Read The Rapist for Free Online

shown some faint interest in my case, more so than the idiots who sat on my jury; what was on their minds was rushing home as soon as possible to paint a picture of the “madman” they had sentenced to death to their friends and neighbors, their only opportunity in life of achieving any importance. Reflecting from my own notoriety, I am afraid I disappointed them, never once drooling, nor rolling my eyes, nor crying out for mercy, nor “confessing” to anything so venal, nor, in short, acting out any of the roles they had assigned for me in their shallow minds. There was one instance of flatulence, which I shall describe later, but you shall see my behavior to be circumspect and justified in this instance. If they described anything but a dignified, utterly composed gentleman sitting calmly in the docket, they have lied, as I am certain they did. I proved to be poor copy for their sensationalist minds as I sat with honor and decorum whilst all about me lawyers, reporters, judges, jury, spectators and Philistines babbled like baboons on a banana boat. There! You see that? And she said I wasn’t a poet! I will show you even more evidence of my talents.
    I started to say that my original intent was not rape. When she jumped up and exposed her breasts and spoke to me in that vile manner, I sprang up behind her as she turned and did the low thing; I slapped her across the face. That is my crime. For a brief moment, I forgot my breeding and sank to her level. For that, I should have been punished, and that is for what I accept my punishment now, not for the insensate charge of rape. I acted not the gentleman, and that is what I am above all else. Of all societies’ flawed concepts, the one that remains logical is the one of gentility and the only one I can subscribe to as a thinking man. The concept of character is a dialectical one, of great value if ever there is to be a viable society, and I was, for an instant, guilty to the marrow of not being such a person. On that basis I accept death as a just penalty but not for the other. Not for rape. And not, most assuredly, for murder.
    She screamed when I smote her, and I lost control. I detest, no, abhor with a white-hot abhorrence, loud noises of all kinds, especially a woman’s scream, and I confess at this point to taking leave of my senses. Once, when I was seven, a neighbor child burst with a horrid bang a balloon just inches from my face. My mother had to forcibly restrain me from pummeling the little baggage, and that insensitive parent even had the temerity to apologize to the brat’s mother for my behavior.
    I struck her again. I must have hit her several times although I do not remember the exact number—my only thought was to still her shrieking horrible voice. I realized after a time that she was quiet and ceased striking her. She looked much less churlish in repose, even somewhat soft and feminine, and this aroused me as it would any man. As she was asleep and couldn’t possibly be harmed by my action, I decided to take my pleasure of her. Just as I finished, she had the bad grace to awaken and jumped up, shoving me aside with such violence that my shirt became torn, whereupon she began screeching out the insults and threats I have heretofore mentioned.
    This, literally, was the end of my part in the affair. I turned my back on the whore, and she tore off down the river path. A few steps away, while still within earshot I heard her bellow again—oh, nauseous sound! —and I turned just in time to see her clumsy foot trip over a vine and pitch her forward against a large boulder lying part-way in the shallows of the river. Her head struck first, sounding much as an egg does when you hurl it at someone’s door, as we used to do on Halloween as children. She fell heavily into the water and sank until all that was visible was the blue of her buttocks and a trail of bubbles and froth from her submerged head.
    Could I have saved her you ask? Yes, I suppose I could