I never got to tell you how much you hurt me. I never got to tell you how you ruined my life, a life that was fresh and young and limitless before you touched it. I never got to tell you about how I probably can't have kids, about the nightmares that those afternoons with you inspired, about my own inability to trust, about my fear of life and my fear of touch; all because of you. I never got to tell you these things because you're dead. You're dead because of me. So, if you're looking down from an unjust heaven, or looking up from a tame Hell, I'd like you to know just how fucked up you made me.

I was eight years old to the day when you decided that I was ready to take. I was a little girl with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I was a smart kid, a child with a future. So, you came in your uniform (to protect and serve, right?) and took me out of class. I was oblivious to your looks, to your extended caresses before then. I thought you were taking me to my birthday party. I was happy, I was excited, I was in the company of my parent's trusted friend. You took me to that filthy hotel, a Best Western, and you commanded me to sit. I sat. I waited for the balloons and the whistles. They never came.

I was in my little blue and white dress. You took off all of your clothes and told me to look at you. I didn't want to, I was just a little girl. I didn't understand the difference between a girl and a boy, I didn't understand sex or lust. You pointed your gun at me and told me to look at you. So I did. It was then that I learned how to disappear inside myself, how to put myself in a place that felt no pain, no embarrassment, no humiliation. You raped me then. You put all of your disgusting weight on top of my small little body and you forced yourself inside of me. I just laid there and looked up at the ceiling. As you ripped apart my underdeveloped insides, as you fucked away my life and my sense of self.

That was the first of many four hour sessions I had with you. Every time you would come to my school and the teachers would make me go with you because of your uniform. I would cry and scream and hold onto door frames until my grip gave out, but once I was with you, I just went inside myself again. To that gray beach by the black sea, to that imaginary place that I felt safe in. And you would hold me down with your body and force yourself inside of me, all the time telling me how beautiful I was, how inviting I was, how you couldn't help but do what you did to me. I can't believe that I'm beautiful now because of that. I can't stand people touching me now because of that. Because you put your hands on my childish legs as you gave me your kisses in a place I never even I knew I had, I can't have people touch my legs without abject fear.

And then, that day when you decided to take me to your house where you had your toys, I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I've been wanting to die ever since. You had put oils and jellies on my body, and you had planned to sodomize me so that the experience would be new for both of us. You explained this to me as your big hands probed my trembling naked body with those strange substances. I never cried. I just wished for death. And then you were on top of me again.

Your wife came into the room and just stopped. You stopped, rolled over, and began pleasuring yourself. You told her to get out. I was only eight, I didn't understand what I was doing. I never knew that you would die. I just got up and began kicking you in the chest as hard as my little body could. I induced your heart attack and you died. I was taken home and no one ever knew. Your wife didn't want people to know the truth. So I have been living with this for 9 years now, alone.

You ruined my life. I will never live a normal happy existence, and it's all because you were some sick fuck who liked blonde hair. Who liked blue eyes. So now I have black hair, and I can't stand to look at myself. I can't be alone with a man without feeling at least a little uncomfortable and I don't think I'll ever get over that. I loath my own existence. I desperately need people around me but I hurt those people who get close enough to see who I really am. I have no will to live. I blame every one of these problems on you. I don't believe in heaven and I don't believe in hell. So I am a murderer and I take comfort in that fact that you are a rotted set of bones in the earth and that I did it, even though I see myself as a worthless person for doing what I did. I hate you Jack. If there is a God, may he/she/it forgive you, because I can't.

With all the hate one eight year old can muster,

Annie