You call yourself Barney Flintstone, Hank Panky, and sometimes come to me as Donald Trump or various other names so fake I know they must be you. I see the videos guys send me with shadows and, at times, creepy music. I admit it takes me back to you. Yeah, the music does take me back to a car just like yours. Only it was 1999 when I was a passenger in your car, but you were not supposed to be my designated driver. You were my rapist.
I was goaded by the woman with you. Who was she? Your girlfriend or a relative? She seemed nice. She wanted me to help you find a missing puppy. I was only going on seven years old and I trusted women. I was raised practically fatherless, so despite the violations in my past, I still only related to women at that age.
Getting in your car was just ignorant, good intentioned or not. I remember how badly my fists hurt, pounding on locked glass as I screamed for the puppy at first, and then for help next. But even after you pulled onto the freeway shoulder, I didn’t get help. I did not get, nor give anything.
You took it. You stole it. What, you ask? My innocence. That’s what you abducted, along with all the words from my throat for years, only to dump me back in the park where you found me like trash. But you were the trash, with your ugly accent and wrinkly brown skin smelling of stink and looking like a homeless vagrant. You were short, chubby, and dirty. You were far more deranged than even I am in this prison cell, despite you roaming free (for now.)
Eighteen years passed and you came back into my life to haunt me. You still stay on my contact list, under “meme youyou” despite me filing a report to the San Jose Police Department against your harassment. I can’t wait to get out and get you registered as a sex offender. “Marty” or whoever you are – I know you. I know the automatic car parts store you use as an address. I know your face, remember your voice, and recall every forceful violation you pushed on me. I gave all of your letters, along with a full confession about how you flashed elementary school girls on the streets of San Diego all throughout the 1990’s.
I went to that school. I can place you there and dictate how we met – you, an illegal worker on a door stoop showing me your wrinkled privates and me laughing. They were as shriveled, small, and just as pitiful as you were as an individual – as deformed as you still are.
Beware, buddy. I can follow up by connecting a later memory of when the girl got me in her car and told me you were her brother. It was only then did our eyes meet and I recognized you. I can pick you out from a lineup with clarity.
Your day is coming, Marty. People may say it’s selfish for me to cooperate in capturing and exposing my predators when I am a murderer myself. However, I wasn’t always a convict. I was once a kid. I once was a child with the world before me and the privilege of living in an affluent community. I had hope and I had a future that sickos like you distorted and caused me to rebel against.
You ruined that picket fence life for me, even though you weren’t even my first. I bet that bothers you more than the rest of this letter. Despite being seven years old, I had already been had and, therefore, you were nothing memorable beyond a sick pervert with a penchant for pedophilia. You did not affect me so much, but you did anger me to a rage of determination against all disturbed and violent sexual offenders like you left at large.
You are the one who hasn’t gotten over me and I am the only one willing to stand up and stop you from ever preying on kids like me again.
I talked to myself after you stole my virtue from me. People thought I was crazy. They still do. Maybe I am crazy – Just crazy enough to put you in prison, if it’s the last thing I do.
I survived you.
Your Identifier and Exposer,
Heather Marie D’Aoust