After the Flashlight Man: A Memoir of Awakening
One night in 1990, a stranger cut the screen out of Nancy McCabe's bedroom window while she slept and shone a flashlight into her eyes as she woke. A few weeks later, her father came down with temporary amnesia. Although unrelated, these events became linked in her mind, sweeping out from under her the fundamentals many of us take for granted: safety, freedom, the stability of memory, and a general oblivion to mortality. After the Flashlight Man is the story of how one author came to terms with these experiences that threw her life into a whole new light: the self-defense classes, rape crisis volunteer work, writing, and meditation that served as checkpoints along her healing journey while she reA- examined events from her childhood and relationships with family and friends. Ultimately, a flashlight turned against her as a bizarre weapon became instead a metaphorical tool that blazed her path, the impetus to reclaim, recast, and tell her own stories, discovering her own power to reinvent her vision of her life.
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Aunt Shirley bathroom bedroom Binky boys brain breathe Caddie Woodlawn callers calls ceramic fish child Christina Rossetti classmates classroom crisis line dad's Dana's dance dark Deanne desks door dream eyes fear feel feet felt Flashlight floor ghost girl goose bump hair hands head imagine Jody Kansas Kansas Turnpike kids knew later laugh Laura Laura Ingalls Wilder leave light Little Women lives look Loretta Madame Alexander meditation memory mother Nancy Nancy Grace never night once parents poems pulled Pushcart Prize rape crisis remember rock music Rosa Sandra scream Shoji Tabuchi silence Silver Dollar City sleep someday someone Springfield stared story suddenly talk teacher tell things thought told tunnels turned voice waiting wall watch weird Wichita window woman wonder words writing wrote yelled
Page 9 - The patrol car coasts silently away. Obsessively checking my doors and windows, I am disturbed by the pitch black of the porch. The light switch stands at attention, in the on position. I flick it off: no change. Peering out I find an empty fixture: no bulb, no globe-shaped cover. In the kitchen, the sliding glass door stands open half an inch, enough to admit moths.
Page 9 - The lock has been jimmied, but a security bar in the track caused the door to stick. It is so calculated, this effort to pass unnoticed into my house while I slept. In my bedroom, the screen has been cut meticulously — no frayed ends, no incomplete grids, only frame and cool night air. Then the phone rings.