Cheryl Eubitch

As I watched out of my third-floor window in Columbia Heights, Washington DC, July, approximately 1 a.m.:

Young woman, maybe mid-20s, shrieking out third floor window: Cheryl! Cheryl, you bitch! Cheryl, go away!

Another young woman, presumably Cheryl, stands just off the curb in the street, waiting.

YW: Cheryl, I told you to go!

Cheryl stands there, steps up onto the curb.

YW leaves window, curtains flailing behind her, and appears in first floor doorway.

YW: Cheryl, I told you to go! [Attempting to get a hold of herself, but speaking loudly through gritted teeth] Cheryl. We all talked about this. You have all of your stuff. It’s right here. [Gestures to piles of stuff on porch]

Cheryl says something too quiet to hear.

YW: No, you can’t come in. This is all your stuff. Cheryl! You’re unbelievable! You aren’t coming in!

Cheryl stands on sidewalk, says something too quiet to hear.

YW: Cheryl, you’re such a bitch! You bitch! No! No, you can’t come in! This is all your stuff, Cheryl! It’s right here! [Kicks blanket]

Cheryl puts a hand on chain-link fence, says something too quiet to hear.

YW: CHERYL! GO AWAY! HERE’S YOUR STUFF!

YW picks up blankets and throws them over the side of the porch, into the bushes.

YW: HERE’S YOUR STUFF!

YW throws a box out into the front yard. Cheryl takes a few steps down the street, puts her hand to the top of her head, says something too quiet to hear.

YW: CHERYL! YOU BITCH! GO AWAY! THIS IS ALL YOUR STUFF! THERE ISN’T ANY MORE!

Cheryl begins to walk away, down the street.

YW slams door, appears again in third floor window: DON’T YOU COME BACK, YOU BITCH! THAT’S ALL YOUR STUFF! [Slams window.]