Targeted Harassment

It all started with one moment. One split-second decision that, at the time, I thought was the right thing to do. But now? Now I wish I had just kept driving. I was on my way home from work, stopped at a red light, when I saw it—a man being slammed into the pavement by a police officer. The guy didn’t even look like he was resisting, but the cop had his knee pressed into the back of his neck, forcing his face into the concrete. It was brutal. Something in me snapped. Without thinking, I grabbed my phone and started recording. People always say you should document these things, right? Hold them accountable, make sure there’s evidence. So, that’s what I did. I filmed the whole thing, even as the cop noticed me, glaring with this look that made my stomach twist. I didn’t think much of it. I figured I was just a bystander, someone who happened to catch a bad moment on camera. But after I uploaded the video, I started noticing things—small things at first. Like the way that same cop seemed to be everywhere I went. When I was driving to work, he’d be parked a few blocks over. When I’d grab coffee at the corner shop, his patrol car would pull up, just watching. The first time he pulled me over, I thought it was a coincidence. He claimed I was speeding, but I wasn’t. I’m careful about stuff like that. Still, I didn’t argue. I couldn’t afford a ticket, so I just kept quiet and took it. But then it happened again. And again. Always the same cop, always for some bullshit reason—rolling through a stop sign, having a broken taillight (which wasn’t broken). It was like he was looking for reasons to mess with me. And each time, his tone got darker, more aggressive. He’d linger by my car window longer than necessary, staring, smirking, making my skin crawl. Then, the notes started showing up. At first, I thought it was just some kids playing a prank. I’d come out to my car in the morning, and there’d be a piece of paper stuck under my windshield wiper. The first one just said, “I see you.” I laughed it off, even though it gave me a weird feeling. But the notes didn’t stop. They got worse. “Watch your back,” one said. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” said another. By the time I found the third note, my hands were shaking so bad I could barely open it. That one wasn’t a threat—it was a photo. A photo of me, taken from outside my apartment window, while I was asleep in bed. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the station, tried to file a complaint, but the officers just shrugged me off. “Must be some kids,” they said. “We’ll look into it.” But they didn’t. I knew they wouldn’t. I could see it in their eyes. They knew exactly what was going on, but none of them were going to do a damn thing about it. They were all covering for him. The harassment escalated. Every time I left my apartment, I felt eyes on me. I started taking different routes home from work, trying to shake the feeling of being followed, but it didn’t help. He was always there, somewhere, watching. One night, I was driving back from a late shift, and there he was again, trailing me. At first, I thought maybe it was just paranoia, but as I made my way down side streets and quiet roads, he stayed on me. I pulled into a gas station, thinking maybe I could lose him, but as soon as I stepped out of the car, he pulled up next to me. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as he rolled down his window. “Out late tonight, huh?” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “Better be careful. Dangerous out here.” I didn’t say anything. I just nodded, got back in my car, and drove off. But the whole drive home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen. I was terrified to even go inside, thinking maybe he’d be waiting for me in the parking lot. Maybe he’d follow me all the way up to my apartment. Maybe… The next morning, my tires were slashed. All four of them. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew who it was. I knew he was sending me a message—letting me know that no matter what I did, no matter where I went, he could get to me. And no one would believe me. I tried to tell friends, but they thought I was overreacting. “Cops don’t do that,” they said. “You’re just stressed.” But I wasn’t imagining it. This was real. And every day, it got worse. The final straw came one night when I heard footsteps outside my apartment. Slow, deliberate. At first, I thought maybe it was just one of the neighbors, but when I peeked through the peephole, my blood ran cold. There he was, standing in the hallway, looking right at my door. I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen, too scared to even breathe. But after what felt like an eternity, he finally walked away. I couldn’t stay there anymore. I packed a bag that night and left. I don’t know where I’ll go next, but I do know one thing—I’ll never feel safe again. Not as long as he’s out there, watching. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we’re told that the police are supposed to protect us. But sometimes… sometimes they’re the ones we need protecting from.