What’s this?
An email from my father?
He must have died then.
Has the day finally arrived?
Is he...dead?
Cunning 'ham.
STOP! THINK!
Dead men don’t email.
I had given it to him.
Years ago
What else could I do?
It shouldn’t be like this.
I shouldn’t have to.
Do I open it?
What does he want?
I’m hooked, flapping around,
Gasping for breath like a fish flayed.
Can’t you just forgive him before he dies?
We mustn’t speak ill of the dead.
Let it go, just move on.
It's all in the past.
I have that right, at least.
Don’t I?
To know when my rapist daddy dies.
My ancestors suck their teeth.
As I click open the email.
He’s not dead or dying.
He’s found God and weaponises forgiveness.
Him.
The predator.
Me.
His prey
Author Statement
I wrote this in response to my three time convicted pedophile father sending me emails alluding to his imminent death, only to realise that I was yet again being manipulated and toyed with. He wasn’t dying.
I contacted the police to report malicious communication and harassment. An offender isn’t allowed to contact his victim. The police put me at further risk by giving him my new name I had recently changed by deed poll and my location. When your abuser is a family member, especially a parent, the re-traumatisation continues long after the actual abuse stops.
I hope this changes when he finally dies.
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