Kill The Rapist
Chapter One
When I was in high school, I was raped by a stranger.
It was at a party. The host's name doesn't matter. What does matter is that she had a reputation for throwing parties whenever her parents were away, and her parents were away a lot. Once you had a sense for their work schedule, it was like you could just show up to her house and have a good time for a few hours. You didn't even need an invitation.
I went to these parties a lot, of course. I was fifteen and I wanted to have a good time. I liked the alcohol and I liked being away from my dad. Occasionally, I even liked some of the other people who showed up.
One night, there was a boy at one of these parties. I think he was eighteen or nineteen at the time, and he said his name was John. I'm sure that wasn't his real name of course, but it was fitting in a way. I'd never seen him before, and until very recently, I'd never seen him again. He was like my own personal John Doe.
He'd lure me into one of the bedrooms. I thought he just wanted to hang out for a bit and play me some of the music he'd written with his brother or something like that. Hey, I was fifteen; we're all stupid and naive at that age.
Playing music was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he held me down and he raped me. After that, I slipped out the back and went home. I didn't know what else to do.
At first, I didn't want to tell anyone about it because I was too embarrassed and too ashamed. I didn't think anyone would believe me because I wasn't even sure if John was his real name, and I didn't know who he was there with. I also feared getting beat over it. Years of physical abuse taught me the first rule in life is never to tell my dad anything.
Eventually, I did have to tell, though. John had gotten me pregnant. When I was six weeks pregnant, I told my dad.
I was right to be scared to tell him. His response was to call me a whore and to beat me. He beat me so bad that I miscarried. Instead of taking me to the hospital, he left me bloodied and bruised in the kitchen as he went off to work. Thanks, dad.
I had to be the one to call the ambulance. Doing that instead of killing myself might have been the bravest thing I've ever done in my life.
They ran DNA tests on the fetus, but it was too early to say for sure who the father was. The police interviewed me several times over the next few weeks, both in relation to the rape and to my father, but they never did find John Doe. I'm not entirely sure they wanted to find him, either. I got the impression they didn't want to go to the hassle of trying a rape case when the conviction rate is so low.
Eventually they did arrest my dad though, and he was eventually convicted. One of the happiest days of my life was seeing him cry as the judge sentenced him. Another was hearing that one of the prison guards had "accidentally" left his cell door open one night during his first night in prison. He was never a popular prisoner.
After I left the hospital, I lived with my aunt. Where my dad had been cruel, she showed me kindness. Where he had inflicted violence, she showed mercy. Where he had given me fear, she taught me strength. She signed me up for martial arts classes and, when I turned eighteen, she gave me my first gun. She also made sure I went to see a psychiatrist because, unlike what my dad had taught me to believe, getting help is not a sign of weakness.
John Doe was like a ghost. Even though I'd seen him, and even though I'd felt him, and even though I know other people had seen him too, I was never able to prove who he was.
For years, I'd searched for John. I've spent many sleepless nights scrolling through social media profiles trying to find him. I've spent endless hours going through newspapers looking at the pictures of graduating Year 12 classes. I never found him.
Searching for him consumed my personal life for twelve years. How many other twenty-seven-year-olds do you know that have spent that long searching for someone they spent a few hours with when they were fifteen?
And then it happened. I saw him. It was totally by accident. There he was in the supermarket, filling his trolley with groceries.
He turned and saw me. He recognised me immediately, I knew. It was written all over his face. But he didn't know how scared he ought to have been. Instead he just smiled, as if he'd just seen an old friend.
"I've got you now, fucker," I whispered as I walked up to him.
It was at a party. The host's name doesn't matter. What does matter is that she had a reputation for throwing parties whenever her parents were away, and her parents were away a lot. Once you had a sense for their work schedule, it was like you could just show up to her house and have a good time for a few hours. You didn't even need an invitation.
I went to these parties a lot, of course. I was fifteen and I wanted to have a good time. I liked the alcohol and I liked being away from my dad. Occasionally, I even liked some of the other people who showed up.
One night, there was a boy at one of these parties. I think he was eighteen or nineteen at the time, and he said his name was John. I'm sure that wasn't his real name of course, but it was fitting in a way. I'd never seen him before, and until very recently, I'd never seen him again. He was like my own personal John Doe.
He'd lure me into one of the bedrooms. I thought he just wanted to hang out for a bit and play me some of the music he'd written with his brother or something like that. Hey, I was fifteen; we're all stupid and naive at that age.
Playing music was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he held me down and he raped me. After that, I slipped out the back and went home. I didn't know what else to do.
At first, I didn't want to tell anyone about it because I was too embarrassed and too ashamed. I didn't think anyone would believe me because I wasn't even sure if John was his real name, and I didn't know who he was there with. I also feared getting beat over it. Years of physical abuse taught me the first rule in life is never to tell my dad anything.
Eventually, I did have to tell, though. John had gotten me pregnant. When I was six weeks pregnant, I told my dad.
I was right to be scared to tell him. His response was to call me a whore and to beat me. He beat me so bad that I miscarried. Instead of taking me to the hospital, he left me bloodied and bruised in the kitchen as he went off to work. Thanks, dad.
I had to be the one to call the ambulance. Doing that instead of killing myself might have been the bravest thing I've ever done in my life.
They ran DNA tests on the fetus, but it was too early to say for sure who the father was. The police interviewed me several times over the next few weeks, both in relation to the rape and to my father, but they never did find John Doe. I'm not entirely sure they wanted to find him, either. I got the impression they didn't want to go to the hassle of trying a rape case when the conviction rate is so low.
Eventually they did arrest my dad though, and he was eventually convicted. One of the happiest days of my life was seeing him cry as the judge sentenced him. Another was hearing that one of the prison guards had "accidentally" left his cell door open one night during his first night in prison. He was never a popular prisoner.
After I left the hospital, I lived with my aunt. Where my dad had been cruel, she showed me kindness. Where he had inflicted violence, she showed mercy. Where he had given me fear, she taught me strength. She signed me up for martial arts classes and, when I turned eighteen, she gave me my first gun. She also made sure I went to see a psychiatrist because, unlike what my dad had taught me to believe, getting help is not a sign of weakness.
John Doe was like a ghost. Even though I'd seen him, and even though I'd felt him, and even though I know other people had seen him too, I was never able to prove who he was.
For years, I'd searched for John. I've spent many sleepless nights scrolling through social media profiles trying to find him. I've spent endless hours going through newspapers looking at the pictures of graduating Year 12 classes. I never found him.
Searching for him consumed my personal life for twelve years. How many other twenty-seven-year-olds do you know that have spent that long searching for someone they spent a few hours with when they were fifteen?
And then it happened. I saw him. It was totally by accident. There he was in the supermarket, filling his trolley with groceries.
He turned and saw me. He recognised me immediately, I knew. It was written all over his face. But he didn't know how scared he ought to have been. Instead he just smiled, as if he'd just seen an old friend.
"I've got you now, fucker," I whispered as I walked up to him.