Dear Mr. Cahill,
This is the picture of the girl you raped two years ago, June 13th, 2018. You may or may not remember this incident happening at your residence in Olalla, Washington. To recap the situation, we started talking via Tinder and decided to hook up. You may ask yourself if this was an agreed upon meeting, how is it rape? That’s an excellent question, Mr. Cahill.
I willingly went to your residence in order to have sex with you. The sexual relations that began shortly after my arrival was indeed consensual. But when you proceeded to… to put it bluntly, fuck me in the ass and I screamed, “No, stop!” That is when it became rape. Because when I asked you to stop, you didn’t. I passed out on the floor of your bathroom because you hit a nerve in my anus by forcing yourself onto me which causes you to faint. I hit my head on your bathtub.
When I woke up, you took me into the shower and proceeded to rape me vaginally as I continually asked you to stop; too weak to fight you or get out of the shower and leave. All I could think is what if this is how I die…
You took me in my nakedness out of the bathroom where two witnesses sat on the couch and stared, mouths hanging open.
They must have heard my screams and cries for help, yet did nothing. I have no idea who those people were.
You proceeded to direct me to your bedroom and I was afraid, so I followed. I didn’t know if he was armed and was not about to find out. You proceeded to rape me and ask if I was crying, which I meekly replied “no.” Even though I was.
When you were done with me, you kicked me out. I quickly put on my clothes and walked quickly to my Jeep and drove home in silence.
The next day I went to urgent care and proceeded to be tested for STDs. They couldn’t do anything for me because the water had washed your DNA from my skin and it was too early to tell if I had caught an STD from you. Prior to this meeting, I had been clean.
It wasn’t until a month and a half went by and things started to go back to normal that I get a call to go get checked for diseases. I then tested positive for chlamydia. I was quickly treated with antibiotics and was grateful to put it all behind me.
So, Mr. Cahill, if that all doesn’t jog your memory, I don’t know what will. You may wonder why I am writing you now after two years of radio silence. Although you may have forgotten about a “hook up gone wrong” i.e. me passing out, I think about how you abused your strength and power on me daily, sometimes from minute to minute.
I am left with a distaste for humans like you. You know why? Because I can’t have sexual relations with my partner because I get triggered from what you made me experience. Something as vulnerable as sex and you took advantage of that. You took advantage of someone 12 years younger than you because you saw someone who was vulnerable and you prayed I would keep quiet. You lucked out. Two years of silence. But not anymore.
Two weeks after the… incident, I texted my tattoo artist stating I was raped, her being the second person I had told besides Diego, I didn’t even tell the authorities in order to cover up your disgusting, unspeakable behavior. Diego kept saying to me that I was indeed worthy of living and worthy in general. Because, Mr. Cahill, when you are raped you feel worthless; like utter dog shit. Like how could anyone disrespect you like that, you wouldn’t wish rape on your worst enemy. Or maybe you would, Mr. Cahill because you and I are not the same. I don’t judge you, I pity you. I am more angry with myself for staying silent so long because it could have traumatic effects on those you tried to bring home and could have or did rape.
As I cried myself to sleep for nights on end, I went to work during the day and pulled myself together so nobody would notice a difference. Besides the new tattoo, I was scarred with jadedness and bitterness. My eyes were sunken in, I didn’t smile, I didn’t know how to make the pain go away. Therapy was a bust because I was too hurt to talk about it. Now I am in a place where it is always on my mind and you need to know that.
Mr. Cahill, I want you to remember the very moment you first raped me. Not from a pleasurable standpoint but do you think that raping someone to tears and having witnesses hear my screams… wouldn’t that be enough to turn yourself into jail? Wouldn’t that be enough to make you not sleep at night?
I don’t have the answers to those questions, Mr. Cahill. On occasion, I check the Washington state sex offender list to see if I will find your name on it. I am always disappointed and hurt when I can’t find your name on there.
Then I look to Facebook. I search for your name in the search bar. I click enter. I pull up your profile and see that you’re in a relationship.
That poor woman, I think to myself.
You look the same as you did two years ago. Attractive, actually. Gleaming, white smile. Pushed to the side brown hair, a beard made of stubble with some slight gray in it. Tall, slender, yet muscular. Not what you may have imagined for a rapist. Not what I would imagine in a rapist. Charming, actually.
This has been the hardest letter I have ever written. Hardest blog post I have ever written or could ever write. The pain I feel doesn’t even bleed through this page. It doesn’t even bleed through the paper; like a pen would when you press too hard. I punch the damn keys and it will never truly comprehend the plethora of emotions and feelings I have toward your actions.
I can’t speak toward your character, because I don’t know you. You were just some hook up of mine gone wrong. Terribly wrong.