Dangerous Mood

It was 3am at a high end fashionable nightclub in New York City. I had decided to stay although my friends had left earlier. I was in a strange dark mood and didn’t feel like myself.

Sitting on a sofa near the entrance was a man alone. He seemed unfriendly and distracted but attractive.

For reasons I can’t explain, I decided to walk over and attempt to cheer him up.

When I sat down and introduced myself, he barely acknowledged me. Then he asked me if I want to go for a ride. In light of my crazy dangerous mood, I said yes.

At first, I was excited to see his fancy car with an open roof. We drove through the dark city streets. After a few minutes, he took my hand. He didn’t say anything but soon he started to touch my thigh. I just let him.

He drove to his apartment in Chelsea, he asked me if I wanted to come in and have a drink. I said no and would prefer to go home. He insisted, I felt obliged and entered the basement apartment, against my gut feeling.

We walked down the stairs to the tiny studio apartment. I was shocked to see a Pit-bull dog inside a cage at the entrance. There were cuts and blood on the animal as it was desperately trying to get out of the cage. The man suddenly set the dog free. Blood smeared the walls as it ran and jumped around the room anxiously, frantic after being imprisoned for an unknown amount of time.

The man began to prepare a drink with whisky for each of us. I anxiously wanted to leave, I told him I would call a cab. He pushed the drink into my hands and said “Come sit with me”.

The dog continued to jump around staining the white walls. The man did not flinch. I was terrified.

After a couple of sips, he tried to kiss me and touch my body, attempting to force me as he pushed me on the bed.

I tried to get up, but he was too strong. I decided my best option was to appear to enjoy it and then escape at the right opportunity. My heart was beating hard in my chest. Each minute was excruciating. I told him I had my period and need to go to the toilet quickly. I kissed him and went to the bathroom, which was next to the front door and immediately opened it and ran up the stairs. I sprinted down the street topless, fuelled by adrenalin and managed to hail a cab.

Thankfully I arrived home. A few months later while reading the New York Post on the subway, I came across a story about a fashionable man who lived in Chelsea in a basement apartment who drove a fancy convertible. Apparently, he had met six different young girls at a nightclub and murdered them in his home.