“So how was your day?” my rapist asked. It’s been a long time since he raped me. I was walking home from a night of partying with friends. It was late in the morning and the sun had risen to midday. I don’t party much anymore. He came behind me with careful eyes and relaxed hands. He spoke with a eased voice and polite grin. I felt dear to him. Then he smacked me down and tore me apart and ripped me out and left me withered and dry.
	He messaged me two weeks later and now I talk to him everyone once and a while. He had stolen my identification.  I only knew his name.
	His mother and father gave him all he wanted and nothing more. His father was arrested and his mother died and he was alone just as he loved to be.  His mother has insurance and his father spent no money so he was nineteen and free to be. He moved to Tennessee four years after his father was arrested for rape eighteen years after his father was convicted of rape.
	I let him know all my history but he didn’t care. He responded despondently with belligerence if at all. I gave him music he might enjoy, books to obsess and movies to leech.  Insults only came back sadly. We still talk.
	My school has leaking pipes and a football stadium with bronze statues of players. Our text books have crumbled paper strewn with black doodles.