People say that to err is human and to forgive is divine. Some things can never be forgiven though. It’s time I stop trying. It’s time I let it go. There’s something I need to get off my chest, something that’s been suffocating me for too long. Eleven years ago I was raped and that just sucks, but even worse, that jerk never paid for it. I followed the rules. Sometimes following all the rules doesn’t see justice served. Sometimes following all the rules just gets you more hurt. Three months in jail is all he got. Three months for upending my whole world. Three months versus the rest of my life. I’ve been failed by the system, failed by my fellow marines and left to put myself back together. Joining the Corps was supposed to be an exciting change, a bold chapter. It was definitely challenging, but not in the way the recruiters promised me. I was supposed to fight the enemy; instead, the enemy became one of my own. The only way I can finally put this to bed is by writing this letter to the one who betrayed me. He needs to know exactly how he’s made me feel for so long. He needs to know the harm he’s caused.

Before we get into that, just a few things about the me I was, the me I became, and the me I am. There was a time in my life when I felt invincible, all grown-up and prepared. I was ready to fight the world and all its combatants. Maybe I wasn’t the cheeriest person to ever don the uniform but I felt good, I felt beautiful, and let’s be honest, I felt like a total badass and like nothing could touch me. I was wrong. I was only one bad watch from having all of that confidence, all that arrogance, and all that blissful nature stripped away forever. One bad watch in the high desert of Nevada. One bad watch that changed me, my relationships, and my idea of intimacy itself. I am yet to have any involvement in any sort of substantial relationship since that night.

When I think of all that that self-entitled scum took from me, I get sick to my stomach. I have consumed so much of my time despising him and by extension myself. I’ve tried countless way of anesthetizing myself and they all failed. I was taken over by alcohol, and of course that only made things worse. The constant blackouts, not remembering the previous night, drunk driving, tearing myself and my family apart in the process. It was only by a miracle I didn’t kill myself or someone else. So I moved on to cutting myself. When the scars became too obvious, I resorted to bruising. That felt good for a while, and it was easier to hide or at least come up with a believable excuse. But that satisfaction wore off as well. I tried quitting, then I quit trying; I thought I was just going to have to learn how to live with it.

Not anymore. It’s time. Time I decide to shed my burden and spill his guts. Time to relieve myself of the cross I’ve borne for that jerk that altered my life with his moment of perversion. The moment he chose to put his filthy hands on me, the moment he felt entitled to have his way with me, that was the moment when I became a different version of myself. Now I’m saying no. Now I’m saying I decide who and what I am going to be. Now is about my choice and my need. Now I take me back from him. I will release the rage that’s taken over for far too long. It’s time to say goodbye. So here it goes. This one’s for you, asshole.

Undear Rapist,

Maybe you remember me, maybe you don’t. Either way I don’t give a single shit. It’s taken years to get to this, years to find the solution. I’m cutting you out of my mind like the cancer that you are. Allow me to refresh your memory. It was June 23 in Hawthorne, Nevada. You fucked my life. Ringing any bells yet? We were on the overnight fire watch taking turns taking naps in the vehicle between shifts. I got up to use the john, and you followed me. I felt your presence waiting for me just outside. It was gross. You waited for me like a predator, observing its prey. I could hear your pacing. You never seemed right. I never felt at ease around you. What were you waiting for? I tried texting several people to no avail. High desert, no service. I was in there a good fifteen or twenty minutes. I just wanted you to go away. I knew eventually I had to walk out into the dark, into the unknown. Remember what you said to me? You asked if I wanted to mess around. I know you heard when I said, “Not gonna happen!” There was no uncertainty, no hesitation. You just couldn’t accept no for an answer, could you, you sick fuck! So you waited. You waited until I fell asleep and then like a thief slipping through a window you came to have your way with me. Is that what you do? Incapacitate women who refuse to let you please your sorry self? It was the worse morning in my life. When you decided you’d had your fill and I was laying in shock, you just left. You left me to my disbelief and horror. I passed out from the emptiness of it. I passed out and was discarded, all used up. A bit later I awoke again, confused, lost, and unsure. Out in the desert in Hawthorn, Nevada, no sense of reality, no partner on the watch and no key. You took that. You knew I’d then have to walk. So I walked. I didn’t know where I was; I was lost. I didn’t know yet that I’d stay lost for the next eleven years. The morning was cold and I was shivering, my thoughts were hazy, and I still hadn’t comprehended what the hell had just happened. I finally found the barracks. I went straight to bed. I didn’t cry until later that day, and you were nowhere to be found. Why was that? Did you feel shame? Of course you didn’t! You hid because you knew I wouldn’t keep quiet. When my mind finally caught up with what my body remembered, I reported you. I jumped through all the hoops, answered what they asked, and repeated myself over and over again. I never wavered, because I never doubted. Once the initial fog lifted, I had every moment of your crime clear as day lodged in my brain with perfect HD clarity. I waited for years to hear of anything. You probably thought you were off the hook. It was a long wait, but the time came. Justice was going to do to you what you had done to me. There was no escaping the inevitable comeuppance. Then I heard it, a righteous slap on the wrist. Did you really tell your lawyer I provoked you? That I asked for it? I hope you enjoyed the three months in the brig. Three months for a rapist, three months for betrayal of everything the uniform stands for . . . such a punishment for such a crime. I hope you’re living miserably. I’d really love to know that in some way justice has been served. Are you married? Does your wife or partner know what you’ve done? Do you have a daughter? I really pray you do; I hope you worry about someone like you approaching your precious little girl, taking advantage, doing what you did to me. I will never forgive you. I will never forget. But there is something else I’d like to tell you. Thank you. I’d like to thank you for the misery, the sleepless nights, the self-inflicted cuts, the self-inflicted bruises, the failed relationship attempts, the family turmoil, the pain that grew in me every second of every day. I’d like to thank you for creating who I am now. A strong, confident woman. I now love every scar, every cut, every bruise. I wear each proudly; they symbolize my survival. I am thirty-five now and I’ve never felt better. These are my last words regarding you. My last thoughts regarding my trauma. I will think of you no more. Thank you for making me realize I love me, and I will no longer let you invade my happiness. I will release the sorrow, the hate that has engulfed me. No more. Hasta la vista, baby! Like the Terminator.

And that is it. Feels a lot better now, I guess. I can breathe again; I can already feel the tension vanishing from my body. My spirit is being repaired. This isn’t going to go away from one day to the next. This will be a process—a very long and possible one. The anger in me will most likely never really subside since it has somehow just become a part of me, but I can live with that. My anger will no longer be directed at him. Instead, I will try to find ways to alleviate it. Perhaps I can do it through prayer, meditation, or writing. I wish I did this much earlier, but sometimes we need to let the rage pass before we are ready to move on. I will never be the same girl I was during that time. And I will never be the same girl I was after—that shameful, weak, drunk, reckless, and depressed person. Now that I have finally put that to rest, I can live in harmony. Maybe I’ll find love now, and even if I don’t, I have found love for myself, and that alone is a difficult thing to find, and I can happily say I have achieved it!

-Joyce Villeta

Joyce Villeta is a romance author and poet. She has published five short stories and several poems. At the age of twenty-one, she joined the Marines and served six years. Born and raised in New York City, she now resides in East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania.