My Assaulter Lost His Legs. I Felt No Remorse.
It was a turbulent phase last year. My husband and I were separated, a painful period that felt heavy with societal whispers and personal despair. During those lonely months, I found some companionship with a man I’ll call G. We weren't serious; it was a way to navigate an emptiness I hadn't anticipated. We’d spend evenings talking, sometimes he'd stay over, and our intimacy always felt mutual, a shared understanding.
One night, after what seemed like a pleasant evening, I simply said, "I’m tired, G, goodnight." It was a clear boundary, a simple request for rest. But for him, it wasn’t good enough. What followed, without needing to delve into the gruesome details, was a violation that tore through my body, my trust, and my very soul. I lay there, numb and shattered, feeling an irreparable part of me had been stolen. The betrayal cut deeper than any physical pain, leaving me with a profound, silent shame. I confided in my younger sister, but felt powerless, trapped in a nightmare.
Months later, my husband and I found our way back to each other, a blessing I cherish every day. Just as I was finally finding a semblance of peace, news trickled down through mutual acquaintances: G had been in a terrible accident. Both his legs were amputated.
My reaction? Nothing. No shock, no pity, not a single flicker of empathy. It was as if I was hearing about a stranger. The man who had taken my choice, my dignity, my bodily autonomy, now faced a profound, permanent loss of his own. And I confess, without an ounce of guilt, I felt a cold sense of cosmic justice. He took something irreplaceable from me; his misfortune felt like a balance, a cruel karma returning to him. I find no solace in his pain, but I also find no remorse for my utter lack of it. It’s a burden I refuse to carry.
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