Dirty Little Secret

I know what you did to her, you sonuvabitch. You can’t fucking hide from me.

I didn’t know that you two had history when she told me about how her and her friends took home some guy they met at a bar one night, and how he got drunk and weird and wouldn’t stop hitting on her once they got there. When she told me about how, much to everyone’s relief, he eventually passed out on the couch, and about how she woke up a couple of hours later to find him in her bed with one hand up her shirt and another down her shorts. About how she screamed in bloody terror and her roommates came barging in and threw his drunk ass — your drunk ass — out at four in the morning, and how she couldn’t stop crying and shaking until the sun came up.

She tired to shrug it off like it didn’t matter. It was months ago, she said. I’m over it now. But the dullness in her normally bright and shining eyes said otherwise.

I can’t remember where we were the first time she pointed you out. It could have been any one of a dozen watering holes we ran around at back in those days. But I’ll never forget the way her nails dug into my shoulder, or the static hiss of her loud whisper in my ear over the pounding music: “That’s him! That’s the guy!” Or how she turned white as a sheet at the sight of you, or how my blood ran cold when I realized who she was talking about.

I didn’t know you back then like I do now, so it was easy to write you off. You were just some kooky-ass party dude that I met through some other kooky-ass party dudes, a guy who drank way too much and got a little belligerent every once in a while, but seemed mostly harmless. Fun for the occasional bar shenanigans with, but already a person I was more than happy to keep at arm’s length. Discovering what you did made it all that much easier.

We broke up not long after that, her and I. I’ll spare you the details; they don’t matter, anyway. Suffice it to say that ours was a peaceful split, and an enduring one: I didn’t see her around at all for nearly five years after that. You disappeared around that time, as well. I didn’t see you around for a long while, and I don’t know whether she did, either. For her sake, I sincerely fucking hope not.

It was about a year or two later that you started coming around again. You were a completely different person than the one I remembered; apparently, some shit happened that you never really talked about that got you to quit drinking, so you were sober as a priest by that point. You’d totally mellowed out, and become a great deal more introspective. You were still way kooky, but without the booze, it had become charming rather than repellent. In other words, you’d become more authentically you, and all the more likable for it.

I shudder to think of what might have happened to get you to quit drinking. One too many unauthorized sexual overtures get you to swear off of the sauce, is that it? Maybe I’ll get to ask you that question to your face someday, right before the court of public opinion throws the fucking book at you.

For the life of me, I don’t know how you and I were able to become such good friends knowing what I knew. Perhaps it was because she had been out of the picture for so long, and the impact of her story had softened with time and distance. Or maybe it was because you had become such a different and better person than you were before, and that made it easy to ignore the gravity of an offense I’m not sure I took seriously enough in the first place.

Either way, it happened, and somehow, the cognitive dissonance of being friends with both a sex offender and one of his victims at the same time didn’t make my head explode. I just didn’t think too deeply upon it, I guess. Forgetting what happened to her was a luxury I can afford, one I’m sure you could, too. I wonder you even remember that night at all, or if you have the grace to show any shame for what you did, even if it’s only when no one is looking.

Do you remember stealing into her room under cover of darkness? Do you remember sliding into bed behind her while she slept, defenseless and unaware, and taking savage liberties with her body? Do you remember falling prey to the worst aspects of your humanity? Do you remember becoming a monster?

I know she does. She can’t forget, even if you have. She told me so.

Her and I finally reconnected about eight or nine months ago. We were working right around the corner from one another at the time, and crossed paths outside my office one afternoon. We agreed to go out for drinks one night, and started hanging out on the regular again after that. Turns out we make much better friends than lovers, and we quickly became very close, much closer than we ever were when we dated.

But even then, what happened back then didn’t come up. Why would it? Why rub salt in a wound that had all but completely scabbed over? Let’s leave the past in the past and just have a good time, right? I knew enough to know not to put the two of you in a room together, and considered the matter settled. Or so I thought.

Not long ago, I got a Facebook message from her one morning asking me to take down a picture I posted of you and I together at some party or other. “I’m not a big fan, seeing as he molested me while I was sleeping and all that,” she said. “I know he’s your friend, but he’s definitely my enemy. What he did to me will always feel like a fresh wound that will never really heal.”

And that’s when I made the dumb mistake of trying to defend your punk ass, much to my shame and regret. “It was a long time ago,” I replied, halfheartedly. “We don’t hang out that much…he’s a different person now.”

“Hell, you probably believe him over me in the whole thing because you’ve known him longer,” she snapped back. “Apologies for trying to make it so I don’t have to rehash that night over and over again. I love you, but he’s a piece of shit.”

I felt sick. Never before in my life have a been a sex offender’s apologist. Now I have, and it’s your goddamned fault. Sure, I’m the one that came to your defense in that moment. But if you’d never done what you did, I would have never been in a position to feel compelled to.

A thousand mea culpas and a few buckets of tears later, and her and I are okay, thankfully. She forgave me for what happened, and I even managed to forgive myself. A couple of months ago she moved back home, more than far enough away that she’ll not run the risk of crossing your path again any time soon. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to be rid of you. You’re everywhere; at every party, every show, with that big, dumb grin of yours and your goofy charm and your dirty little fucking secret.

You’re an integral part of my community now, and everybody loves you. More than they love me, I think. To blow the whistle on you, no matter how badly I want to, threatens to tear that community apart. I’ve seen it happen before.

Recently, a police report surfaced regarding another good friend of mine from Concord, who sexually assaulted his then-girlfriend back in 2012 unbeknownst to anyone other than the parties involved. Once the report got out, all hell broke loose: twelve other young women quickly stepped forward to point the finger at him, saying they, too were assaulted in the same fashion, and civil war broke out amongst his friends and family and loved ones as they chose their sides.

People that had been thick as thieves for literally decades descended upon one another in a fit of madness and rage, excoriating one another in brutal and public fashion both on and offline. The report destroyed relationships, several prominent local bands in the area, the promotion groups that support them, and countless friendships and family arrangements. It was a disaster.

The young woman who released the report has been decried as a saboteur and a homewrecker, and can no longer safely walk the streets of her neighborhood, where he and many of his apologists still reside. What’s worse, many of those who quite rightfully sided with her in the beginning are now turning against her because the ripple effect was so violent.

It’s incredibly tragic, and far too common. And I don’t want it to happen to me.

When you returned to the scene a changed man, it was easy to forget what you did to her. When she came back and I could keep our respective friendships separate, it was easy to forget what you did to her. But those walls have come crashing down. I can’t forget anymore. Not after what I’ve done.

Every time I look at you now, that night is all I see, in the form of a big, scarlet letter “D” for degenerate branded on your chest. All I can hear when you speak is your breathing, hot and wet and lascivious in her ear as you crept into her bed. But I dare not say anything, out of fear of becoming the social pariah you deserve to be. If you’re going to go down, you’ll not take me with you.

Someday, she’ll come back to the Bay, and we’ll march you into the sea together. Until then, just know that your days are numbered, you sonuvabitch. And I’ll be watching you. I’m always watching. Always.