A Sad and Terrible Kind of Courage

There is a serial rapist in my neighborhood.  While I've known about this for some weeks, it wasn't til Sunday midday, that the quiet sobriety of my grief around this became apparent to me..

I wrote about it, on a blog on a singles site;  of course, the short piece has garnered me a great deal of attention.  To describe in detail what it was like, to return from Sunday worship services to see small signs with his forensically estimated likeness printed on them was simply and irrevocably a sign of the times, quite literally.

As one of 2 known single women in my block, I fit his criteria for victims.  I know that I've started to make sure locks are locked, I've varied my schedule, and I've wondered if he can be forced to pay my higher power bill, for provoking a feeling of necessity in me, to NOT leave my screen windows and doors open..

What did the lyricist write, and singer Madonna say?

"This USED TO BE my playground; 
This USED TO BE my Childhood dream".

I live in a small, unincorporated area outside a medium sized Southern city, and I still want to be barefoot.  I still step outside without a coat, I dance in the rain til I hear thunder...

My spirit is younger than that, of my already innocence-lost preteens;  I regret I'm glad they live elsewhere.

And so, I stop my early morning walks;  my jeans are getting tighter and my writing is getting stronger and I think this is a helluva way to be forced to write my essay book..

There is a rapist, uncaught in my neighborhood.
I wonder if he's a sex addict or was hurt by his mother.

I was BOTH;  I know no acting out will solve his confusion, soothe his anger.

I know.