The only positive from her constant supervision of the rapist is she has confirmed that he’s not getting any ass, lowercase, despite mingling with his bros in the city’s trendiest establishments and his activity on the dating site, which greatly pleases the woman, but good things must come to an end the same as those bad things, though the woman isn’t sure that bad things do come to an end, at least not for her. She watches as the rapist leaves his apartment for an outing with extra excitement in his step, only to escort someone back to his place soon thereafter. When she sees his lights turn off, the woman is too upset to stay, but she also can’t not contemplate what’s probably happening. Rapes that occur since her rape are her fault. The woman could have stopped these rapes if she hadn’t been so stupid, if she had been swabbed, combed for rapist debris, photographed, and documented, the evidence of her rape then added to the stash of rape kits that require testing and are stored until who knows when.

Guilt feels almost like a physical weight, like the rapist is on top of her as she tosses and turns on her sister’s mattress, and she can’t sleep. The sun hasn’t risen, and there she is again, standing in front of the rapist’s building until one of those serious tricked-out runner types emerges and she can glide in. She’s about to knock on the rapist’s apartment door, but what if he doesn’t answer? What if she catches him in the act? What if the intercourse is mutual? What if the rapist’s dog bites her? Investigation reveals a spare key duct-taped under his welcome doormat. Of course he has a key there, because the rapist never feels the need to worry about someone assaulting him. Maybe it would be better to rob him or break his belongings in revenge. This moment of hesitation is enough for her to lose her resolve. Instead of knocking, she rests her head on the door and cries and cries. When her skin touches the wooden surface, she could swear that it is warm.

Turnover is always high in the content-moderation department at the world’s most popular search engine, though it does tend to cause a bit of a fuss when someone has a nervous breakdown or theatrically quits with a tirade about the disgusting ubiquity of injustice and how they will not sit on their tushies and wipe clean this corporate palimpsest of evil one second longer (though one someone opted to direct his rage into an incredibly foul letter to the CEO that went viral). Lately, the word around campus is that their jobs are relocating to Manila, where a family of five can purchase a month’s worth of groceries on a fraction of the salary that doesn’t last a week of brunch and yoga classes in the Valley. BabyJesusUpchuck and Cunty take bets on who will be the last ninja standing. “You,” they say to the woman. “We didn’t expect you to last a week.”