A+letter+to+my+rapist

Here at [|RAINN] we have asked victims of sexual assault and rape to write a letter to their rapists in order to help themselves move on from the heart ache and pain that is so often associated with not knowing who to tell or what to say. Some of the brave women who chose to participate have allowed us to publish their letters here to inspire more women to continue using letters to express their feelings.

We got the idea of writing about your trauma from Alice Sebold's memoir //Lucky//. In this documentation of her own rape, she details how her whole life changed after she was raped in a park near her college campus. The relationships that she had with her family, her friends, her community, all were altered not only by her perspective of the world, but now the way that they look at her. She was no longer Alice, but the 'girl that was raped.'  As Alice shared her story, and talked about what happened to her, it became easier for her to handle. Sebold tried to talk to her mother, but her mother was not able to listen, and that may be the case with many other women; that they have no one who can listen. So, we have asked those that can, to share their story in the form of a letter to their rapist.

--Charlotte Wright

//Hello Brian, It's been a while since we've talked, hasn't it? I'm not sure you even remember me.

I met you at Mardi Gras last February on a cold New Orleans night. I thought you were so nice and clean-cut, the typical college student looking for a good time. You told me you were a senior, and you wanted to go to law school. Was that true? I guess I will never know.

I'll admit, I was attracted to you when we met. You sauntered up, wearing khakis and a Polo shirt, and asked me for a light. I obliged, and we began an animated conversation. We walked through the crowds, enjoying each other's company. You didn't seem interested in the chaos surrounding us, and I was impressed.

I remember when you first kissed me. It was a nice kiss, something you would expect from a guy at the end of a first date. Your lips were soft and gentle, and you blanketed me with the impression of shyness and honesty.

Do you remember my friend taking a picture of us right after we kissed? We were on Bourbon Street, and she surprised us by snapping a shot. In the picture, you are standing behind me, a wide grin on your face. You're eyes are that perfect combination of green and hazel, and your hair is tousled, almost unruly. I'll be honest, you're a good-looking guy. But when I look at that picture now, no matter how gorgeous you may be, I shake with loathing and fear.

You're pretty clever, aren't you? At about 2 a.m. I decided to go back to the hotel. None of my friends were ready to leave, so it seemed thoughtful, Mr. Chivalrous, to offer to walk me back. I should have taken my chances getting mugged instead of trusting you.

When we got back to the hotel, you asked if you could use the toilet in the room because the one in the lobby was broken. Perhaps I was naive to think you didn't want anything more than that.

Do you remember what happened next? You told me you had finally gotten me alone. You took off the khakis and pulled off your shirt with a quick tug. I saw how big you were and began to shake. You're proud of those muscles, aren't you, Brian? I can picture you spending hours at the gym, looking at yourself in the mirror and flexing those strong biceps.

You ordered me to take off my clothes. I was drunk and scared you were going to hurt me if I disobeyed. But, as it turned out, you hurt me anyway, didn't you? You pinched my nipples so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I told you to stop because it was painful, but you just smiled. You pushed me onto the bed and slowly climbed on top of me.

You were so deliberate, Brian, taking your time, as if you thought it was something I was enjoying right along with you. Did you think I enjoyed having my chest bruised? As you were thrusting yourself in and out of me, didn't you notice I was crying and begging you to stop? Did you really think it turned me on when you called me a 'whore'?

The truth is, I couldn't have been more repulsed. I was disgusted with you for the person you had suddenly become. After what seemed an eternity, I decided I had to do something. My body screamed in pain, and I could feel myself beginning to bleed. I was drenched in your sweat, the salt stinging my torn skin.

Do you remember when I quietly asked if I could get us some water? You stopped and allowed me to get up. It's pretty ironic that you trusted me to leave the bedroom. Had you not noticed my tears and my cries?

I closed the bedroom door behind me. I walked into the kitchen and, as if on automatic pilot, called the front desk. The operator sounded far away as I tried to explain that I needed a cop sent to the hotel room. She must have noticed the fear in my voice, because she wanted me to stay on the line.

But I think I hung up, because I don't remember talking long. I walked back to the bedroom and found you still sprawled on the bed.

I remember looking at your face and feeling so ashamed for trusting you. You told me to get back on the bed, and I shook my head no. You started to get up with a menacing look on your face, but the bang at the front door stopped you.

I walked past you, barely missing your arm as you tried to stop me. The cop at the door ordered me to step aside so he could get in, but I told him no. For some reason, I felt the need to kick you out myself. I told the officer to wait at the doorway. You were sitting up and looking at me with a confused expression on your face. By then you probably realized I had called the cops, and you were thinking an arrest was about to be made. But I didn't want you arrested. I just wanted you out of my life. I suppose that's why you became nice again. I ordered you to leave, and you had the nerve to ask me why. There were so many things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I just kept crying.

I still can't believe what you said when you left. "No matter what, I know you enjoyed it." There was such contempt in your voice that, for a moment, I thought you were going to hit me. But you just sauntered out, as if nothing had happened, and left me feeling completely destroyed.

I returned to Gainesville the next day and immediately got tested for STD's, pregnancy and AIDS. I was sure you had given me something, since you didn't have the decency to use a condom. But physically I was clean.

I may never understand why, but for some reason, I feel responsible for what happened, as if I could have stopped it somehow or seen it coming. Perhaps if I hadn't kissed you, none of this would have happened.

You repulse me, Brian, and I struggle everyday to remember that you're the one with the problems, not me. I have a hard time dating guys now because it's difficult for me to trust men. I guess I have to believe that your kind is few and far between, and that most men aren't rapists.

You're probably wondering why I wrote this letter. Originally, it was an attempt to tell you how horrible I thought you were. But I'm tired of being angry. I'm trying to forgive you and put this behind me, so I guess this was catharsis. But for some reason, I don't feel any better.

—The girl from Mardi Gras//

~Letter taken from [|"Letter to a Rapist"]