6:02 pm I'm sitting here in an almost empty office way past the time I was supposed to leave�and I find it oddly comforting-the buzz of copiers, printers, the constant hum of work-related conversations, the clicking of keyboards-have all faded�and I'm left with no noise besides the gentle tapping of my fingers�for I write this gingerly, without the urgency that usually accompanies typing something at work�I'm in no hurry to get the words out, to make a point�I'm in no hurry to leave�I do have an agenda, though, a reason for starting this instead of putting on my coat and going home�I "opened up a can of worms" the other night�I began processing something that I've merely been skimming over for the past nine months�and perhaps the office is not the place to be writing about it�but the emotions are here now, and I feel like getting them out�Monday night I began talking about my rape�I began to think about it, really think about it, while I was speaking�I didn't just let it roll off my tongue like it has for so long, with as much emotion as a puddle of water�each word I spoke was new, almost, to me�I didn't feel like it was someone else's life, or something that happened in a movie�I didn't feel like I was over-dramatizing the situation�I didn't feel sorry for what I said�I didn't feel responsible for what happened to me�and, now, what's left is a lot of pissed-off-ness�I'm furious�I hate him�I hate him for making me think he was a decent human being�I hate him for making me feel so damn na�ve and child-like�I hate him for making me not trust people in general, or making me question the goodness of humanity...i hate him for taking advantage of my hospitality, of my sympathy, of my willingness to give him a place to sleep�I hate him for smelling like a combination of stale alcohol, cigarettes and pungent body odor�I hate him for kissing me�I hate him for forcing me onto my back�I hate him for taking off my pants and unzipping his�I hate him for moving up my body and rubbing himself on my face�I hate him for forcing himself into my mouth, and, later, somewhere else�I hate him for making it hurt and not being gentle�I hate him for not wearing a condom�I hate him for not letting me breath and banging my head against the wall�I hate him for making me cry and beg him to stop�I hate him for not stopping�I hate him for making me call the police�I hate him for making me spend the night at the hospital where they did nothing to make me less afraid�I hate him for making me think about AIDS and STDs and my own mortality�I hate him for keeping me from sleeping and showing up in my nightmares�I hate him for making every place I go unsafe�I hate him for making me afraid of the dark�I hate him for taking a certain bit of innocence I was holding on to�I hate him for making me go through therapy and causing pain to my family and friends� I hate him for taking my voice, and a piece of me that is now gone forever�I hate him for being the kind of man who does that, the kind of man who rapes.