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. 
