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I Delivered My Rapist’s Pizza II: The Retakening
This time, she’s serving up more than steaming hot ‘za.
One evening in January 2022, I found myself face-to-face with the guy who poisoned my mind and set me down a path of self-destruction. He doesn’t deserve anonymity for what he did; but for the sake of being professional, we’re calling him Jake. I hadn’t seen his handsome, stupid face in close to 10 years, and was proud of that. I had put my life back together, faced some uncomfortable truths he had left behind, and moved on.
Just my luck, I ended up delivering a pizza to his apartment. And he recognized me in spite of my attempts to dodge his questions or let my hair hide my face.
I was traumatized all over again. He raped me and then convinced me that I had only myself to blame — a lie believed that for a long time. But mostly I was pissed with myself for turning into a clumsy, babbling wreck in my haste to yeet myself as far away from him as fast as I could.
And now he knew where I worked.
It was too much to hope that he would understand how upset I was to meet him again, or why, and call a different pizza joint whenever he got the munchies. Two days later, he ordered for delivery again. And he was paying in cash. Maybe cash payments are just generally more…
