Guide What Kills Me

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He dropped me without leaving any marks. A couple weeks later, on September 11, , I met with James and his therapist for a morning appointment. I still was paying all the house bills, trying to save him money and keep my place.

When I said that in front of his therapist, it hit a nerve. As we were walking out, he said, "You're going to pay for what you said in there. You're going to pay. Later, while I was styling a client's hair, my mom stopped by the salon. I confided in her that I was terrified of James's threat. She told me everything would be okay, and we talked about cooking lasagna for dinner that night.

He Kills Me

After she left, I finished up my last few appointments and drove from town to her house in the country. I called friends as I was driving, trying to keep my mind off James, and we chatted until I lost service. As I walked in the front door, James came around the corner, pointing my mother's rifle at me. When I tried to turn around and run away, he said, "You take another step, and I will shoot and kill you now. James had me walk further into the house and take off all my clothes. I could see that my mom's door was barricaded with her green couch.

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He kept telling me that everything was going to be okay and that my mom was fine. He used duct tape to cover my mouth and wrap my arms and legs behind my back. Then he started to rape me. I'd read in a magazine that if someone is raping you, you should just give in to make it physically easier on you. So I started to tell him — through the tape — how much I loved him, wanted him, and how much I missed him.

He cut off the tape and raped me all night.

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During my rape, I went inside my own head. I thought about my mom. Was she really okay? Did he knock her out? If I had been trapped in the bedroom, I would have been breaking the windows, trying to get out.

My mind was all over the place. James finally finished, had me put on my clothes and get into the bed. I remember thinking I should pretend to be asleep. Then, I was falling to the floor and remember thinking, This is a weird way to pretend to be asleep. That's when he'd shot me in the face and left me for dead. The hours that followed are seared into my memory — breaking into my mother's room, feeling her cold hands. Because the phone line was cut, I had to run find help.

There was a long gravel driveway between Mom's house and the main road. Barefoot and bleeding, I stumbled, then crawled my way toward passing traffic for help. Finally, the driver of a pickup truck stopped and drove me into town. Next thing I knew I was in an ambulance. Medics cut off my clothes, despite my resistance.

The rest of the night is foggy.

I have a recording where I'm talking to a detective before I was whisked the hospital in a helicopter. From there, everything went dark until I woke up from a coma a month later. Later, I learned that James told police that he'd broken into my mother's house to steal her gun and commit suicide. He said my mom had interrupted him and tried to grab the gun away from him.

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That's when James shot and killed her. From the moment I woke up in the hospital, I felt like I was in a dream. It honestly didn't sink in until I was testifying in court. That's when it all hit me — he really killed my mom, and he really thought he killed me. Police had locked down our small town, and by the time they found James, he had taken some pills.

Not enough to kill himself, but enough to make it look like he was trying. He admitted to killing me; they didn't tell him I was alive until several days afterward.

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