Author: Hannah Danielle

Stalker.
noun
a person who harasses or persecutes someone with unwanted and obsessive attention.
“Tracy claimed she was the victim of a stalker”

Dedicated to You.
My one, my only, Stalker.

Don’t talk to Strangers..
Have you ever felt someone behind your shoulder?
Have you ever looked all around the entire room.. Up and down.
Sideways. But still felt something.
A pair of eyes.
On you.
Watching.
Can you feel it burn through your clothes.

On the hottest summer day.
Like melted ice cream dripping on your baggy care-free clothes, but you can’t move.
That little piece of ice, has you frozen.
Have you ever went through the hassle of a restraining order.
Just to spend the same amount of time and all consuming energy
either hiding, or to show-off to prove a point, that you weren’t crazy.
And someone was, and is, never going to stop.

I’m frozen trying to type out the first moment, the first instance, I realized, I might disappear from the world.
Every loud noise makes me shriek.
Every person who s l o w l y comes up behind me, is a shrill.

Every birthday that rolls around, each new year, I think is a year without you,
And a mysterious, eerie request on every and any social media platform.
So far, I haven’t been proven otherwise.
So here’s to you.
You’re 5 minutes of infamy.
Because the police definitely didn’t serve any justice.
Your wife definitely didn’t teach you any better.
And your outpatient doctor definitely should’ve stopped prescribing AND seeing you
The day I called 911, because you were within 5 feet of me.

The meeting
I was in Outpatient, sitting in the waiting room, one day. Eye-ing all the drug-addicts patiently
pleading and begging to see a doctor , for half of what I was prescribed. Every few minutes,
someone would curse or cry or both. And then,
FUUUUUCK. “WHAT THE FUCK..”
I looked up to the front desk to watch this old, bald, man, fighting with the front desk help.
I made the mistake of smiling.
And he made the mistake of continuing to smirk back.
I was about 18 or 19. You do the math. Between pedophilia of how much younger I was, and actually looked.. and this, depiction of
Nothing more than a creepy stranger… That your mother only tells you stories about.
Stay Away.
That voice in your head that says “danger.”
“Don’t do it.”
I didn’t see red, though.
not

That

Day.

The Bribe, the boyfriend, & the blue balls…
In my defense, I was 18. I was on drugs. I was not right in the head. By any means. We met at a rehabilitation facility for christ-sake.
And although I had told him, I had a boyfriend, to someone I looked at as a “father”.
He did become my good friend. As weird and uncomfy it now is looking back at.
To be honest, I always just wanted a guy that worshipped me but knew that we were ONLY friends.
That never did end too well for me. Especially being, my boyfriend was not too fond of caring about me or for me in any sense of the word.
The day I had called him, after the police… I’ll save that part for later..
Back to the “image” I want you to paint in your head.
Watching his “band” play. In his other old man’s basement.. Wikken witch craft displayed everywhere.
Like a teenage boy re-living his youth.
It smelled like cats and sadness.
The entire room reeked of it.
But still.
It was better than being alone.
It was better than not having any money, or drugs.
So I had 2 abusive boyfriends, it seemed. But he got me tattoos. He drove me to the mall.
He took me to my drug test 2 hours away for jobs. He was just there.
But I didn’t know. That was an invitation for him to never, not be.

#1 Fan
It wasn’t just me.
I wasn’t the only 1. Like a serial killer, he had patterns.
he had other victims. Long before me.
He had saved every piece of anything, de-coded texts, drove his car to addresses saved in his GPS, from other saved websites on his phone that other people visited, And if I tried to draw a map out of the psychotic- behavior or any kind of explanation
Other then, pure insanity. And the need to need someone. To get under their skin, like a leech. Sucking the life out of them.
Creepy crawling fuzzy wuz of a worm, up and down my flesh. I can still smell the odor of sweat. And summer. Push-over. Pissed off. Cry baby…. To a monstrous serial killer in .2 seconds. He weaseled his way into each and every one of their accounts. And their lives. Some he never even met in person. But hounded them down like they were his fucking friendly sweater wearing neighbor.
Sometimes I think, in his head, he actually believed these people were just playing hard to get. He really thought they were friends. Restraining orders were fore-play. Being blocked and ignored was, a hug through the screen. All of their Personal information. In the palm of his disgusting, dirty, deceptive hands.

9- 1 – 1- Sincerely, the neighbors
The first call….

Take 2- Sincerely, my gut, fear, & remainder self-respect
I had gotten off the bus, from my first day at a new job. I was so excited. I was a medical receptionist. I felt like it was my first real
adult job. I don’t know how he knew where I was. It was my first fucking day.
I remember the first few steps walking. I was almost home from the bus-stop.
And I heard a scream. HANNAH. After I blocked, continued to block, and “just ignore it”. Like my mother said.
Ignore the adult man, obsessed with you. Taunting your life.
Every second of it.
I can’t see because of lack of vision and intelligence. But I heard his voice, and I knew.
He was off the rails. He was pale and sweaty and he looked like someone scooped what was left of his bran out.
I kept crossing the street, and he kept crossing back. I screamed. I yelled. I even said, RAPE. HELP.
There was a mailman putting letters into a slot, right next to me. And I remember thinking, Are you fucking kidding….. I’m right HERE. But I was invisible to anyone but crazy. It’s like I wasn’t even there. I was running from myself. He was screaming, and I was shakily scream crying saying Please. Please just stop. Please leave me alone. And this man, this grown man… is screaming, WHY CANT WE BE FRIENDS. WHY ARE YOU SUCH A BITCH. TEXT ME BACK. I LOVE YOU. I honestly thought I was being punk-d. My life had come to a sad cit-com. And I was sick. Of everything. He was everywhere. He had super charged batteries, that never ran out.
Finally I grabbed my phone out, and I said I’m calling the cops, and he smacked my phone out of my hands. And finally, thankfully.. this lady walked outside her house and said What the fuck are you doing to her?!?! Leave her alone.
And he said, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. ALL WOMEN ARE SUCH BITCHS.
WOMEN ARE CRAZY. WOMEN WOMEN WOMEN.
But he left.
And I fell to the ground, with this stranger. And I cried. As she asked if I was ok.
And I wasn’t.
And I knew this wasn’t the end
of anything.
It was only the beginning.
And that was the most frightening part
Of it all.
The 5 foot rule…. And why restraining orders don’t work
A picture’s worth 1,000 words..
I never thought twice when he would take a picture of me. I was cute. I loved myself. In the “I hate myself,
but physically I’m good, and get attention.” Kind of way. Half the time I wasn’t paying much attention to anything at all.
So him flicking 1,000 pics wasn’t even a thought or concern. Of all the drug paraphernalia,
All the words I told him, those weren’t important. He used to come upstairs to my mom’s house “to use the bathroom”
but he was really collecting evidence. Selfies of himself. Shirtless in my bathroom.
I should’ve learned after Steve Vella stole my underwear and I thought he was just taking a shit for 30 minutes.
But every place I went, he was right behind me. And even though I knew, hand in hand, we were together.
There was always one step, he managed to take without my knowledge.
He had pictures of me in the hospital.
He made fake instagrams of me. Added all my friends.
My friends’ friends. He wrote paragraphs of “poor Hannah and her boyfriend that beat her”
Overdose, abortions, He had a picture for every day of the week.
And that picture really hurt me. That moment, that was so personal. And sick.
That he turned into something, public, and humiliating.
And not a lot humiliates me.
The whole world saw me in a hospital gown, with a IV through my one vein left.
Like it was funny. Like I was the punchline to a joke.
But the picture that terrified me.
The one that made me never want to TAKE my own picture again.
Was me on my phone, across the street somewhere.
Random. Alone.
Not paying attention.
To the psycho across the street.
Building a portfolio of pictures on me.
To ruin my life.
But ultimately.
Ruin me.

The villain plays the victim so Fucking. well.

There is No End.
I still cringe, every time a loud random noise echoes in my ears.
I hit block so fast, because the anger running through my veins telling me I can type a whole story
like I just did during my 9-5 work hours, isn’t WORTH, the energy it will put into his hands.
It won’t help. It will only double edge dagger sword swipe me.
He has the audacity to send me letters, tell me, does your mom still live in the same place?
Acts as if we were mid-conversation, when he sends his once a year apology disguised as, Fuck you I hope you changed.
Congrats on your well being. So proud you’re sober. As if I want any of his energy, coming near me.
And he knows.
He knows he’ll write another message next week.
He’ll make up another screename I’ll ignore.
He still has pictures up of me from 2014. From a blocked user screaming in comment by comment

D
E
L
E
T
E
THESE
P
L
E
A
S
E
.

But there’s no begging with a socio-path.
You don’t win.
If you’re lucky, you get out alive. And you get far, far away.

But the computer is right there.
And he’s waiting on the other side.
And the saddest part is.
I’m just one out of 1,000.
I was something to fixate on. And to this day, I really don’t know why.
I hope this brings me peace.
I hope anyone, and everyone, who ever has been stalked, and there space invaded…
I hope they find peace. Or at least, a metaphorical pat on the back,
That we Survived.
We

(sort-of)
Survived.