The Rapist Read Online Free

he made his way to who knows where.
    Later, at home as I lay abed and recalled the event, I relieved my sexual pressure yet again.
    That was the night before I raped her. You can decide if my action on that day was warranted or justified. Or, if it was even a rape.
     
    …a digression. Some background… 
    My earlier history is unimportant. I was born without the use of forceps, in the same bed used to conceive me—what mixed images my mother must have had whenever she changed the sheets!—coming from safe darkness and the gently rocking sea of the womb into a hard, brilliant light and white noise, my birth being natural and containing nothing more than mundane trauma. Reared by a loving mother, whose features, quite frankly, escape me even now, as they have for some time. I seem to associate sticky things with her, like clear Karo syrup and the kind of white paste we used to be given in grammar school and would sometimes nibble on, its flavor being a jejune one akin to that of processed bread. I know she lavished mindless physical affection upon me, as I recall in Technicolor and Panavision endless hours of being forced to sit upon her lap as she churned me back and forth in a scratched up brown rocker, a tint mindful of cowpies. I can recall one time in particular when I was being rocked to the point of nausea and thinking I would like to reverse the situation and subject her to endure twenty-four hours nonstop of this cretinous torture, but, being only six at the time of the thought and not physically able to carry out this wish, could only hold it against her for the rest of my life. I am too harsh in my memory, as I am sure she was what those not privy to her rocking fetish would classify as a “good” mother, but she wasn’t what I would have shopped for had God placed me in a more rational world, one in which we could chose those who are to tend to us until we are able to manage our own affairs.
    About my father; I barely knew him. He was some sort of drummer or something and always away, for which I adored him in his good sense. He died in some sort of accident when I was nine years of age, and the funeral was very lovely. I remember a sense of great enjoyment during the whole affair. I have but fond memories of him and hope that someday we may meet again under circumstances more pleasurable than I find myself in at present. Perhaps on the morrow we shall shake hands, man to man, if we are to believe our zealous Christians and their mawkish folklore as to what transpires after earthly death. As for me, I pretend not to know what lies ahead. I certainly don’t have the headstrong surety God’s lambs possess.
    Perhaps we are all returned to life in the form of mosquitoes, which would certainly explain why there are so many of them. If so, I would hope for a sex change in the next life as I am itching to sting someone.
    During my childhood, I kept no journal or diary, nor am I into statistics in any meaningful way, but a quick and rough calculation puts the number of times that I masturbated at some nine thousand times, give or take a few hundred drops of spermatae, between the ages of eight and eighteen, and since that age, although I had slowed down until these past few months, there have been probably at least that many instances again where, alone in my room, I have fondled myself to the point of release.
    I can imagine your smile. You think, “If only he had abused himself just the one more time he would not be here today,” but you must not think like that. I didn’t, and I’m here, and the why or how is not important, only the facts are important, and the fact is I didn’t masturbate that day, and as a result I sit here preparing to die. Think of it in this light. If I had spilled my seed upon the ground instead of performing an act against society, to wit, committed a rape, then neither of us would be here and what would you have done with this time? Watched another television show? Read a cheap