Supported accommodation was supposed to be a sanctuary—a place to heal and rebuild after the worst chapter of my life. Instead, it became a battleground where I learned that evil doesn’t always lurk in shadows; sometimes, it blares through thin walls, masked behind terrible rap music.I was at my lowest when I moved in, reeling from the trauma of losing my arm and the storm of emotions that followed. I wasn’t in a sound state of mind to handle conflict, much less the sinister drama that was about to unfold.One day, I stepped out and noticed something unusual at the mail area. My letterbox was smashed open, the metal mangled like it had been attacked by a crowbar. I stood frozen, unable to fully process what I was seeing. I’d like to think that under normal circumstances, I would have pieced things together more quickly. But back then, I was too fragile, too exhausted to connect the dots.The block had a mix of residents, some of whom were genuinely decent people. I struck up a few friend...
Read More
