My pinkies still make a horrible popping noise if I bend them too fast. Iím sure youíd be glad to know that. My shoulder still hurts a lot. It will hurt for the rest of my life. It took you thirty seconds to bend my arm back until it snapped and the pain will follow me until the day I die.
The scars will be there forever. Maybe not forever. Maybe someday Iíll be so old and senile that I forget I even have them. What did you hit me with? It looks like someone threw a wild animal on my back. What did you hit me with? I wish I could remember, but if I did Iíd probably wish I didnít.
I wish that I had scarred you. Burned you, marked you in any way. So that you could look back on it and remember that I NEVER wanted what you did to me. No matter how many times you told me I did. I wish there was something, anything to remind you that you RAPED me. So that you couldnít tell yourself whatever you want to make it easier. But thereís nothing. Not a mark. So you can believe whatever you want.
I wish I could. I wish I could convince myself that it never happened. I wish that the only proof there was of what you did to me was my memory. That I could, over time, tell myself that Iím just crazy. Iíd rather it were all in my head. Everyone else tells me it is. Youíd probably laugh if you knew that.
But youíre probably reading this, arenít you? You leave notes on cars, you hack in to my computer. Why wouldnít you be reading this too? Iím sure you see the things I post on here and laugh your ass off. You probably read the things Iíve written about you with your pants around your ankles and that fucking grin on your face.
But you know what? I donít care. You may get off on it, but the jokeís on you because Iím getting better. Iím moving on and youíre still stalking me like a sick fuck. Doesnít that bother you? Some day Iíll forget you even exist and youíll still be scouring the internet for my name, hoping I mention you somewhere.
And you wonít dare face me again. I could snap you in half now and you know it. So you keep your comfortable distance, unable to let go, and taunt me with anonymous messages.
To think that all this time I thought I was the pathetic one.
There is nothing natural about maturity in the physically immature. Maturity comes with wisdom, and wisdom comes with pain. Those of us with the greatest minds have endured the greatest torments.