deny it, I suggest you show this card to the judge and ask her to help you with your reading."
So he smugly marched over to the judge, who pointed out the card said "Clinical Masseuse", not masseur, explained the difference between masseur and
masseuse very slowly in one syllable words, told him she personally saw a Clinical Masseuse once a week, and asked in a threatening voice if he had
anything relevant to bring up.
Next the weasel put Shane into the dock, and tried to put across a bit of a Story.
He got Shane to lie that he'd been trying to steal my television, saying I'd come home and caught him in the act and started hitting me, so he'd had
to defend himself. Shane went along with the stealing part, but when asked to confirm that I was an expert fighter and he was afraid for his life:
"What? Her fight? Hahaha! She couldn't hurt a fly!"
The moral is, if you are silly enough to get eaten up, at least get beaten up by a self-incriminating idiot with an idiot lawyer.
Despite a doctor testifying that Shane had broken 4 bones in my head and almost killed me, he only got 6 months, but the cops fixed that. Each time he
was released they'd just happen to be waiting outside Pentridge, they'd say a few words about his sister, he'd throw some punches, and they'd get him
locked up again.
Twenty years later, he's still never been released for more than five minutes at a time.
Some people never learn.
Three years later the case came up before the Crimes Compensation Tribunal.
The judge had all the details of my injuries, and just needed to hear my victim impact statement.
I needed money badly, and knew I should make the most of my sob-story, but somehow, when it was my turn, I was just overwhelmed with gratitude to have
fully recovered and to be alright now. So I couldn't lie, not even when she asked if I didn't at least have bad dreams from the experience.
Kicking myself for throwing away the chance to get money like this, I waited for her verdict.
"I have been listening to sob stories all day," she said, "and I'm not sure I believe any of them.
And I don't believe yours either. I was going to award you $5,000 on the basis of your injuries, but after hearing your story, (a heartbreaking pause,
then she looked at me, her stern face brightened by a twinkle in her eye,) I'm raising that to $10,000."
Just before I'd been bashed, a friend had persuaded me, despite my scepticism, to visualise every day that I was in a home of my own, despite it
looking obvious that was never going to happen. I'd only gone ahead with it to prove him wrong.
In the meantime a government loan had become available, but I had to produce a deposit the week of the compensation hearing or miss out.
- A deposit of $10,000.
edit on 26/11/10 by Kailassa because: must spell rite, must spell rite, must spell . . .