I doubted it. I, on the other hand, have thought of him nearly every day since. He has certainly been important to me over the years. A tarot-card reader once told me that the rape enabled me to break away from my family. I thought it was a ridiculous thing to say, but I suppose it’s true.

When I was raped, I didn’t feel I could tell my parents what happened, so I washed out my bloody panties and kept quiet. A few days later, I was ironing a shirt when my mother asked me what was wrong, because it was apparent something was wrong — but even then I didn’t say anything. Four months later I left for college, having told no one but a teacher and a guidance counselor. (Actually, I didn’t even really tell the counselor. When I came to the part I couldn’t bring myself to say, the counselor supplied the words: “And then he got a little rough.” Even in my confusion, that seemed like an understatement. And that’s as far as it went.)

After I left at 17, I never lived in my hometown again. When I returned for short visits, I rarely left my parents’ house. I felt as uncomfortable and vulnerable as I did when I was 16. But that was another gift my rapist bestowed — agelessness. Because I think so frequently of that night in April 1980, my teenaged self is still strong inside me. Because of my rapist, I’m forever young.

I’ve always called him “my rapist,” mostly because I don’t know what else to call him. Whenever I use the phrase, I think I should find another one. I don’t want to say his name, though, and no word I can come up with conveys what I think or feel, so I just go on calling him “my rapist.”

Seeing my rapist’s engagement photo that day triggered a fantasy in my mind, one I’d never had before. I told myself that if I ever actually saw my rapist, I would have no trouble killing him, especially if all the legal and karmic rules were somehow suspended. (It was a fantasy, so I got to make that bargain.)