An open letter to the man who raped my wife
At about 10 a.m. on a weekday in mid-November, Bill sat down to write a letter. A steady rage had been burning inside him for a week, and this was the only way he could think to get it out.
Bill's mind was clear. He'd had his customary five cups of morning coffee, black. The kids were playing quietly. Bill touched his fingers to the keyboard of his computer.
You are a rapist, he wrote.
You drugged a woman. You drizzled your infection on her body with your small, pathetic tool. You did a woman who was nothing other than a warm corpse.
Bill imagined addressing the rapist directly, as if in that courtroom moment when a convicted criminal must hear from his victim's family. Tears dripped down Bill's cheeks as the words streamed out.
Big man, Bill wrote. Rapist.
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