Always, half of me hopes it's him—the man who raped me. He grew up to be a Marine. A cop. A US Border Patrol agent.
It'll never end.
Every time a story like this breaks, the other half of me hopes I was wrong. I'm not.
My story wasn't enough. I came forward too late.
It still wasn't enough to heal me. And now there's a scar—about midline, just below my xiphoid process.
This Border Patrol agent is not my rapist. He's theirs. They're dead.
How many will it take?