Castrating a rapist is an intricate, often emotional process that few people tend to give thought to in their daily lives. In order to carry out an action like this, you have to pay careful attention to the steps and differ enough from the mainstream to be able to carry them out. But before you think about all the rest of the steps, you have to make the decision to castrate. This may seem obvious, but whether it be on a whim, or carefully thought and planned out, this is ultimately the first step in castrating a rapist. After making the decision to castrate, you then have to pick your rapist. Will you pick a random one? A sex-offender you found on a website that has no relationship to you whatsoever? Or will it be your rapist? Your friend’s rapist? Or your mother’s or sister’s or girlfriend’s rapist? Either way, choosing who you will be castrating is a very important step in the castration process. You evaluate your options.
Why are you choosing this rapist? A personal vendetta? A feeling that the government is unjust? Vengeance? Rage?
Which rapist makes your brow quiver with anger? Which fuels your desire for violence? Which pushes you to this edge, this edge that makes your stomach churn and forces you to ignore it, yet gratifies your need for revenge?
Think about it for a little while. You’re the premeditative type. Gnaw it over like the cold, stretchy tenderloin you ate for dinner.
Remember the grocery store.
The blinding fluorescents, the rattle of the shopping carts with the half-flat wheels, the red lasers that always make those annoying, amplified beeps.
The grocery store.
That’s where you first saw him, in person. Everyone in town has heard about him; news travels fast in small towns like yours.
His name is Jerry.
He molested those boys, those 3 boys in your neighborhood, who you don’t really know well personally, but still know the names of, and didn’t get squat for jail time because of a broken court system.
Pedophiles always manage to get their sentences reduced, don’t they?
The very thought of his name sets fire to your veins. You think of the children, and what they must be like now, not forgetting the care that Jerry had taken in picking out his Thanksgiving turkey, expression casual as any other shopper. You wonder if they’ve turned out like you, dreading anniversaries or holidays, treating other men like leapers. Maybe they’re even sitting around contemplating taking away what took away their innocence, but most likely not. They’re probably just afraid of when and where they might see him again, just like you used to be before every important family event. You thought about him, Uncle Alan, who Jerry reminds you of oh so much, and what he might do next. You couldn’t seem to get out of his reach then, but now that you’re old enough you can separate yourself from those dreaded family events. But then again, you’re never really free of him, are you?
You have to get back on track.
Separate your past from what you’re going to do. This is about the justice for the children, about showing him what powerlessness is really like.
You try to calm yourself and start thinking about how you’ll castrate Jerry, the actual process involved, how holding another man’s balls in your hand will feel. Gay? Wrong? Morbid? You decide to stop thinking about this as you realize that no normal man would castrate another member of his sex. Most men would cringe at even the thought of how it would feel to get their sack cut off. But you, no…you’re different than most men and you’re well aware of it. This is why you must purge your brain of these thoughts, these thoughts that could cause you to turn back on your plan at the last minute, these thoughts that are overall detrimental to both your mind and your plan.
So you start to think about the basics, the scientific aspects of castration. Ignore the emotions that go along with this, the sick feelings in your stomach trying to steer you in the other direction. Do not question if you really want to do this. You’ve already made the decision and now you must stick with it. After all, someone has to give this sick excuse for a man justice.
A man…he shouldn’t even be called that. He’s a monster who forever affected the lives of these children, just like Uncle Alan affected yours.
You have to quiet your thoughts. Stop weighing out the morals and values of this situation. Think about the process and nothing more.
First you decide where to find Jerry. He’s on the registry so it’s easy to find his address. So one day you decide to hang around the area, watch which bars he goes to, which stores he frequents. Imagine how you will get him somewhere where you can go through with your plan. So where will it be?
His house? The room where he raped those children? That would be ironic, wouldn’t it? Him feeling the helplessness that he made all of them feel, him crying and writhing in fear. You decide which tools you’re going to use, figure out which will do the best job.
Which will hurt more? Which will be quickest, the most effective in completing the castration? You want it to be painful, you want him to learn a lesson, so you opt to use a well-sharpened knife that will help quicken the process in case of excessive squirming. After choosing your weapon you have to plan out the rest. Going through with a set plan is the most important, you can’t just wing it or you’ll lose control of the situation. And you don’t like being the one out of control, do you?
So there are some things you’ll have to weigh out, such as if you’ll use anesthesia or make him watch it, if you’ll make him live or let him die, if you’ll call the police and turn yourself in or walk away from the scene like nothing ever happened.
So many choices.
Who knew castration could be so complex? Most people would say that it’s a crime of passion, anger, or what-have-you. And then snip, snip and it’s all over. But it’s really more than that, you think. It’s a huge, complicated plan that could turn out in a variety of different ways, ways you intended or didn’t. Contemplate your own plan again. It may be a little cliché, but you fix on the idea of slipping something in his drink at his favorite bar and being cordial enough to make sure he gets home.
So when you get there, you won’t use anesthesia, you’ll just cut them off, and hopefully quickly…you don’t want too much contact with those contaminants. Then you’ll leave, feeling completely justified. But how will you cover your tracks?
This could be a dent in the plan, but only if you decide to kill him. So do you kill him? No. Once it’s over you cannot kill him. You’ll have to try to keep him alive because killing him would be too easy of a consequence. Death brings escape and he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves to live with his actions, and with his consequences.
After you figure all of these things out, you have to finally carry them out. Use your own balls and follow through with the plan. Anyone can think something like this up, but it takes someone different to actually do it. Someone with guts, with a hard stomach; someone who realizes the flaws in the American justice system and will actually do something to change it. So you go to the bar. The pub on the corner of Walnut and Main only a block or two away from his residence. You see him. Take a second, even a third glance to make sure you’ve got the right guy. You can’t castrate someone who isn’t deserving of it. But you’re dead sure it’s him. You casually take a stool next to him and order a drink.
An area you’ve always had troubles in. You’re different than everyone else. You lack certain abilities, relationship skills. So this could pose a problem. But you have strengths too, and one of these is acting. You think of how others try to socialize with you, how they try to come to you, try to help you, how you push them away because you don’t want them inside your head. Force these thoughts out.
Focus. You must maintain your focus or this will fail. Maybe you don’t have to talk to him. Just look at him and nod in acknowledgement. Wait for an opportunity, a bathroom break, a cigarette break. Something. Wait, wait, and wait some more. You don’t want him to catch you in the act.
“What are you drinking?” he asks, for some reason interested in you. This catches you off guard. You have to be careful with your next move. “Brandy. Old fashioned.” “Sweet or sour?” “Sour.”
Better keep his attention before he gets the brains to get away, and get away fast. He continues to prompt you. Asks you what you do, you know, for a job. Asks about your family. You feed him lies, waiting for the right time to put the pill in his drink.
You’re starting to get impatient. The continual waiting is making you crazy. Or perhaps, crazier than what you already are. You start to question if it’s really going to work, or if you’re just going to sit here and jabber, like two little old ladies sipping coffee after church. Church. You smile a little when you think about what the man upstairs would think of you now. After seemingly endless, awkward chatter, he finally decides he has to break the seal and excuses himself for a few minutes, leaving his drink on the bar. You wait until the bartender turns his back for a moment. And a moment is all you need. This is that moment that you’ve been waiting for and you have to take advantage of it. Slip the pill in his drink.
Don’t let on that something’s off. No anxiety, no fidgeting. Drink your drink like everybody else and ignore the pounding in your chest, the feeling that this is finally real, not just some fantasy that you’ve thought up. You’re going to do this now. Use your peripherals when he returns to see when he drinks it. You can’t outwardly stare at it or he’ll really wonder what’s wrong with you. It’s already clear that you’re socially inept. He swallows and your heart pounds harder. You wonder exactly how long it will take for him to pass out. You start tapping your finger on the bar. Stop that. You’re going to look too nervous, too obvious. It doesn’t matter so much if you get caught, it matters when you get caught, which has to be after the job is done. You fool. Drink a shot or something and calm down. He’s looking different now. Tired, maybe a little ill. You feel a little ill yourself at the thought of what you’re about to do as you watch the color of his skin change quicker than you’d ever think it could. But it’s just nerves, you tell yourself. Forget that feeling; concentrate on what you have to do next. Take it one step at a time. Thought to thought, action to action.
You ask him if he’s alright, trying to cover up your plan, which now seems to be screaming itself at everyone in the room. He tells you he’s not sure, he’s not feeling so well. You see him start to sway a little and you try to catch him as he falls to the floor but you’re unsuccessful. That’s okay though, at least to you. A little bump on the head is nothing compared to the bump he’ll have on his other one in a couple hours. You hear the bartender muttering to himself about the same old drunks always passing out on his floor and how he’s always the one responsible for finding them some way to get home, so you tell him it’s okay, you’ll get him home. The bartender doesn’t question you, relieved of the duty for once. You have to act quickly, though, before the drugs wear off. You want him to be secured for this process. You put him in your truck. Your tools of trade are in your glove box. Knife, needle, thread. And gloves. You don’t want direct contact with that thing, that’s for sure. You drive to his house. What if the door is locked? You didn’t think of this before. You have some holes in your plan, things you didn’t account for, but everyone has those. You try the handle on the front door, but of course it’s locked. A pedophile who locks his doors. It’s kind of humorous to you. What does a pedophile have to lose? You think. And then you laugh when you realize what exactly pedophiles have left to lose and how you’re about to take that away from Jerry. You identify a side door on the garage and pray that at least that’s open. You luck out when you find that it is.
Drag him in. Pick a place to tie him. You wonder which of these rooms is still filled with the silent screams of those children. Shudder a bit. Then smile at the revenge that you’ll be taking for them. You check out the rooms. The kitchen, the living room.
Avoid the bathroom.
Always avoid the bathroom. The smell of Comet gets to you. That strong, all-too-clean scent that radiated off Uncle Alan’s floor. He must have been the orderly type, the clean, obsessive-compulsive kind of person. But so are you. Hell, maybe that’s who you got it from. But you don’t use Comet. You never will. That smell, that stench, at least to you, still burns in your nose as if your face was still pressed to those pasty white tiles. Stop thinking about this. Forget the bathroom. The tiles. Uncle Alan. Just concentrate on what you need to do in this moment. Before he wakes up. You check out his bedroom and decide on that; the most probable place for his playtime with those kids.
So where do you put him? You don’t want to tie him to his bed. It would be too…awkward, too sexual, in a way. So you bring a kitchen chair into the room and tie him to that. You never thought that the knot-tying that you learned in Boy Scouts those few years would ever help you out, but it does today. You tie the knots well and then retrieve your tool box and a kitchen chair for yourself. You sit directly across from him in anticipation of his awakening. Time inches by. It always goes slower when you’re waiting for something, doesn’t it? You bob your leg up and down and up and down and then he twitches. Slowly opens his eyes and then jumps! when he realizes he’s tied to a chair and there’s some kind of maniac stranger sitting across from him, staring at him.
“Morning!” you say, laughing a little.
All feelings impeding the job are gone now and all you can think about is what it’s going to feel like to do this, the power you will feel in doing this. He asks you who you are and you wonder for a moment how to respond.
You tell him you’re his past and his present, his prey and his predator. You tell him you’re the children grown up, broken and fucked up just like he’s going to be in a few minutes. You tell him that things will be easier for him if he stays still and doesn’t scream too much, and that keeping talking to a minimum would be in his best interest.
He asks you what you’re doing, asks you not to kill him. You tell him you’re not going to kill him, that you can’t let him off that easy. His eyes widen and he struggles against the rope but is unsuccessful in escaping. The whole time he’s struggling you sit back calmly and wait for him to realize there’s no way out of this.
He finally asks what you plan on doing and you retrieve the knife from your box of goodies. You can’t describe the look on his face as he comes to an epiphany about his past. You see the regret and raw fear in his expression. He says he can explain, he didn’t mean to hurt them, or you if you were one of them. He says that he’s sorry, so sorry for his actions. But you don’t care.
“Sorry doesn’t take anything back”, you say.
You put the gloves on. Snap, like a doctor would. He starts screaming and you ask him if he wants this to be easy or difficult. This quiets him a little. You run the knife over your thumb like they always do in the movies before a stabbing. You walk over with a snide smile on your face. You wonder what he sees in your eyes, and for a brief moment you identify with him, you feel like a replica of him, even, ignoring the feelings of those around you for your own gratification.
Except he’s not innocent.
He deserves this, you remind yourself.
You look at his eyes, the cold blue of his eyes and see Uncle Alan looking you up and down, like you were a meal or something. His eyes bring memories, so many memories. One right after another. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Easter and your birthday. Times that you should have been excited about like every other normal child. Times that you shouldn’t hate so much, times that you shouldn’t hate at all. They remind you of trying so hard to stop it and how no one ever noticed and you remember, remember, remember until this insanity causes you to cry out and bash your head into his dresser in agony and rage. One, two, three. Bash, bash, bash. He really thinks you’re crazy now. Get over it and forget your past or this won’t work how you wanted it to. Man-up and calm down. Fight the stinging in your eyes, keep your composure. You sit back down for a minute. Wait for your heart rate to slow. Calm is key. He looks at you, puzzled. Seemingly. He’s probably wondering what’s going on in that head of yours. Nothing should be a surprise at this point, though, you think. You’re going to castrate the man and now he’s looking at you in wonderment? Like you’re crazier then he thought in the first place? He’s foolish to be surprised; castration isn’t exactly a sane person’s first choice of action. But now your thoughts are collected again, so stop slowing the process and finish what you came for.
So this is it, you think. You’re really going to do this. You stand up again, this time avoiding those familiar eyes. He sees that this time you’re going to follow through with it, and is on the verge of crying now, unsure of what to do. He gives you one last plea to stop and you ignore it as you slide the knife over that which took so much away from those children. As he cries out you think of Uncle Alan and what it’d be like if this were him. For a moment, you wish it was him sitting here, that it was him who was so…belittled…You remember so many things. Feel so many things that your head is spinning with an overload of thoughts.
You have to stop this. Focus on what needs to be done before you let yourself feel. You look down at your hands and his now useless parts and wonder how to stop the bleeding. You know that he’ll probably bleed to death if you don’t do something from the dark pool cumulating on the floor. Put your wits to good use for once. You have a needle, you could stitch it up, you know. But you should try to slow the bleeding before you stitch it up. It could be messy, but as they say, no pain, no gain.
So what to use to slow the bleeding? You’ve forgotten towels. And you have to act soon; he’s not looking so well.
You go out to the kitchen, still keeping yourself from the bathroom. You can’t go in there or it’ll ruin everything. You locate some dishtowels. Grab those, a glass of water, and a small portion of food to bring the color back to his face.
You return to his room and press the towels to the wound. The bleeding slows enough to give you room to work your wonders. He winces as you pierce the skin with the needle, stitching up the incision as best as you can. It’s not exactly the greatest job, but at least now if he dies it’ll be from a nasty infection.
His gaze is tired.
“Open your mouth,” you say, remembering how it felt when Uncle Alan uttered those same words. A familiar chill makes its way from your neck down to your shoulders and back. But you fight it. Your reasons for saying it are different than his were. Remember that.
He shakes his head, eyes closing, drained.
You tell him that now isn’t the time to piss you off and remind him that you still have the knife.
“Take it.” The chill returns, a bit harder to shake this time. Lift the food to his lips. Concentrate on the task at hand.
He looks up at you and his lips part slowly, but not enough to receive the nourishment.
“Eat it,” you tell him, “you need it to keep you alive.” He protests a little before finally giving in. You give him the water as well, wincing at his humanity. He had felt. Felt everything. Everything that he seemed so incapable of feeling.
You have to get out now, before any bit of sympathy begins to surface.
You untie him and he seems overtired, but he’s a little less pale now. Seems like he’ll live for at least a little while after this. You can’t help but wonder if he’ll take up life as eunuch or if he’ll just off himself out of embarrassment. You hope like hell it’ll be the first as you imagine what it’d be like for him to date now that his junk is gone. You crack up a bit at this as well; at least you’ve instilled a good form of birth control. There won’t be any of Jerry’s spawn running around any time soon.
You tell him that going to the police would not be the best idea, that he doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t deserve it quite yet. He has to live with this. You explain that he should be fine if he keeps himself clean and you grab your tool set. You tell him that you hope he’s learned something from this experience, because you sure have and then you head out the front door unafraid of being seen.
And then you finally give into the sickness. You think about his blood on your gloves, about the entire act you just performed and you vomit. Almost projectile, on his front lawn, and you fall to your knees in exhaustion. Guess your stomach isn’t as strong as you thought it was. This is incriminating, if the police investigate. But you don’t mind. The prison system might not be so bad, you think, you’ve heard that mental health care can be pretty decent in some prison settings. You definitely could use some after this.
But you’re not crazy, right? You’re completely justified, even if your stomach still threatens to spill its contents again if you keep thinking about what you’ve just done. You could be happy later, celebrating, even. Convince yourself that this act wasn’t meaningless, that everyone like him deserves this. Why do you have to be so neurotic? Your mind is a risky distraction, always threatening to throw a wrench into your plans, into your life.
You look behind you at Jerry’s home. The red bricks remind you of the red rims of his eyes. Of Alan’s eyes. Eyes, they say, the windows to your soul. But their eyes were the windows to darkness and this is something you’ll never forget, no matter how many men you castrate.
So what about your eyes? What are they windows to? You ponder on this a bit as you continue to stare at the bricks.
Push the thoughts out. Keep them away. Save yourself. Throw them out with Jerry’s balls, purge yourself of everything you feel. As soon as you leave this place you’ll be okay. Justified. No regrets. No looking back.
You rise to your feet and despite your instincts against this, you look back on the house just one more time. Forget him. Forget Alan. Turn your back to the house, to them. Turn away from the bathroom, the eyes. Leave this place and the memories that come with it.
Justified. No regrets. At least, not yet.