Don’t Force Forgiveness: A Creative Critique of Promising Young Woman

Dearly departed Cassie,

I am not writing to you as a fan, but as a critic. I am sure you are no stranger to these words, though I doubt any will strike down as mine will. I am not going to chide you for tricking men into late-night lectures. Nor will I say that you should’ve let the law handle the situation from the jump. My perspective is closer to yours as I have the feverish desire to demolish the world each day. I see the faces of perverted beasts and wish I could gore their hearts. I won’t deny the many times I have driven by a gun shop and wondered how much a 9mm costs. However, I am not here to confess my so-called “crimes of passion”, or as I would call them “carriages of justice”. I am instead here to ask why you were afraid to commit any yourself.

In the past few years, I have heard you heralded as a femme fatale despite your disinterest in fatality. You have been treated as an angel of death who brings justice to drunk college girls’ attackers across the nation. Even as a metaphor, this exaggeration rarely speaks to me. This version of you makes her way into any conversation of the contemporary rape-revenge vigilante, yet I haven’t met her outside of that. I wish she was real, as that type of guardian angel is the perfect soldier in my war.

When I first heard of your exploits, I could envision your mission. Not every vigilante will strike immediately, nor do you need to become a viper. Not every creature of the night needs to bite to have an impact. You could act as a fangless spider that still shakes the flies away. In a larger city, this tactic would be completely arbitrary, but in a smaller town reputation precedes all vices. Even if they didn’t stop, they would have less access.

You could become a whisper on the dancefloor. Frat boys would warn pledges of the cotton-haired nurse who first appears as a fresh-eyed coed whose body inflates after a few shots of Whiskey. “Don’t take her home”, they’d warn, “Because when you start feeling her up, she pops up with a blade in hand and no whiskey on her breath.” It doesn’t matter if there is no evidence to back up this tale. It is enough to scare potential predators away. For that, I respect you.

I understand the respect you gain from these women who fawn over you, though I don’t share it. We have so few noble women on the news. At best, we are innocents saved by the knight. At worst, our attire was not proper and therefore it was right that the dragon burned us. You did exploit the need to valorize the rapist through your manipulation of that rhetoric. I will grant you some amount of genius for your twist of that myth.

Cassie, you prance around the clubs with a bubblegum pink wig covering your caffeine stained eyes and water-soaked lips which you coat in an ounce of wine in order to lure them to dingy apartments where you scare them with vague threats. I respect your siren approach, though where are your teeth? Who is to say empty words have any consequence? They’ve gotten away with a slap on the wrist which you return with a stomp on their feet. Tonight, they weren’t allowed to taste the honey, but who is to say the next beehive will have a Queen?

Why are you so afraid of stinging them? They took away an intelligent soul with their daggers, yet your only line of defense is sharp words. If she knew of your plan, would she be ashamed because of your supposed cruelty as others say? Would she be ashamed of your smooth blade or would she join the choir of appraisal?

Cassie, you succeeded in being called a hero. You are treated as one of the only reformed vigilantes. I wonder how it feels to know you are celebrated for being the opposite of what you posed yourself as. Do you even care? Was it about your ego or am I just projecting? Perhaps you do have more in your heart. Perhaps you were destroyed when she was. If so, I feel for you as the same images haunt me. But I am similarly torn on your methods of dealing with it. Not everyone has to be a vigilante but why would you so deliberately prop up the “judicial” system when you knew of their spoilage?

I don’t know how you’re supposed to be an elite avenger when you carve valentine’s for an accomplice. The video wasn’t in full view, but that laugh echoes the halls of our ears. We know it was from his booming voice. Your lover is, at the very least, a supporting player in the crime you are supposed to be avenging.

You know going to the police was your most foolish mistake. Of course a privileged woman such as yourself would go that route, but it doesn’t make it less of a waste of time. One of their servants even told you that they threw all evidence into the fire when given the chance, but you still trusted them. Video evidence is easy to throw away these days. It is easy to edit. Besides, this video was from years ago. Who is to say the statute of limitations is on your side?

In retrospect, your allegiance to the pigs adds up. You didn’t fully avenge anyone because you don’t want to be a villain.

Men, when they avenge, get accolades. John Wick is a name on everyone’s lips. Never is he to be shamed for the blood he spills. But, women like Jennifer Hills are ne’er to be discussed unless to speak on her unconventional methods or on the circumstances surrounding her violent trek. Yes, they may vindicate her by stating the evil in the eyes of her assaulters, but her own actions are surrounded by disapproval. Good girls don’t kill. Good victims don’t wish death upon their attackers. You weren’t even the victim here so you couldn’t get away with that excuse. Violence from men is expected. Boys will be boys. Girl’s innocence is measured by silence upon violence. But you couldn’t stand being quiet, which I respect. But your words mean nothing to them.

Who was she before the attack? Who were you? All I know of you is your supposed anger and righteous fury. Did joy ever rub against sorrow? Did she chuckle or giggle?

What about him? We get it, he was a college friend, but why was he so easy to forgive in comparison to the others? Sure, he displays charm in snide comments and bids for coffee, but why is he an exception to your campaign? Do you just look over the wolves in sheep’s clothing?

I guess that’s the benefit of not truly hunting. Not only can you eventually look like a virtuous hero, but you can also look over the demon’s eye. Most of us don’t have that luxury. We can’t pretend rape stops at college because we see respectable men making the same decisions. Fathers, husbands, businessmen, preachers, all have the capacity to devour our dignity. Many of them received lectures from the law or even from people like us but that doesn’t stop their dirty deeds. Your naivety is your undoing. Nice guys are good to have around for a few drinks but you can’t separate nice talk from good action.

You may wonder why I speak with such authority on this issue. What do I know about the risks? I can see you yelling from your pulpit, “You don’t know the half of what I sacrificed. You didn’t know her nor did you know the pain I was left with!” I know what it’s like to be in her shoes. I’ve been carved out of the wall of a dive bar. I’ve been picked as the sweetest cherry from the grove. Even when others were willing to pop, my stems were torn so that they could eviscerate my hardened pit.

Inside the Barcelona Bar held thousands of drunken bodies bouncing into each other to the beat of the overplayed music. Tequila shots lined the bar table. They were picked up and replaced in seconds, largely by young women with fresh I.D.s.

The world spinned for us soon enough, not just by the chemicals swirling in our throats, but by the beast that stalked forward.

The ritual of shots was continued one, two, three, four times before husky men took us to the dancefloor. They took our slender arms with brisk strength despite the little effort they needed to put in. Jessica, my friend, attempted to reject the request, but slurred words were not enough to persuade them away. He took this as a sign to continue breaking her inhibitions. He tossed her around until he could feel her falling from her stiletto tower. Acting as the valiant prince, he whisked her 120-pound body into his arms, running her out of Barcelona and into the parking lot.

I giggled into a bicep as she exited. A flurry of pineapple flavoring escaped my mouth, dancing onto the man’s skin. He responded with a chuckle, followed by a grasp of my hip. My legs followed the routine, digging into the dance. It couldn’t be too bad. He was a handsome guy, anyway. Despite my inexperience, I found the alcohol didn’t overload my system. Four shots felt like one. To him, I imagine I looked entranced by the liquid inhibitor. But I was just playing my role.

As the flurry of liquor rushes over me, so does the need to be alone with him. His squared face and bronze skin shone in the neon light. As it changed from pink to blue, his iris bloomed, bringing forth a sense of peace. I had to be alone with him. I had to know how our slick bodies could combine. What positions could we form and what pleasure would arise from such an encounter?

I lifted my three-inch heel from the floor, balancing on his chest, saying “Would you like to go somewhere…priv-” a hiccup escaped, “private.” With a sly chuckle, he accepted the request.

The heartbeat of the Barcelona Bar got faster and faster as he raced her through the dancing crowd. The bodies swayed together like a wave of the ocean, but I was making my way onto land. The escort held the smalls of my back as a handle, supporting a shaky body. With his free hand, he opened the door to a silent sidewalk

Silence had a short stay. The boisterous voices of frat boys assaulted my ears as we walked to the parking lot. Six men hovered over a familiar body. The girl’s ponytail peaked out from the pile, speaking to me. I recognized the strawberry-blonde streaks. Jessica was the centerpiece of this feast.

Although the liquor hadn’t taken over me, I struggled to take action. How could I tackle these 200-pound muscle-laden men? How was I to know how to distract them without being put in the same position? How much time did I waste thinking of strategy?

The cloud of questions dissipated when the name “Jessica” escaped my mouth. It wouldn’t stop coming out. It started as a blatant statement, turning into a scream as it repeated and repeated. Jessica was not awake to hear it. The frat boys held her body up as they carried her to a black, box van with blacked out windows. She was dropped when my screams reached their canals. With the thud of her body, came the padder of the man’s shoes. My bronze prince ran away.

Another frat boy, a six-foot-tall mountain of muscle, came behind me, gripping my thighs.

The claws on my thigh moved to my mouth. I tried to kick and scream but the mountain’s force was too much for her to take. No wonder it was so easy for Jessica to be unconscious. Soon a third frat boy came around, using his hands as cuffs on my legs, spreading them apart. Before I knew it, I was used. My body was akin to a deer’s carcass, being scavenged for resources in a forest. All I could do was look at my fellow doe, laying on the gray field.

As my eyes gazed into Jessica’s body, I recognized bubbles spewing from her mouth. First it was white, then a wash of pink interjected the purity of her dispel. A river of the discharge made its mark, painting the gray away. On my face ran another river, this one with the pure tears of a martyr. I just wanted to save my friend. Not only was I too late. I was their second course.

After they had their fill, the frat boys dragged me into the van. My body was too bruised to move. I could barely breathe without a bolt of pain. The only movement came from my eyes. The river of tears never stopped. I howled. They grew anxious over the noise. Who knew what I was going to unleash when I was released? The frat boys convened, deciding that their only course of action was the same implementation of death they gave Jessica.

They pulled a syringe of gray from a bag. It was full of gray death, a lethal combination of heroin, fentanyl, and animal tranquilizer. My arm was pulled. The perpetrator laughed as he pulled it in and out, showing off how stringy my body was. In his foolishness, I had a chance. He looked at the driver, showing off his attempts at humor. He still held the gray death, near to the driver’s head.

Despite the damage done, I maintained a miniscule amount of strength in my legs. I combined their strength to kick him in the back, pushing him forward. The tiny impact worked in my favor as the syringe penetrated the driver’s scalp. The car went forward for a few seconds before the foam dispensed from his mouth. Despite attempts to redirect, the car directly hit a light pole. It crashed down on the metal giant. The men’s voices erupted in chaos. Their attention was directed to the combusting driver. Through this, I was able to escape.

My initial vengeful action was one of defense. I suspect this is why his death was struck from conversation of the case. His father was a successful lawyer, so his death couldn’t go unnoticed. But, they couldn’t explain who had inserted the syringe. If I was included, their foundation of rape would have a crack in the surface. If another golden boy was pointed at, he wouldn’t keep quiet about the mouse who bumped him. Thus, the driver became a depressed drug addict who took more than he could handle. The tragedy hadn’t convinced them to give up on their hobby.

They still roamed around bars like a gang, picking off drowsy coeds one-by-one. Soon enough their chiseled jaws and ivory jackets were remembered by suspecting bartenders, especially once they noticed their most vital customers were dropping off without warning. Word spread to look out for them, as did rumors as to their routine. Said path was often in line with other bar-dwelling creeps, but their black box van started to stick out.

I wished nothing more than for them to receive justice by the law. I went by the books at first, getting my body scanned by white gloves and the sterile caress of cotton swabs. I cooperated with men who wondered why I would drink so much in such a crowded bar. They asked why I was so eager to leave with one man, but not willing to be passed around. They even thought I was exaggerating on the drugging of Jessica because she had a recent trip to a rehab.

These questions were not hurled at me just once, but were a daily occurrence for three years. But I endured with the hopes that somehow I could get catharsis from their imprisonment. Jessica would receive peace. I would receive solace in knowing that these monsters were off the scene. Who knew how often they were carrying out their ritual? If I could stop them, I could prevent this tragedy from multiplying.

I didn’t consider that I could take a more direct approach in my search for justice.

Just like you, I was under the impression that I had no internal judicial power. The courts are supposed to handle these matters because they know how to detect criminals. They can sort out the innocent from the guilty. Even in my experience on the streets of the Big Apple, I could see little reason to believe otherwise. Besides, in this case there was no room for the law to miss the truth. I had empirical evidence. I sacrificed every ounce of sanity within me to see to it that it was given to the proper authorities.

I hadn’t considered the all-important power of the dollar.

The rapists, Jessica’s killers, had wealth beyond my mind. Their parents would do anything to sweep this tragedy under the rug. They used their affluent status as senators and businessmen to keep the police quiet, promising weaponry funding beyond the NYPD’s wildest dreams. As the money flowed into the pockets, Jessica’s name disappeared.

Newspaper headlines that once begged for community empathy were replaced by the same doubt that plagued police interviews. What was she wearing? What was she doing at such a grimy club? Why is she listed as a former patient at so many rehabilitation centers? Why was she alone?

Even the photos they used declined in quality. Instead of showing her glowing smile under a graduation cap, they showed five-year-old Facebook posts from a Halloween party. Everyone insisted on tainting our memories. Not one detail of her life was kept sacred while the beasts who took her breath remained safe under the cloak of “No comment.”

At first, her family tried to speak out, noting how much of her life was taken out of context. In my own interviews, I took the same stance, only to be countered by my own past. I had to answer why we chose to go to that neon-splattered pit of despair when I wanted to scream, “Why did they drag her out when she could barely make out coherent sentences?” But the studio lights stared me down, asking me to keep my emotions steady.

You can’t let the animals see you sweat.

Cassie, I’m sorry I took the attention off of you for so long. I had to let you know that I’m not some psychopath who used a friend’s death as an excuse for bloodbath. I checked off all the boxes I was supposed to. Still, I was left scarred. Your skin was untouched. Verbal abuse came your way, but a nation didn’t shout you down. I understand my abuse is not your fault. I don’t wish it upon you as much as I wish you understood why your moral high ground does nothing. What use is preaching when they damn you at every turn? Why put yourself in harm’s way just to tell them of their treachery. Do you think they are unaware? What use is a threat without a sword in hand?

I understood that words only go so far when your opponent loves the sound of their own voice. You can only yell at giants for so long until they squash you beneath your feet. You have to chop their limbs off to bring them to your level.

After a few months of the same questions, I gave up on the interviews. I retired from public life, drowning in my apartment when I wasn’t poking strangers with ink. The beauty of black liquid couldn’t distract me for long. Not while the faces of beasts interrupted my work, coming to life in the eyes of my burly customers. As their faces dissipated into frat boy shadows, the mechanical instrument went from a decorative quill to a pocket knife. Thrill came over me as I could smell their boiling blood. One day, I pushed too hard, puncturing the skin as I detailed a dragon’s eye. Red and black melded, creating a crimson which spoke melodies of liberation. What if I could paint the town with this color?

I wouldn’t pick on just any target. We all know who I have in mind. Figuring out how to get them alone was another story. They changed locations and attack plans, meaning I’d have to make a concerted effort to track them down. Upon lurking through their Instagram pages, I discovered that they were divided into two groups. Three of them would attack a high-priced bar while the other two would wander in a dive bar.

It appeared that they would switch dynamics to avoid suspicion, with a rotating schedule. I would just need to keep a close eye on their pages to know where to go. For the next coming weeks, I made a list of each dive bar and each high-profile pub they attended. I found a few recurring locations: Mace, Angel’s Share, Tip-Top, Botanica, Blue Ruin.

Fully equipped, I bar-hopped. I would stay a few hours at a time at the regular spots, waiting for the right time to strike. Too many days, I would find no point of entry. They would be too busy howling at the karaoke machine or sinking their teeth into another girl. Even when I tried to approach, non-related animals came to sniff, yanking on my clothes. I couldn’t strike against those vultures until I’d killed my targets.

Night after night, I adapted my strategy. They were distracted by other innocents. Perhaps my disguise wasn’t alluring enough. I softened, bringing in a blonde wig and a nude lip. My confidence weaned as I reverted back to club clothes. They once had such comfort but now I worry about their impact. Harsh measures resulted in success when Brad, the frat boy who first approached Jessica, slithered towards me.

He held a half-empty rum and coke as he looked me up and down. My thighs seemed of particular interest when he said, “You come here often?”

“First time.” I lied.

“I swear I saw you here last week.”

A circle of red formed in my cheeks. I hoped my foundation covered it.

“Or maybe you’ve just got one of them… faassess.” he inched closer to me.

He set the rum and coke down on the counter. I focused on the floating cubes as he groped for my lower back. When he reached it, he pulled me closer. My leather bag fell from my shoulder to my elbow. The knife inched closer to his torso.

I could stab him now.

“I would l-lerve to get to know you more, if you woul’n’ mind.” he slurred

He was already jabbing me with his erect penis bulging through his pants and onto my thigh. I had to close my eyes to keep from exploding. But I couldn’t ignore this. I can’t walk away now.

This is my chance.

“W–w-why not?” I attempted to act drunk in response.

He leads me through the crowd, guiding me with his hand inching closer and closer to my ass. My eyes relax again, imagining the sweet pool of crimson that will soon release from his veins. We bump into concerned faces that turn back, conversing as if they hadn’t seen a thing. The karaoke machine roars with synthetic screams. How often have other girls been where I am?

Half-way through the room, I notice the frat boys huddled in a circle. The smashed-in face of my almost-killer looks directly into my eyes. A smug smile morphs into an agape mouth. They recognize me. I can’t turn back now. I have to let my usher bring me to the grooms of doom.

I can’t take all of them.

I can’t let them take me again.

I must strike now before Hell swallows me. At least if I’m arrested, I’ll have freedom from their dead eyes. If I go without a crowd, I’ll suffer the gray death. With their eyes, I may be shot but it’ll be quick. I won’t be violated beforehand.

My hand shakes as I reach for the zipper. Anticipation rushes over me. Brad continues to guide me, with only a few feet between my rapists and my body. I am close enough to reach out and touch them. The zipper unravels, I grab onto the oak handle, sinking my skin into the wood.

Before they know what it is, I swing the knife open, directly into Brad’s trachea. Bone scratches the metal as I tear it out. His neck becomes a bloody fountain, squirting over the slick floor. My almost-killer sprints toward me, slipping on the floor, landing on his stomach. I pull his hair, poking the knife into his side, multiple times.

I am trying to hit an artery before other frat boys try to pull me off. They tear off my wig. Then, one pulls on my real hair as the other two pull on my tight dress. They won’t go out without embarrassing me.

I stretch forward, trying to make him bleed a little more. The crimson needs its release. But I know I don’t have much time as heavy footsteps sidestep the scurrying bodies of the crowd. A bodyguard comes to my attacker’s aid. My dress is ripped in two. I don’t have time to worry about my exposure as they carry me, holding large, sweaty palms over my mouth. They close their palms tight, nearly stopping my flow of breath before I am taken outside.

Naked and cold, I see an NYPD officer. His body camera no longer flashes red. Anger swells in his face as he sees the blood on my hands. No doubt he recognizes me. The bodyguard hands me over to the cop.

The cop grins, “Well, she seems feisty.”

He pats me down, squeezing my breasts and ass, claiming it is to ensure I have no weapons. Once he is satisfied, he pushes me into the back of the police car, slapping my thigh before entering the driver’ seat.

From that ending, I’m sure you can deduce where I am writing this from. I guess I’m luckier than you in some way. At least I can still breathe. I just do it in a space where I am nothing more than a number. My loud mouth often gets me thrown into an even tinier space where all I have to do is recount the worst of my life. But I guess I’m not dead. Physically.

Cassie, you may think I’ve been harsh on you. You probably think I’m taking out my frustrations on you. And that’s not fair because you’re a victim of this shit, too. But the thought claws at me: neither of us deserve this fate but why are you valorized while I rot. All I did was take your steps to the final level. You were headed there. But maybe the universe stopped you from reaching the end. Perhaps your intentions were rhetorically twisted to stop us from thinking of what we could do.

I’m tired of your postmortem actions being treated as “the correct route”. At worst, your targets would sit in jail for ten years, after enjoying freedom at the peak of their existence. In reality, many of them could afford to post bail. It only works as justice if you have a rudimentary understanding of the prison system. I knew my marks would escape easily even if I had evidence. Money erases the meaning of justice.

Justice will never come for me. It will never come for Jessica. It won’t come for your friend. It won’t come for you. Your legend serves as a platitude, not an inspiration. It just props up the pigs that want nothing more than to see victims rot.

The system is modeled to torture the marginalized and release the wealthy. We have few weapons at our disposal for genuine justice. I know that my blade wouldn’t bring Jessica back. Her smile was lost to time. I’m sure you knew that lectures only go so far. Your legacy may last longer than mine but I brought fear into their hearts instead of mild worry.

Sincerely,

Naomi