My plan fell into place the moment I heard Stanley was out.
Is it a stupid, half-cocked plan? Yeah, probably.
But the moment it was announced that he was spotted, free from his cell, back in his usual haunt, nothing was going to deter me from stopping him before he hurt anyone else.
Unfortunately for him, the person he tried to hurt tonight was little old me.
I positioned myself as the perfect victim. The bait he couldn't resist.
Now, as the moment of truth approaches, nausearolls in my gut.
The hairpin feels heavier and heavier by the minute—like it's taunting me and begging me to be used for its purpose.
Stanley pretends to be fucking wasted, letting his drunkenness set up his defense again.We were both drunk; maybe I just took it a little too far.
Motherfucker.
Even with all the grime surrounding us, his hands are by far the most disgusting part of tonight. The alley wall behind me is sticky, the broken concrete beneath my feet crunching horrifically as I scramble to stay upright.
His fingers dig into my ribs painfully as he breathes heavily in my ear, urging me to relax. Promising me that if I just relax, he can make sure we both enjoy this.
If there was any humanity left in me, I might be afraid. But something fundamentally broke inside me that fateful night 10 years ago.
Now, I can become the monster I see in these men. Mimic them and take what I want with no regrets.
I've ignored it for the last decade, all but avoiding men, for my own sake and theirs.
But when Sophie showed up at my door last month, covered in bruises, with a broken nose and this motherfucker's semen mixing with blood between her legs from how brutally he raped her, there was no stopping me.
Stanley isn't well-connected or even well-liked. But he's a man and, as such, was automatically given the benefit of the doubt, even with the rape kit.
Sophie wasn't in any state to stand up to him and the entire state department. She's hardly been in any state to leave her house.
Even her once-thriving social media empire has become a toxic wasteland.
What did she think was going to happen advertising her body like that?
What was she doing on that side of town dressed like that anyway?
It was only a matter of time.
Women are so quick to claim rape when they sober up and change their minds about someone.
She probably led him on.
Every comment, every message, every fucking ping of her phone over the last few weeks sent me spiraling into madness.
I knew it was only a matter of when, not if, they let him go since she's too fucking traumatized to face him again.
It's sick to say that I've been waiting for this— that I've been hoping for it, but I know I can take care of him in a way the system never will.
My free hand reaches up for my hairpin, letting my hair fall down my shoulders. Stanley doesn't even notice, too caught up in trying to unzip the false zipper down the front of my dress.
Maybe he's drunker than I thought. There's no denying the scent of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke on his breath, wafting into my face with his heaving exhales as he roughly pulls at me.
Saliva pools in my mouth, my body preparing for the vomit it's trying to force up.
Briefly, I wonder if he would stop due to being puked on or if he'd get off on the obvious show of fear.
