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Why does your fucked up mind think without innocence You can call your castle kings about my vehemence Thoughts of me in your fucked up mind makes you perspire Your fucked up brain wants me to retire…. Your fucked up head nos I will win this war. L ate one humid night in Wichita, Kansas, in June , Ruth Finley, a year-old telephone company employee and mother of two grown sons, was startled by the ringing of her phone.
She had just endured a traumatic day: that afternoon her husband Ed had collapsed from an apparent heart attack after working in their back yard. Now Ed lay in a hospital bed as doctors searched for a conclusive diagnosis, while Ruth tried to shake off the unease she felt at the unfamiliar experience of being alone in her house at night.
Ruth switched to easy listening instead. A phone call this late at night could only mean bad news from the hospital. Instead of a nurse or doctor, Ruth heard an unfamiliar male voice on the line. The question startled her. That night in Ruth had just returned to her rooming house from buying groceries when she heard the screen door open behind her. Suddenly she felt herself grabbed from behind by a tall man who began tearing at her clothes.
The intruder wore dirty bib overalls and looked about 50 years old. Struggling to break free, Ruth jabbed the man in the eyes with her thumbs. Her final hazy image before passing out was of the man heating a flat-iron on the stove.
When she awoke, she had first—degree burns on both thighs. Blood oozed from scratches on her face, arms, and legs. Her head swam with confusion: Why was this stranger bringing up that terrible incident from so long ago?
The article about Ruth was among them. Alarmed, Ruth slammed down the phone. Her temples throbbed and she felt an abrupt need to sleep. Dragging herself to bed, she fell almost immediately into a ten-hour slumber. Ed remained in the hospital for another week. While Ed lay in his hospital bed, Ruth spent fretful nights alone in the house, waiting with dread for another call.
None came. L ater that summer Ruth was sitting in her office — she worked as a secretary at Southwestern Bell Telephone Company — when an envelope landed on her desk. Her name was scrawled in a messy hand across the top. She picked up the phone at home to hear the same unidentified male voice repeatedly over the next several months, though Ruth would hang up before he could say more than her name.
During the same period Ed answered the phone on multiple occasions to hear only a dial tone at the other end. R uth and Ed valued nothing more than normalcy. They were the children of poverty-stricken farmers and homemakers in rural Kansas who had struggled to survive during the Great Depression. Their parents were harsh disciplinarians who taught that emotions were to be repressed, tears were forbidden, and calling attention to oneself was practically criminal.
Ruth had sparkling eyes, short brown hair, an attractive square face, and a muted but respectable manner of dress. Ed, an ant at a construction firm, had a looming frame, a shiny bald head, and plain, friendly features. Their creativity was important to them. In another life, Ruth and Ed might have been artists, but nothing in their hardscrabble upbringings had allowed for that possibility.
In August Ruth was window-shopping in downtown Wichita when a man popped out of a crowded crosswalk and fell into stride beside her. Ruth barely noticed. She might have been thinking instead of how increasingly hollowed-out the downtown shopping district felt, as store after store went out of business or relocated to one of the malls on the outskirts of town. Ruth, startled, looked over. His black hair was graying at the temples. Are you an operator? Ruth held her silence and kept walking.
Ruth was more annoyed than scared. Ruth was deeply unsettled by these last words. Ed assured her that it was probably just a guy looking to pick someone up. Ruth saw nothing more of the man for almost a year. But in June she was once again shopping downtown when, as she passed an alleyway between stores, she felt someone reach out and grab her wrist. It was the man from the summer. Get back here, you stupid bitch, and talk to me! When her breathing finally settled, she called Ed and asked him to pick her up immediately.
She also told him, for the first time, about the harassing phone calls. Ed, deeply worried, said he would contact the police. He went to the station and filed a report, but the police took no follow-up action. That October Ruth received in the mail an otherwise unmarked envelope with her name scrawled on the front in tall black letters. Uneasiness gripped her as she sat at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee and opened the envelope. Fuck the police. Give me money, the writer threatened below, or you will be hurt.
A frightened Ruth jumped to her feet and paced the floor until Ed came home. He insisted they make another visit to the police. Lieutenant Bernie Drowatzky, a seasoned, balding detective whose experience as an officer stretched back 34 years, greeted the couple in his office. Ruth told Drowatzky about the menacing phone calls and the two times she had been approached on the street. She had no enemies that she knew of, Ruth said. She and Ed were empty nesters living on a quiet street, and they were friendly with all their neighbors.
Nor could she think of anyone she had wronged in the past. This time you talk to me when I call you soon. Ruth brought the letter to Lt. Drowatzky at police headquarters. On November 21, — a cold day, wet and misty — Ruth spent her lunch break running errands downtown. She wore a red print blouse, a black jacket, and black pants. As she crossed North Market Street after leaving a greeting card shop, her path was suddenly blocked by a blue-green Chevrolet Bel Air that screeched to the curb.
The only other person she could see was an elderly woman walking far up the street. Ruth froze in horror as the same man who had confronted her twice ly leaped from the car. This time he wore black frame glasses, a jean jacket, and a sweater. He climbed in next to her and slammed the door. On the floor she saw a gas can, pieces of concrete, chains, and rags. Dazed, Ruth collapsed in her seat. The car sped off, headed northwest, the two men jabbering back and forth so rapidly that Ruth found it difficult to follow their conversation.
She thought of the Mace can she had hidden in her purse, but she felt too scared to reach for it. Outside the car, the weather grew increasingly colder as the afternoon turned to dusk and dusk to night. Buddy continued driving a seemingly random route around the city. Finally, four hours into her ordeal, Ruth summoned the courage to speak. Ruth forced herself to gag. As he unzipped his fly, Ruth withdrew her can of Mace and pressed the nozzle. The man collapsed coughing as Ruth bolted off barefoot into the park.Wichita local fuck
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