The Rapist by Edgerton Les

Author:Edgerton, Les [Edgerton, Les]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: New Pulp Press
Published: 2013-03-03T05:00:00+00:00

After I was pronounced guilty at my trial, they led me back to my cell to await sentencing. Where I was raped by another inmate on the thirteenth day of my imprisonment.

Do you suppose my attacker to now be in the cell next to mine awaiting the same fate as I? No, he is not. I mentioned to my jailers at New Haven what had transpired, but to no avail. The general reaction was laughter and the follow-up was the comment that what “goes ’round, comes ’round” sort of theory, that I had gotten my just deserts as it were.

The rape itself was unimportant. I felt nothing during it other than wishing he’d speed it up. Oh, a brief thought flashed through my mind questioning my manhood for submitting, but I attributed that to childhood conditioning and passed it on. The man, a burly rustic with missing molars, threatened my life with a razor blade ingeniously fashioned into a weapon by melting a toothbrush handle and affixing the blade thusly to it, but I didn’t submit out of fear for my life. Prolonging my existence by a few weeks or months by trading for passive submission seemed like a poor bargain, but the pain and agony of a slit throat seemed a poorer one, so I selected what to my mind was the lesser of two bad choices. Everything considered, it wasn’t that terrible of an experience. I certainly don’t know why people get upset about it and want to take people’s lives for it and castrate them and boil them in oil and so on. As I say, I recall impatience as the chief emotion; I just wished to hell he’d hurry things along.

There was another feeling: Hatred. Not for the physical act of rape—that was no more significant than the rubbing together of elbows. No, what was despicable was that he was socially beneath me and performed an act upon my person without my permission. I would have felt an equal repugnance at his rushing up and grasping my hand with the intention of shaking it. If he had been above me in station, as I was to Miss Carlyle, the deed would have been innocuous, but he was decidedly inferior and therefore, his action unconscionable.

It hurt, certainly, but then so does a fishhook in the thumb, and of the two the former offers the lesser discomfort, and the fact remains that the memory fades as any tender feeling does, after ejaculation.

I tried to compare this experience to when I was the aggressor, but it doesn’t translate. One was male to female, superior to inferior, and the other involved inferior to superior, male to male, making it akin to comparing the infamous apples and oranges.

I wish to waste no more time discussing this. In the scheme of life, the incident matters very little. If you choose to view it as some sort of poetic or cosmic justice, then by all means do so, but leave me out of it, as I cannot subscribe to such an insane idea.

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