The Doctor, A Rapist



The dark, burly guard keyed in the access code of the prison room, and as the heavy metal doors binged, I gave a silent prayer and went in with him. The room was square and spacious; about thirty by thirty feet, with white walls. It contained nothing else except a small reading table, a wooden chair, some paperback novels and a single change of clothing hanging on the wall. All these were by the northwest side of the room. And on the bed, sat my quarry. He sat with his face hunched over his body, and was tapping his bare feet lightly on the marble floor.

“Doctor Anthony, how do you do? I am Favour Uwa from the National Mast. I’m here for the interview, are you ready?” I said to the man who had, until that moment, focused on the same immaculate marble on the floor. He looked up at me, and I had the distinct feeling of being bare, that he could see through me. There was nothing in his eyes, they were dead.

After a indeterminable time, he nodded towards the chair. I went across the room, picked it up and sat opposite him, a few inches from his him. As I did this, the guard was obviously perturbed and darted looks from the doctor to me. I merely held out my palms to the guard, signaling that everything was under control.

I took in the doctor’s look; he was dressed in the traditional green prison garb, but he wore his with a sense of defeat and hopelessness that prickled me. What had driven him to commit those series of heinous crimes? He wasn’t an imposing man by stature; as a matter of fact, he was actually shorter than my five feet six inches. But he had had the bearing of a giant. Now, he was the ghost of his former self.

His current situation started when the judge pronounced him guilty of a seven count indictment on rape and one count charge on murder. He had pleaded guilty and was sentenced to life imprisonment in solitary confinement. That was two years ago. I had followed the case closely, and was surprised by the way he never spoke a word during the trial except when spoken to. One can say that he had already sentenced himself before the judgment was made.

After the trial, I was very much intrigued by him that I requested for a chance to interview him. But my various requests were turned down; I kept on applying and I was rejected the same number of times. My colleagues at the news station tried getting me off his case, calling it ‘a needless obsession’. Yet I was determined to know his own side of the story. Not that I thought he was innocent—the evidence against him was overwhelming; but I wanted to know what would make such a promising and talented doctor to also be a serial rapist and a murderer.

I stared at him and was at lost on how to start. In the end, I decided to be blunt about it.
“Can you tell me, doctor, why you committed those crimes?” I asked, hoping he doesn’t take offence at my frontal approach.

He bored at me with his soulless black orbs till the hairs on my neck stood up. He then glanced at the guard, “I would prefer if he steps outside.” The guard looked like he wanted to show him who was in charge but at my insistent look, he finally acquiesced and went out shooting daggers at his inmate with his eyes.

“Will you record this conversation?” he asked in a surly manner.

“Would that be a problem?”

He seemed to give it a thought, and then replied, “I guess not.”

I brought out my Samsung phone, opened the recorder and held it. I then repeated the greeting before saying, “Two years ago, you were involved in a court case that later saw you being incarcerated. I would like to know—if it’s no offence—why you did those horrific acts?”

“Horrific?” he asked, and gave a light chuckle. The laughter sent shivers up my spine. This man reeked of pure malice. “What do you know about horror? Have you ever seen it? Or felt its cold, terrifying hands?” I looked blankly at him and he continued, “Of course you don’t! But let me tell you: horror has long, slimy fingers, and they’re as cold as death. And when it gets hold of you, believe me, there’s no escape.”

“How do you know?”

Because I’ve seen it!” he spat, “I’ve lived with horror, dined with it and even slept with horror. So, I know the true face of horror.”

“Are you trying to say that you have been a victim—?”

“Victim? No, I was a slave to horror, and it was my master. It controlled me and I had no escape. You know what?” he suddenly asked. I spread my palms signifying a no. He said, “I’ll tell you a story about me. And when I’m done, you’ll understand what horror really is.”

While he was talking, he had seemed to grow larger with the force of his anger, and now his face twisted with some sort of pain and terror only him knew about. I reached out and touched him, wanting to offer some amount of comfort. He flinched as if he had been scalded. I withdrew my hands and merely nodded for him to continue.

“A very long time ago, while I was still a boy of four years old, I was unfortunate enough to catch the attention of our amorous live-in maid. At that time, I think she would be over twenty years. It had started one day when she had forced and cajoled me into touching her privates and sucking her breasts. I had refused at first, but she had punished me in little hurtful ways and had threatened more pain should I let anyone know of what she did to me. Soon, she started inserting my young penis into herself.

“This would have continued for a long time had it not been for my uncle who caught us one day. That was when I was seven. He then started his own maneuvers, and wanted me to always be close to him. He was also the person that facilitated the maid’s untimely exit from our house. He had probably told my parents one thing or the other.

“Then my uncle—someone who was supposed to shield and protect me from harm—raped me, for countless times. At some point when I was eleven, I had vowed to let someone know; but he had burnt my fingers and said that he would kill me should I mention it to anyone.”

The horror of what he recounted filled the room, and I said, “I’m sorry you had to pass through all that…”

His eyes flashed in anger and agony. “Allow me to finish,” he growled, “By the time I was sixteen, I’ve been raped so many times by him that I saw sex as something that should be forced to be enjoyed. When I went into school, I raped my first victim during my first year. The joy—the feeling of power—that came with it heralded the beginning of life as a rapist.

“I was a master of deception, so it was hard to suspect me. Another thing that aided me was that I raped random girls and not those that knew me. My escapades had continued for another ten years before I finally killed the girl whose death got me arrested and marked the end of it all.”

As he finished, I didn’t know what to say; didn’t know how to console him. I sat there for a full twenty minutes without uttering a word. What would I have said? That I was sorry? Sorry for what? For his lost childhood? Or sorry for his twisted youth? Or sorry for his gloomy future behind bars? I felt so useless that I just stood up, greeted him, and walked out of the room.

As I was about to finally leave the prison hall, he called after me, “in the end, no one deserves to witness that kind of horror!”

I quickly ran out because I knew I couldn’t control the tears any longer. I went into my car and let it go. I cried and bemoaned the lot of a man who went through such a brutal childhood and into such a abnormal youth. After sometime, I cleaned the tears and drove off. I would let his story get out there.

DISCLAIMER: This story does not in any way excuse the act of rape. Rather, it reminds us that we should watch our children and those under our care to know when they are being molested and by that, prevent such horrid crimes like rape.

Say no to rape.

Thanks for reading.

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4 Comments

  1. This is touchy and I understand your point. As a matter of fact there are a thousand and one damaged adults out there all because of their experiences as Children.

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    Replies
    1. Exactly. Thanks for understanding and reading.

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  2. Hmmmm...what makes matters worse is dat most tym.... We don't speak out... We even scared to, instead we sow a seed that germinates and forms a trend.... #no1deserves2bRAPED

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