"He's got violence issues, she was horribly abused," blah, blah, blah. You know who is not even being considered in this whole mess? Me, that's who.
I am Bree C. Day, the proud street-view window of dressing room 3G at Good Morning America headquarters on 1500 Broadway, and I have been through hell.
It all started as just another Tuesday at Times Square Studios. I was even a little excited because Bethenny Frankel was coming on and I simply live for her Skinnygirl Margaritas.
I knew Brown was coming in as well, but I've never been a huge R&B fan (we windows don't care much for bass, it gives us the rattles). Also, being well aware of his history with women, I was just a wee-bit uncomfortable. Not that I'm judging! Those who constitute glass houses...(shout out to my cousin Ralphy!)
Anyhow, the day was quickly coming to a close. All I had to do was be there for Brown and then it was a wrap. Easy-peasy. My mind was already focused on the sure-to-be-exquisite 1p.m. hot squeegee treatment I'd booked weeks in advance.
Just as I'm enjoying the scents of the hotdog carts beneath me, I hear a faint commotion outside the dressing room door. It bursts open, slamming against the wall. (Door and wall are fine, thanks for asking, lamestream media.)
Next thing I know, Brown comes storming in with his entourage, looking like he's having anything but a good morning.
"What the hell was that???" he screamed. I think it was rhetorical. Brown went on, "I was told beforehand that I would be asked such questions! How could they totally not blindside me like that?!?"
Now I was scared. Here I am, an outsider in this clearly private and extremely tense situation. I hadn't been this nervous since Gary Busey mistook me for a "mirror of Satan" that had "stolen his reflection and soul."
Brown's tantrum continued. "Run it. Run it," he bellowed. "Forever-ever-ever," he snarled. Then, he reached for the chair. The chair and I had shared this office since Brown was in diapers, hitting girls on the playground. In one swift motion, he had the chair raised above his head and for the slightest, most fleeting moment, I swear Chris Brown and I made eye contact.
Little did he care. He hurled that chair at me like a Soviet shot-putter. And that was it. The impact was crushing. Pieces of me, all over Broadway. (That's the likely title of my upcoming biography, BTW. Thank you, HarperCollins.) Did it hurt? Does a bird shit on a windshield? You bet it hurt.
There was pain in both my panes. I had been reduced to nothing more than a frame and a sill. But worst of all, my reason for being had been taken away. I am here to provide a magnificent view of the New York City streets, dammit. What kind of view could I provide in this shattered state? I had become just another victim of Chris Brown's indiscriminate rage.
The time passed since has not healed my pain. Nay, here I still stand. A disfigured monster, plastered on the cover of magazines and news programs worldwide. Strangers stop and point because I'm hideous. You all judge me, but I see right through you. (Trust me, I am aware of the irony.)
Do you think ABC provides me with any kind of health benefits? The only coverage I get is the coverage of filthy strangers' fingerprints (I'm looking at you Joey Lawrence.) I've even had to endure hours of some disgusting and uncivilized repairman running his fingers all over my casing crevasse. Pervert.
So the next time you hear about the violent rampage of some rotten celebrity, be sure you stop to consider the unsung victims. The hotel phone of Russell Crowe. The Blackberry of Naomi Campbell. The ham of Paula Dean (OK, the ham wasn't entirely Paula's fault, but I have heard he's still on bed rest.)
The time for silence is over and this letter is only the first stop. Mostly because I'm pretty sure no one is reading anyway.