I wasn't immediately sure when I first saw you, even though you had the same color hair and missing tooth that I remembered from 14 years ago, so I looked up your name on Facebook, and yes, you moved from California to Portland like everyone else, and no, you never fixed your tooth. Your profile picture told me about your baby and wife and and job now and I am almost entirely sure that they don't know about the time when you were 21 and took a 13 year-old girl to see Pearl Harbor and then fucked her on a twin mattress on the floor of your parent's house. They don't know that you were her first boyfriend, her first time. They don't know about the month you spent pulling out of her or the cruelty that ended the arrangement. It's wild to know that now, after all these years, I'm at any time a few clicks and keystrokes away from the potential to upheave your life like you did mine, to know that I could finally hurt you back. I am grateful for the therapy and lessons in emotional regulation that have prevented me from doing that. That said, go the fuck back to California.
My Rapist, The Transplant
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.