To the cop that raped my best friend five years ago, it took me five years to write you this letter, but I have some thoughts to share.
Every time I see a quote that praises the work of the police in my hometown now, I cringe. I think of you often. I think about that night, when you handcuffed my best friend in the back of your squad car for no reason, when you assaulted him as he lay there defenseless, when he was struggling with his own sexuality and you thought you’d help him out with that.
I think about when you decided to show your true colors while your reds and blues were still flashing at midnight on Carrolla Street, a block away from where his parents were sleeping.
I think about all the times I’ve been pulled over, maybe by you, unknown as to how lucky I was that I wasn’t a helpless, homosexual 17-year-old boy.
I think about all the times my best friend and I discussed what it would be like to lose our virginity, having no clue that his would be stolen.
I think about his first suicide attempt, and then I think about his second.
I think about that oath you had to say when they gave you that badge and the gun, you know, the two things you were wearing the whole time. I think about the gold band you were wearing on your left ring finger and the promises you made.
I think about the life sentence that awaits me when I finally meet you for the first time. I think about you rotting in prison for what you’ve done, and I think about what they’ll do to you when they find out who you are. (Because the man that raped my best friend, that stole his whole life, that is who you are).
I think about my best friend and what you did to him, and I think about you. I think about forgiveness, and I think about rage, and I think about justice. I wonder what else you’ve done, and what else you’ll do, and how people think they’re safe with you.