My heart stopped. I could feel the blood rushing through my veins, and my stomach felt as though it was going to self-destruct. My skin grew cold, and my eyes stood still as I listened to the policeman’s instructions. It was the winter of 2013 when I experienced an event so traumatic that no matter how hard I try to forget, it never leaves me.

It was a cold night. My parents and my brother had gone out for the evening, leaving me at home with my 17-year-old sister, Rachel. We were often left at home by ourselves, and both of us had grown very fond of it. We could do our own thing, and the empty house was very peaceful. My sister and I never really hung out with each other. She didn’t exactly enjoy my company, and I didn’t enjoy hers. We were happy to stay out of each other’s way.

That night, around 10, I heard a loud, violent noise from the first floor. At first I ignored it, but then it happened again.

“Ronnie! What the hell did you do?” Rachel yelled from her room.

“I didn’t do anything! David is probably home early!” I replied. My brother, David, had been at a swim meet, but we hadn’t expected him this early.

“David?” I called. There was no response. There was another thud. “David!” I grew impatient and decided to call his cell phone. When I did, he informed me that he was not home yet.

I ran to Rachel’s room and locked the door.

“Call the police,” I whispered, trying to stay calm, but failing. My hands were shaking, and my palms were sweating. I could feel the pulse in my neck thumping.

“It’s probably nothing. The ala-”

Her sentence was interrupted by a deafening crash from the first floor. We later learned it was the dining room shelves falling. The good china we had used for countless Thanksgivings and the blown glass figurines had smashed into millions of shards.

“I’m getting my Taser.”

“Ronnie, don’t leave!” Rachel pleaded. I refused to listen and sprinted to my bedroom, where I opened my safe. I grabbed my electric stun gun and a few of my prized hunting knives, along with a lighter and an aerosol can. I sprinted back to my sister’s room, locked the door, and put the Taser against the metal doorknob, so if the intruder touched it he would be hit with 30 million volts of electricity. I put one of the knives in my sock, another in my belt, and the last in my pocket. I handed the lighter and can of hairspray to Rachel and told her not to be shy with it, if need be.

Rachel was on the phone with the police, but her battery died. So I called on my phone. The police showed up three and a half minutes after her initial call. One officer came into the house while the other searched the property for the intruder. As they searched, they took note of a broken window in the first floor bathroom and the smashed shelves in the dining room.

After assuring us that the intruder was gone, the police interviewed Rachel and me about the home invasion. After careful examination of our valuables, we realized nothing had been stolen except our sense of security in our own home.

When my parents returned, they were relieved to learn that we were safe. Because of this incident, Rachel and I are closer. The intruder may have callously broken our window, but he mended our relationship. Now we take care of each other and look out for one another. I am grateful to Rachel for making sure I was all right, so for her “going away to college” present, I bought her a Taser. Just like mine, but pink.