Epilogue

"Then the bitch, the fucking bitch," I seethed, "started crying. On fucking cue. And Beth. Beth fucking believed everything."

I'd been in therapy for six years. And sitting across from me, Dr. Kenneth, who demanded I call him "Jim," finally got my story. All of it. He was the first.

In prison, therapists don't stay with you very long. Jim was my fourth therapist, trying to see through to my evil ways that compelled me to rape an 18-year-old girl. My girlfriend's roommate. Coldly and without apology.

He was trying to figure out if I was some kind of monster.

The scene that they had heard about regarding my rape was gruesome.

There I was. Found raping this poor girl, cum still dripping from my cock, as I had this crazy, possessed look in my head.

Like I was about to kill somebody.

I remember during the trial, Beth painted a picture that I was a predator. I sought her out since she was a victim of rape herself as a child, making her an easy target. How I sweet-talked her, like a sociopath priming his prey with unrelenting charm, waiting for my moment to strike.

The same was true of what I did to Zoey, herself a rape survivor.

Beth called every time we had sex "rape." That's what she told the jury before my attorney objected. The judge didn't allow that to pass into court record, since I was on trial for raping Zoey, but the jury couldn't un-hear it.

But the fact that my DNA was inside of Zoey was all it took.

It didn't help when, at one point, I looked out to the peanut gallery during the trial, seeing Beth and Zoey watching it all. The whole time, Beth had the expression of the rape victim. Not Zoey.

Of course Zoey didn't look like the victim.

It also didn't help when I noticed them holding hands. And it didn't help when I noticed them kissing. Like a fucking couple.

Then I remembered.

Her comments.

Zoey always thought Beth was cute. I mean, really really cute. She talked about her big boobs longingly. Like she was the one that wanted to motorboat them and lose herself in her never ending cleavage.

Then I thought of Beth. She was a victim of rape. Her first real boyfriend "raped her roommate."

Men were monsters. Not to be trusted. And there were alternatives. Of course. Of fucking course!

And apparently, from the looks of this domestic scene between the two of them, it flipped a switch in me.

The rage bubbled up. She turned her? Zoey? And Beth? Lesbian??!?

"What the fuck!?" I yelled out during cross-examination of a character witness from the bookstore. I stood, turning my body toward the crowd and shooting daggers at Beth and Zoey. "You FUCKING BITCH!!!!" I screamed, uncontrolled, making a motion like I was going to rush them.

Instead, I collapsed. Screaming, my head in my hands. Uncontrolled

I was helpless.

I was on my knees, screaming, almost convulsing, in the fucking courtroom. They sent cops out to get me. Straight jacket. Padded room. Suicide watch. The whole fucking deal.

Zoey was with Beth? They were girlfriends? Probably fucking? She stole everything from me, and now she stole the life I was supposed to have!? THE BITCH!!!!

My public defender didn't like that I offered no explanation of the rape. I didn't tell him about the teasing. Or the time with she and Jon down at the river. All I said was that my relationship with Beth was consensual. But that was all.

Regarding Zoey, I just said, numbly, "I did it."

And he really didn't like my mental breakdown in the courtroom.

I didn't care. I didn't care to fight. Fight or flight? I was definitely all about flying at this point. What good would it do? Nobody was going to believe me, anyway. I was nothing but a dirty rapist and that's all I would ever be.

The thing about public defenders was that they were working on five to ten cases at a time. They're not going to dig. They're not going to try very hard to defend a rapist. Or murderer. Or what have you. If you don't volunteer information, they're just going to assume guilt and go through the motions, moving on to the next case.

That's why it took under an hour for the jury to deliberate my fate.

Guilty of first-degree rape.

What was the point, really? Why tell my story to a therapist? To a cell mate? Anybody?

Nobody would believe me, and it would just look like I was pussy, anyway. Which is what I was. She made sure she reminded me of that numerous times. It's because it was the truth.

The woman used me, mind-fucked me and actual-fucked me, and then to jam the knife in deeper, she stole my fucking girl?!?

If it walks like a pussy and smells like a pussy...

The numbness made it easy to go through the motions with the first three therapists they threw at me before they all moved on to other jobs, forcing me to start a therapeutic relationship with a brand new person each time.

The numbness also helped me through the times I was prison raped. Yes, that stuff actually happens, especially when you're young and fit, with apparently boyishly good looks. By the second time it happened, when I tried to bite the guy's dick off for face-fucking me in the shower, people learned to keep their hands off of me.

I began using my ability to snap and turn psycho to my advantage. People knew that I, too, was capable of rape, so they left me the fuck alone.

After that dick-biting incident, they moved me to another cellblock. My new cellmate was a short little Hispanic guy. But he was quiet. Shy. Scared to death. I had moved way beyond that scared shit years ago. By this point, I was hardened.

The guy's name was Mario. I tried to chat him up, but he was quiet. He had only been in for a few weeks. His previous cellmate, a seasoned felon serving for assault and battery, had gotten into a fight with him and beat his ass. Mario's eyes were still black and blue.

That was all the story I could get out of him.

After a few moments of quiet, the guy started crying. I sighed, but I also knew that I'd been there. I was just more private about it. I did my very best to not show weakness inside of this place from the very beginning.

It was empowering to give zero fucks.

I sighed, though. I didn't want to deal with his blubbering but I also didn't want to be an asshole.

I walked over to the guy and gave him a hug. And he just lowered his head into my chest and silently wailed.

I patted his head gingerly. "If you fucking tell anybody that I let you cry on me, I'll blacken your eyes again, understood?"

He nodded and continued crying, my warning actually making him chuckle. "Sorry, man," he said between spasms, looking downward as his head was still buried in my chest. "Some bitch claimed I raped her. But I didn't, man. I was in love with her and she claimed I raped her. And now I'm ... I'm ... here"

He finally raised his head and looked up at me, tear-filled, full of fear, and his green eyes tore through me, thanking me for showing him mercy.