“You Shouldn’t Speak Ill of the Dead”

Some people say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead; personally, I think people should tell the fucking truth. Yesterday I saw something on Facebook dedicated to a guy I ‘dated’ briefly. It was about how wonderful he was, how the world was missing a great mind and that life isn’t the same without him.

He died 3 years ago after contracting leukaemia due to some cell mutation after having Epstein Barr virus. There were appeals for stem cell donors, lots of publicity and at one point even celebrities were involved. His then girlfriend rallied round trying to find a donor for him and while I would never wish him dead, the nonsense that people said about this man drove me fucking mad. Let’s have it straight, the guy was a fucking dick. His friend asked me if I would consider having some blood taken to see if I was a match. This made me so fucking angry; I wouldn’t have pissed on him if he were on fire.

How I came to meet him was kind of bizarre. An ex boyfriend, before he was my boyfriend was talking to a girl on the internet – he was her friend and somehow we ended up talking to each other on MSN. 6 years later I’m talking to some random guy outside a club about a particular county and how I once knew someone that lived there who then ended up going to my local university; turns out it was the same guy. I took this as a sign to go back to this guy’s house to meet him after a brief, drunken conversation on the phone about how weird it was that it was he.

When I got to his house he was snorting coke, smoking weed and drinking tequila. We talked about poetry and politics – his parents knew my grandfather from The Communist Party, I slept in his bed and he slept on the sofa. A week later he asked me if I’d like to go for a drink. I said yes because at that point he was this tall, dark and mysterious stranger that somehow seemed he should be part of my life. I was very unwell at the time, impulsive, erratic and emotionally charged. This in no way helped my decision-making.

I met him after work and we went for a drink, I thought he was wonderful; this misunderstood, tortured artist that was forced to work in insurance. What became increasingly apparent was that without drugs or sex we had little to say to each other. He told me he’d left his ex girlfriend because she’d become too much to bear after she’d been in a car accident and her sister had died. He left her 2 weeks after that…

He was selfish in every possible way. And then he raped me. Effectively twice. He decided to remove the condom while we were having sex and lied. I’m not dead from the waist down, I can feel the difference. He told me he hadn’t and then disclosed the truth after it had become apparent… I was so angry and felt violated but he seemed to think it was amusing. He then dubbed a cigarette out on my shoulder because if I’m covered in scars I must like pain. With no money for a taxi I went to sleep hating him. He woke me up and informed me that if he was going to have to buy me the morning after pill, he may as well get his money’s worth and raped me.

I, in no way consented. I repeatedly said no. He was 6’ 6” and although slim was broad and fucking strong. He didn’t care. I cried myself silently to sleep. He took me to Boots to get the morning after pill and told me not to take it in the booth with the pharmacist; he wanted to see me take it. He never spoke to me again.

This man was not the gentile, happy go lucky, cheeky chappy he was described as by his friends and family as they made their pleas. He wasn’t an amazing scholar; he may have studied astrophysics at a good university but he failed. He was an avid drug user. He was a coward, a cunt and a rapist. He was a fucking rapist.








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