Yesterday, we crossed paths. I recognized you immediately. Ever since you registered as a sex offender two years ago (I guess you finally got caught), I have been checking on when you get out of jail and where you move. I studied your photo. You've changed a lot in the last 14 years: Your face is more pockmarked and your frame is thinner. But your eyes are the same: soulless, empty, and black.

You didn't even recognize me! I stared at you as you walked across the street holding your daughter (monsters like you shouldn't have children). I couldn't believe this was happening. What the fuck are you doing in my neighborhood? I wanted to run and hide, but I knew if I did I would never forgive myself.

I'm no longer the girl you raped. I've grown up. I'm 28 now, and I'm not scared of you anymore. I followed you to the bus stop; I wanted to make a scene. I wanted to scream to everyone there that this is the guy who raped me when I was a 14-year-old virgin. But I didn't. I stood six feet from you and watched you. I watched you with my right hand wrapped around the handle of my Ruger SP101, and it felt fucking awesome. I played God for 60 seconds. I could have ended your life so easily—any one of those .357 hollow points could have done the trick—but then the bus pulled up, and you and your daughter got on. recommended