The Green Jeep
My name is Elizabeth Isabella Harkonnen. I was driving to the grocery store one quiet evening. The streets were nearly empty, the hum of my car the only sound around me. At first, I didn’t notice the dark green Jeep following me, but soon enough, it became impossible to ignore.
Then it swerved in front of me, cutting me off completely. A boot smashed my driver’s side window. Glass shattered across my hands and dashboard. The horn went dead. The gearshift was slammed into park.
The man leaned in, wearing a black ski mask that hid everything except his eyes — dark, calculating, unblinking. He didn’t attack me immediately. His focus was clear: the keys. He wanted them out of the ignition.
I slapped, punched, and scratched. Every time he lunged, I forced him back. He pushed me, tried to block me, but he couldn’t ignore me. People think women are weak. They’re not. Strength isn’t just muscle — it’s persistence, it’s refusing to give up when your life is on the line. Every strike I landed reminded him of that truth.
For what felt like two endless minutes, he alternated between fumbling with the keys and shoving me back. Every attempt to grab the keys gave me a chance to strike, to claw, to fight. He underestimated persistence. He underestimated me.
Then, finally, I pushed him partially out of the window. He fell hard onto the street, sprawling, stunned, injured. I turned the key, shifted the car out of park, and floored the accelerator.
Later, when I reported the attack, I learned his name: Earl Ernest Starr. He had served five years for armed robbery, assault, and carjacking. Because he had violated his parole with this attack, he would now face ten to twenty years in prison.
There was one ironic detail that the police mentioned: Starr had an accomplice that night, but he never identified him, even after his arrest. It was proof, in the strangest way, that sometimes there is honor among thieves — a grim code that kept him silent about the other person.
Even now, whenever I see a dark green Jeep, my pulse races. But I smile faintly, because I survived. I fought. I refused to give up. And I want everyone to know: women aren’t weak. We fight. We survive. And sometimes, that alone is enough to defeat a man who thought he could break us.
Then it swerved in front of me, cutting me off completely. A boot smashed my driver’s side window. Glass shattered across my hands and dashboard. The horn went dead. The gearshift was slammed into park.
The man leaned in, wearing a black ski mask that hid everything except his eyes — dark, calculating, unblinking. He didn’t attack me immediately. His focus was clear: the keys. He wanted them out of the ignition.
I slapped, punched, and scratched. Every time he lunged, I forced him back. He pushed me, tried to block me, but he couldn’t ignore me. People think women are weak. They’re not. Strength isn’t just muscle — it’s persistence, it’s refusing to give up when your life is on the line. Every strike I landed reminded him of that truth.
For what felt like two endless minutes, he alternated between fumbling with the keys and shoving me back. Every attempt to grab the keys gave me a chance to strike, to claw, to fight. He underestimated persistence. He underestimated me.
Then, finally, I pushed him partially out of the window. He fell hard onto the street, sprawling, stunned, injured. I turned the key, shifted the car out of park, and floored the accelerator.
Later, when I reported the attack, I learned his name: Earl Ernest Starr. He had served five years for armed robbery, assault, and carjacking. Because he had violated his parole with this attack, he would now face ten to twenty years in prison.
There was one ironic detail that the police mentioned: Starr had an accomplice that night, but he never identified him, even after his arrest. It was proof, in the strangest way, that sometimes there is honor among thieves — a grim code that kept him silent about the other person.
Even now, whenever I see a dark green Jeep, my pulse races. But I smile faintly, because I survived. I fought. I refused to give up. And I want everyone to know: women aren’t weak. We fight. We survive. And sometimes, that alone is enough to defeat a man who thought he could break us.
31-35, M
