To my rapist, Part 4

And all other people who do not profit from #metoo

It was Sunday evening when you finally left. Sunday, July 16th, 2017, 6pm. You were happy. Free rides to O-town, I guess. That made you very happy. Good for you. Michelle knew at that point that you also payed for fucks. That was very easy, actually — she had checked your Facebook. And your followers included twenty-odd profiles with not more than a name, a location (your city), two photos and a link to nude photos and booking and such like. That isn’t a proof, of course. But you had openly admitted to her that you were addicted to sex. Violent non-consensual sex included, as it seemed.

As Michelle went back to her apartment, she was relieved. She phoned her best friend and answered all her questions — how your dick was like, which positions, etc. She didn’t say how you did it though, how violently, how disgustingly. She was traumatized and would remain it four the following four months. Sure, the memories were there, but she preferred to only talk about the aspects that didn’t hurt her when she talked about it. Even in front of her best friend. Even in front of herself.

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You frequently sent her text messages in the days after the weekend of her trauma. The weekend that you made her. The trauma that you gave her. You sent her things like “your sex is on fire”, and “want to come to my town for a weekend?”

Michelle was hurting. Somehow she managed to bury the psychological pain, for the moment at least. But physically… she could barely walk, she could hardly sit, that was how much you ripped her into pieces. You were also to generous to pass your sexually transmittable diseases on to her (as you had tricked her into not using a condom), and the symptoms were gross, to say the least. Michelle kept quiet about it. Cleaned her life up as well as she could. Went to work and played soccer, even though the pain was unbearable. Didn’t go to the doctor because she was ashamed. She didn’t tell you much about it, either. She was a good girl, after all.

Oh, and your invitation to come to your town for a weekend? She accepted. She wasn’t stupid, she was just diligent. And a good girl. A very good girl. And she feared that you would just visit her again if she didn’t come to your place. She would have preferred to die than to have you at her house again. Ever. Again. So she went to visit you, two weeks after your visit at her place.

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She arrived at your town. Which had been her town, a mere five weeks ago. But she had gone to work in a different town over summer. It was Friday afternoon, July 28, 2017. She went up to your little room in a shared apartment. She saw all the beer bottles around. Literally everywhere. She wasn’t stupid, and she knew a little math. Up in the room she calculated that the amount of bottles averages to two bottles a day since you had come to your town. That is, assuming you had never brought away any bottles, and also not counting the plethora of bottles you consumed at various bars each night (which you openly admitted). Sex and alcohol are your addictions. Like you need something to take the focus of yourself. You have a psychological problem, rapist, and a big one it must be.

Still, she felt kind of relieved upon arrival. You were on the phone with your girlfriend most of the time, or with your parents who were visiting Europe and obviously needed your guidance around Poland (where you had never been). You talked to them, anyway, for hours. And it relieved Michelle because it meant less time for you to fuck her up. Again.

Sometime Friday evening, you felt hungry, and suggested cooking chicken with bananas. She was ok with it (she didn’t really have a choice but to be ok with it, because she knew by now that you would get more violent if she wasn’t). So you went out to the supermarket with her, bought chicken and bananas, chopped chicken and bananas, put them in the pan and waited until it all cooked into an ugly, gooey mess. She ate it.

You took her back to your room and switched on some kind of horror movie, waited for ten minutes, pressed pause, and raped her. Just like when you had visited her. The only difference was that Michelle really, really needed to go to your (not very clean) bathroom after you did that. Just to take care of all the blood and pus and oddly colored discharge. Your greedy deeds were taking a toll on her. When you came back, you pressed play again, waited for ten minutes, raped again, and so on until 2am, when you fell asleep and she did, too.

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Saturday you suggested to go into a town because you wanted to sit in a café and do some work (really??). Michelle (of course) agreed, and duddled around on her computer like you did on yours. Interrupted by phone calls to your girlfriend and your parents. By the afternoon, you were back in your apartment and phoned more. And in the evening, copy-paste Friday night. You always raped with the same pattern.

Some more rape Sunday morning (this time without movie), before I needed to catch my train back to my town. At the train station you suggested that she helped you with German (she was a native speaker and you were living in Germany but didn’t speak a word of it), in exchange for you helping her with Spanish. You suggested to do that via video call, as you usually were in different cities. She was ok with it (of course).

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Michelle got sick as a consequence of your STIs. Keeping her life together got harder and harder. She ate less and slept more. It was Wednesday, August 2, 2017, in the early afternoon, when her landlady found her broken down on the kitchen floor, half unconcious and drenched in sweat, and called the ambulance.

Michelle was brought to the hospital with 40.5°C fever. The doctors kept her there until Monday, August 7, when she had no fever any more after a few rounds of antibiotics. But even there, she didn’t tell the doctors what was the cause of her sickness. She was traumatized and ashamed.

The week she was in hospital she messaged you several times, telling you about her state and letting you know that you ought to get your STIs treated. You didn’t respond once.

You phoned her after she had come back from the hospital to learn German. She confronted you with the fact that she had gotten sick because of you, but you kept saying it must be an infection of the bladder. It later turned out that you had given her at least three diseases which had survived the first round of antibiotics (so who knows how many you had given to her in the first place), and which took Michelle six months to fully get rid of.

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Part 5 following soon. Stay tuned, follow me here and on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter and check out my art page at www.thstorm.com if you like!

[Please, please, please no personal requests for sex, not on this site and nowhere else, I don’t do that (and I hate it when #metoo members like myself get approached sexually because somebody finds it exciting to harass a #metoo member).]