The Night of the Living Dead

(photo credit)

If there was one incident that would prompt me to blog again, it was what happened to me a week ago.

I got mugged.

I was on the ground. He had a gun. The worst part is I'm 5 months pregnant.

But apparently that doesn't matter because it happened. It's not the kind of thing that you imagined would happen to you. I mean, I've always been vigilant. There were times when I thought about it happening to me and the scenario always ended with me getting killed because my reflex would be to fight back. Of course, when I really think about it, it doesn't make sense to risk my life to protect trivial belongings. They can always be replaced anyway.

But during the moment of truth, things don't really go the way you imagined they would when you were still making them up on your mind. I was not prepared in the least. I was crossing the street. The light turned green. Suddenly, 2 guys in a motorcycle stopped by me and one of them got off. I did try to run even when he already got to me but he was too strong and too fast. He ran after me, caught my bag and yanked really hard. That's how I ended up laying on the ground. Then I saw the gun. Everything was a blur after that. He managed to pull my bag and they drove away. I got up. Witnesses and concerned citizens flocked around me as if I were a freak show, which is not to say that I did not appreciate their concern, because I did. There was one guy who was a few feet away from me when it happened but he ran away when he saw the gun. He was profusely sorry. He even went as far as giving me P20 so that I could get home because I have not got a cent in me. I was his charity case. If I weren't so worried about my baby I would have laughed so loud, they'd think I hit my head on the pavement and gone crazy. I called my office mate from the convenient store across the street so that I will have someone who will go with me to the police station to file a report. I could not describe any of the two men to save my life. But I just felt like I needed to do something. I did not delude myself into thinking that I'd get any of my stuff back; my pens, my IDs, my notebooks, even my journal wherein I had documented my now non-existent sex life. But it will not do me any good to dwell on what I have lost.

It was a long night. I went to work the next morning as if nothing happened except that I didn't have any make up on because  my vanity kit was in that bag. The office mates who went with me to the police station were not yet around so I was the one who had to break the news to those of them who were present. They could not believe it. Apparently, a pregnant woman being mugged is unheard of, shocking and offensive to the sensibilities of the righteous. I had to show them the humongous bruise on my knee to convince them that I was not kidding, as if I would ever joke about a thing like that. I do have a track record of shocking the bejesus out of friends and office mates. Like the time I told them that I was pregnant. I had to pull out my ultrasound report just so that they would believe me, and even then they were still incredulous.

I found it hard to sleep the following nights. I kept thinking that I have died that night and I was just imagining that I was still alive and people were still talking to me. When I'm on my bed at night, I keep reliving the events. Only this time I'm more of like an omniscient spectator. Like I'm standing a few feet from myself and I can see everything that is happening but they can't see me. I can't even remember how I felt. Everyone I know had his piece to say about the incident. Some were angry, some were scared, some were concerned and frothing at the mouth. They told me that I should not be alone at night again, that I should not ride a jeepney at night, that I should not have a substantial amount with me on my bag, that I should transfer to a safer neighborhood. And I could not agree more. But then again, if I learned anything from watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds, it's the fact that there is no safe place. You can be attacked in your own house. And you are always alone, even if you are in a crowd. But I cannot let that fear stop me from living my life. If I did then I would have completely lost. Not only had they stolen my stuff, but, by being afraid, they would have taken my freedom as well. And that is something that I cannot allow. To fear is to suffer. To fear is to surrender.

I got attacked and I lived to tell the tale. My unborn kid and I are survivors and all we got was a five-second local news TV coverage as souvenir. The cosmos has a twisted sense of humor. But "what does not kill me will make  me stronger."