RESURRECTION CHAPTER 1
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Resurrection Of Crazy Jane Pt. 07-Epilogue free porn video
What follows is the epilogue for the six-part ‘Resurrection of Crazy Jane.’
If this is your first exposure to this story, please consider reading from Part 1. I didn’t go out of my way to let this epilogue or any other part stand on its own.
If you have read through to this point, make the decision whether to continue. There is no sex at all in this part. It is simply a dramatic epilogue, telling what happens to our protagonist. I’m a huge fan of stories that end on hanging action (E.g.: Harry Potter), and prologues tend to anger me. So decide whether you love the ending that exists in your own head, or if you want your questions answered. I don’t mind either way!
Please leave comments, positive or negative, as I’d love your feedback. I’ll even respond if appropriate.
Thanks for reading!
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‘Then the bitch, the fucking bitch,’ I seethed, ‘started crying. On fucking cue. And Beth. Beth fucking believed everything.’
I’d been in therapy for six years. And sitting across from me, Dr. Kenneth, who demanded I call him ‘Jim,’ finally got my story. All of it. He was the first.
In prison, therapists don’t stay with you very long. Jim was my fourth therapist, trying to see through to my evil ways that compelled me to rape an 18-year-old girl. My girlfriend’s roommate. Coldly and without apology.
He was trying to figure out if I was some kind of monster.
*****
The scene that they had heard about regarding my rape was gruesome.
There I was. Found raping this poor girl, cum still dripping from my cock, as I had this crazy, possessed look in my head.
Like I was about to kill somebody.
I remember during the trial, Beth painted a picture that I was a predator. I sought her out since she was a victim of rape herself as a child, making her an easy target. How I sweet-talked her, like a sociopath priming his prey with unrelenting charm, waiting for my moment to strike.
The same was true of what I did to Zoey, herself a rape survivor.
Beth called every time we had sex ‘rape.’ That’s what she told the jury before my attorney objected. The judge didn’t allow that to pass into court record, since I was on trial for raping Zoey, but the jury couldn’t un-hear it.
But the fact that my DNA was inside of Zoey was all it took.
It didn’t help when, at one point, I looked out to the peanut gallery during the trial, seeing Beth and Zoey watching it all. The whole time, Beth had the expression of the rape victim. Not Zoey.
Of course Zoey didn’t look like the victim.
It also didn’t help when I noticed them holding hands. And it didn’t help when I noticed them kissing. Like a fucking couple.
Then I remembered.
Her comments.
Zoey always thought Beth was cute. I mean, really really cute. She talked about her big boobs longingly. Like she was the one that wanted to motorboat them and lose herself in her never ending cleavage.
Then I thought of Beth. She was a victim of rape. Her first real boyfriend ‘raped her roommate.’
Men were monsters. Not to be trusted. And there were alternatives. Of course. Of fucking course!
And apparently, from the looks of this domestic scene between the two of them, it flipped a switch in me.
The rage bubbled up. She turned her? Zoey? And Beth? Lesbian??!?
‘What the fuck!?’ I yelled out during cross-examination of a character witness from the bookstore. I stood, turning my body toward the crowd and shooting daggers at Beth and Zoey. ‘You FUCKING BITCH!!!!’ I screamed, uncontrolled, making a motion like I was going to rush them.
Instead, I collapsed. Screaming, my head in my hands. Uncontrolled
I was helpless.
I was on my knees, screaming, almost convulsing, in the fucking courtroom. They sent cops out to get me. Straight jacket. Padded room. Suicide watch. The whole fucking deal.
Zoey was with Beth? They were girlfriends? Probably fucking? THE BITCH!!!!
*****
My public defender didn’t like that I offered no explanation of the rape. I didn’t tell him about the teasing. Or the time with she and Jon down at the river. All I said was that my relationship with Beth was consensual. But that was all.
Regarding Zoey, I just said, numbly, ‘I did it.’
And he really didn’t like my mental breakdown in the courtroom.
I didn’t care. I didn’t care to fight. Fight or flight? I was definitely all about flying at this point. What good would it do? Nobody was going to believe me, anyway. I was nothing but a dirty rapist and that’s all I would ever be.
The thing about public defenders was that they were working on five to ten cases at a time. They’re not going to dig. They’re not going to try to defend a rapist. Or murderer. Or what have you. If you don’t volunteer information, they’re just going to assume guilt and go through the motions, moving on to the next case.
That’s why it took under an hour for the jury to deliberate my fate.
Guilty of first-degree rape.
What was the point, really? Why tell my story to a therapist? To a cell mate? Anybody?
Nobody would believe me, and it would just look like I was pussy, anyway. Which is what I was. She made sure she reminded me of that numerous times. It’s because it was the truth.
The woman used me, mind-fucked me and actual-fucked me, and then to jam the knife in deeper, she stole my fucking girl?!?
If it walks like a pussy and smells like a pussy…
The numbness made it easy to go through the motions with the first three therapists they threw at me before they all moved on to other jobs, forcing me to start a therapeutic relationship with a brand new person each time.
The numbness also helped me through the times I was prison raped. Yes, that stuff actually happens, especially when you’re young and fit, with apparently boyishly good looks. By the second time it happened, when I tried to bite the guy’s dick off for face-fucking me in the shower, people learned to keep their hands off of me.
I began using my ability to snap and turn psycho to my advantage. People knew that I, too, was capable of rape, so they left me the fuck alone.
After that dick-biting incident, they moved me to another cellblock. My new cellmate was a short little Hispanic guy. But he was quiet. Shy. Scared to death. I had moved way beyond that scared shit years ago. By this point, I was hardened.
The guy’s name was Mario. I tried to chat him up, but he was quiet. He had only been in for a few weeks. His previous cellmate, a seasoned felon serving for assault and battery, had gotten into a fight with him and beat his ass. Mario’s eyes were still black and blue.
That was all the story I could get out of him.
After a few moments of quiet, the guy started crying. I sighed, but I also knew that I’d been there. I was just more private about it. I did my very best to not show weakness inside of this place from the very beginning.
It’s empowering to give zero fucks.
I sighed, though. I didn’t want to deal with his blubbering but I also didn’t want to be an asshole.
I walked over to the guy and gave him a hug. And he just lowered his head into my chest and silently wailed.
I patted his head gingerly. ‘If you fucking tell anybody that I let you cry on me, I’ll blacken your eyes again, understood?’
He nodded and continued crying, my warning actually making him chuckle. ‘Sorry, man,’ he said between spasms, looking downward as his head was still buried in my chest. ‘Some bitch claimed I raped her. But I didn’t, man. I was in love with her and she claimed I raped her. And now I’m… I’m… here’
He finally raised his head and looked up at me, tear-filled, full of fear, and his green eyes tore through me, thanking me for showing him mercy.
I know these eyes.
I KNEW THESE FUCKING EYES!
*****
When I realized that my new cellmate was the guy from the parking lot, Zoey’s ‘rapist,’ I lost my shit. I started crying too.
She had done the same to him that she did to me.
She cried rape and ruined his life.
When I had my therapy appointment with Jim the next day, I began to open up.
And it was like a dam had broken.
He was able to see me four times a week, since we were breaking through. He finally got me to talk and was finally getting my story.
He heard about my virginity. My voyage of self-improvement. Her teasing. My ill-fated reunion with Mario that really led to this whole baring-my-soul thing.
For the most part, Jim listened. He just prompted me to tell him more and more. Asked me the right questions. But mostly, he let me rant. He let me just put it all out there.
When I finally told the story of the rape, giving him my perspective, and then connecting it to Mario, I saw his face slowly go white.
‘I’m, I’m so sorry,’ Jim told me assuringly. ‘What happened to you is unfair. Really fucking unfair, man. Zoey sounds like a sociopath. A clinical sociopath. She should be sitting here. Not you.’
Hearing Jim say that it was unfair was really a small gesture. But I had been carrying the weight of this rape for six years. I felt it was all my fault. That I deserved everything I was getting. That maybe I really did rape Zoey.
But, Jim softened me. A lot.
Zoey? A sociopath? It kind of made sense. She seemed to have zero regard for those around her. We were just pawns in her world.
I let a tear escape as he said all this. That it was unfair. Because it fucking was.
‘You played a role, sure,’ he continued. ‘You cheated on Beth. That’s not good. But you were a victim, too. You were a sociopath’s victim. You were violated in the worst kind of way.’
I stared at him slack-jawed. Me? Violated?
I immediately thought of Beth. She was violated too. Her father violated her. It had broken her. It had fried her brain. All because of a series of actions described by one word.
‘Rape?’
‘Is that what you think it was?’ Jim asked.
I stared blankly. Not thinking.
‘Yeah. she … she … raped me.’
*****
The first day I took a walk in my new neighborhood, I shuddered when I saw the flyer.
The flyer had my mugshot on it from 10 years prior.
‘Keep this pervert away from our kids!’ it read.
The flyer called for a community meeting because me, now a registered sex offender, had moved into a shitty one-bedroom apartment nearby.
Seeing it made me want to cry.
I was going to be in prison for life.
I was finally let out after eight years in prison. It was seven years early, but Jim made an impassioned appeal on my behalf, and I won early release.
But the conviction was still on my record.
And everything I had been working toward was gone.
I wanted to be a creative writing professor. A scholar. A writer.
But, I wasn’t allowed in such places, lest I get sexual access to impressionable young women.
So, all of that was gone.
I had trouble even finding an apartment. People aren’t really willing to rent to sex offenders.
I had gotten a job at a Carl’s Jr., but I wasn’t allowed to work up front and deal with customers. I could only flip burgers for minimum wage. But when you’re in a halfway house, you find that you’ll take any job.
It didn’t matter that I finished my degree online while in prison, then got a Master’s in English.
Nobody would hire a felon and a sex offender.
My place was a walk-in closet, essentially, sitting on top of an old corner drug store that had gone out of business and stood abandoned. I slept on a pile of clothes in the middle of the floor. Walked to work one mile away. That was my geographic zone that I couldn’t leave. Sex offenders aren’t allowed to leave a certain area without permission.
But, I had made night manager. I wasn’t a real manager, per se, but it was a title to reward me for my hard work, and enough to get me above minimum wage, earning a cool $9.25 per hour.
When you’re a sex offender, you don’t go out much. You can’t even try to date online, because your internet use is monitored. Every social media site is blocked for me. I can’t enter a library and use their computer. Nothing.
They acted as if I raped a child. But I was convicted of first-degree rape. So all the same blanket rules applied.
I could’ve frequented bars for social interaction, but that wasn’t my game. I was back to being the shy person I was before Beth and Zoey came along – only 100 times worse.
When Mario got out, having the same story, he moved in with me and we split the rent. I helped him get a job at Carl’s Jr., as well. Oddly, we had a great little bromance, to be honest. He was my life partner, for better or worse. My thankfully sexless life partner.
We eventually moved to a bigger apartment so we each had our own rooms. Mario became a kitchen manager, too.
I had began writing again and began to submit my work to literary journals. After seven months of submissions, going freaking broke paying the submission fees, I finally got an acceptance letter from a journal called ‘Otis Nebula.’
You don’t get rich as a poet. In fact, it’s more likely to create poverty than wealth. However, after several more journals, my manuscript was accepted to be published. I was still working fast food, writing in a series of 25-cent notebooks since I was denied computer access.
But I was writing again. I had something again. I was, you could say, resurrected.
All because of one poem, this one collection of words, that brought me back:
The Resurrection of Crazy Jane
Crazy Jane’s beard reeked of river water
Where His scent of discarded condoms and candy wrappers
was reputable.
For the past nine years, He had been in need
of a morning pick-me-up,
And they didn’t let the Riffraff near the coffee shop,
Lest Jane remind the hipsters
that He looked like them.
The lounge tables were filling up,
With teenagers who had It
figured out.
‘They know not,’ Jane muttered,
fiddling with His tepid trench coat,
covered in a life of bird shit.
The Journeyman appeared
in front of the empty cafe.
She hadn’t aged a day
Her shy glances taking nothing
at face value.
Crazy Jane thought He saw
the Journeyman smile hello.
He combed His hair with a rock,
to grin back at the Journeyman.
But like Crazy Jane’s mind,
The Journeyman
was never there.
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