Michael Bublé was singing a Christmas carol about love, something I unknowingly longed for. Joyful and unjaded were suitable adjectives to describe my state of mind, as I frolicked my way along the streetlights which did nothing to help see through your disguise when you waved my way. I was the kind of girl who stopped to help strangers, and I guess the dim lights managed to give that away. Or maybe it was my height. Or my earphones. Or my skirt.
I reported you. I re-lived the experience and explained to the police what you looked like: old, white, male, with gray hair and light-colored small eyes. I was asked if you were circumcised and I had no answer because I didn't even understand what that meant. I was asked what I was wearing, only to be kindly reminded not to take offense by it because it would help understand the type of girls the predator went after. Was that it? Was it the skirt that made you ask for "help"? Does my demeanor act as some sort of excuse for your fucked up behaviour?
I was told to laugh it off. That "it happens all the time" and that I shouldn't let your presence bring me down. That it was no ones fault - not mine and I guess not even yours.
I used to dedicate as much time as necessary in choosing the perfect song for the perfect mood. I would walk slowly because there was no need to rush when in that very moment I had everything to be happy about. Music that complemented my state of mind ever so perfectly - that was personal. It was mine. No matter the crisp air that was out to get my fingertips, I would take my hands out my pocket and scroll through my phone to find that moment all over again.
Except I can't anymore. When I took off my earphones for you, it didn't just silence the music for that night. You stole the excitement of that perfect song and you stole so much more. My eyes aren't as wide nor my heart like a child's as they used to be. I stopped listening to music and instead to my voice whispering to squint my eyes, to look closely with doubt at anything that moves. I realized that bad things happen to good people all the god damn time. That maybe karma isn't a bitch because what doesn't exist can't be anything at all.
Explain to me thoroughly just one thing - why? Pinpoint to me what it is that clouds your moral reasonings. Because you might not remember me, hell, you'll wonder which one of your many encounters I am, but I do. I remember it all. I remember my outfit head to toe and the pace in which I was walking that night. The grin of yours with all your evil intentions, finds its way back into my mind just when I had forgotten about you, and it still brings me to tears. I was a damsel with a heart and now none. So I hope you seek forgiveness and it isn't granted. I hope you lose something irreplaceable too, and I hope it happens unexpectedly.