Dear Bunny….

I'm the only one who knows the whole truth, the whole story. I'm the only one who actually knows you, knows your patterns. I know you. So, no, I don't have any sympathy when I feel completely dismissed. You only cared when you thought your secrets were going to get out, when you feared that the things you're trying so hard to hide would be revealed. You only cared when your image was at risk. Stranded in a foreign country—that's how it felt. Lost, upset, annoyed, angry; I am angry. I am angry because you claimed you liked it, that night it happened, claiming sobriety. Until it was revealed, until the Little Man decided to have a big mouth and reveal who you really are.

"Little Man"—that's what we’ll call him. Offensive? Maybe. True? Yeah, definitely. So, Little Man he is, and you, well, you are “Bunny.” Bunny, a girl, pretty and smart, but attention-seeking and a liar. The night of, we were all drinking alcohol in our systems, affecting our judgment. Decisions were made, and they weren't the best. However, the claims you're making now are unfair and unjust. It's not my intention to invalidate your experience or emotions, but I lack the sympathy to be there for you in this situation. You told me you liked it. The night of—do you remember that? Do you remember telling me how “he wasn't very big, but he knew what to do with it” with a happy and proud tone in your voice? I remember it clearly, despite the alcohol in my system. I remember because I agreed with you. I thought Little Man, despite being oh so little, was attractive.

Little Man—a flirt with a big ego. Presumptively a fuckboy, from what I was told and from my interactions with him—a man definitely not worth settling down with anytime soon. A man who tried to get with me less than 24 hours after you guys had sex. He’s disrespectful and lacks honor and intelligence, but I was still flattered. I liked the sexual tension when he and I were going back and forth. I would have done something with him if it wasn't for you and Blue Eyes. I was trying to show respect to you before the accusations, before you felt differently about the situation. You had told me about “how you hope your friends would respect you enough not to get with the people you've been with.” So, I showed my respect to you because I loved you, because I cared about you, because you were my friend.

I wasn't hurt when he chose you. I wasn't hurt at all. He's not a prize; he's a Little Man. There was no need for competition, and I loved you. But then there was Blue Eyes, a kind man, one I have no ill thoughts of, and I hope you never will either, just because of his association with Little Man. See, what you didn't see the night of the incident, because you were off with Little Man, doing what you do best—hop. Blue Eyes took care of me and my alcohol-induced self, got me water and food, let me sleep on his shoulder during the night's end when all I wanted to do was go home. But you weren't back yet. You were off with Little Man. It was supposed to be you with me; you weren't supposed to leave my side. For my safety and yours. Did you even notice when I chased after you, after the man so incredibly drunk shoved you? Did you notice how I didn't want you out of my sight? I didn't want you separated from me. I wanted you safe. You're a pretty girl, and it was midnight on a Saturday night. Nothing good can come from that. You weren't supposed to leave my side either—to keep me safe, out of harm's way, to prevent anything bad from happening to me, to make sure the situation from the Fourth of July wasn't repeated. It was supposed to be you. I was in a foreign country, after all—a foreign country I was visiting with the sole purpose of seeing you.

Lucky for you, oh how lucky for you, that Blue Eyes was a good guy who kept me from harm. Lucky for you, the only sober person in the group stayed with me for most of the night. Lucky for you, I ended up being okay. But if something had happened to me, I would have never forgiven you. If something had happened to me like what happened on the Fourth of July, I would have committed war crimes. That would have been the third time this year, and the second time that month, so you're lucky for that. But I should never have been in that position in the first place. You and I both should have been safe, out of harm's way, but you left me. You left me to go have sex with Little Man.

Here’s where we disconnect: I don't think you understand why I lack sympathy for your situation, why I will never be a person of comfort for you regarding this topic. Because you will never understand the gravity and the effect of the events on the Fourth of July. No one will. So that's not completely your fault. I change the topic every time it comes up; it's too painful to relive. But that night, the Fourth of July, when I was violated in my own room, when I became another statistic—the night I was raped.

Diablo, that's what we will call him—the man who committed the horrific act, the man I wish would one day rot in hell for what he did to me, the man who made me hate my thighs, making me extremely uncomfortable in my own skin, the man that took something from me that I will never be able to explain. Diablo, because the night it happened, the one memory I replay over and over again, of him inside of me, on top of me, staring at me with eyes of extreme power—power he was taking from me every time I looked at him. Power that I couldn't fight off, as the lights in my room were red. Diablo, the man from hell.

Now let me explain why my sympathy is so limited, and why the only thing I can offer you is my respect for your feelings. Because the night of the incident, the night you went off without me, the night you stranded me in a foreign country for nothing but pure selfish reasons, the night you left me to go have sex with Little Man—you were intoxicated, so was Little Man. We all had alcohol in our systems. Something dangerous in nature, something you should have learned to control by now, as most of the first times you've had sex with men, you were intoxicated. Those FaceTime calls—did you forget? The ones where you would tell me your stories with these men you were sleeping with—they had always involved alcohol. But you never claimed they raped you then; you never claimed to have been assaulted. From my theory, it's because no one ever found out about them. It's because it was a kept secret that you were sleeping with half of the soldiers on the base.

When it happened to me, though, both times, I was sober. I can recall the entire experience. I can say for certain that I didn't consent. I never talked about the experiences in a good way. I have always felt violated and disturbed, ruining my self-image, increasing my fear of men, scaring me from intimacy at times. Now, I won't sit here and claim that it prevented me from having sex ever again. I won't sit here and say it ruined me to the point of no return, the first time it happened. The first time, I pushed it down, I ignored the feelings of despair, I spent the day after it happened bawling my eyes out, then minimized the situation and went on with my life. It wasn't until the Fourth of July that the effects of both incidents took place. I can recognize that, I can acknowledge my actions; it's the mature and fair thing to do. What makes me upset about your situation, Bunny, is that you won't.

Bunny, the night after it happened, you went and had sex with another guy. You let another man inside of you, when I couldn't even bear the thought. The first time I had sex with a man after the Fourth of July, I had a panic attack. I couldn't bear the thought of another man inside of me, and it's still something I struggle with. The only person I was completely comfortable having sex with after Diablo stripped me of something that I'll never be able to get back was Blue Eyes. But you weren't claiming to have been raped then, so maybe it was lapses in judgment, maybe you hadn't convinced yourself yet of what happened. So, I ignored it until a week later when you had sex with a new man, the best friend of the guy you had sex with a week prior.

My frustration grew as you continued to talk about the sex you might have with these men—the ones all chasing after you because you’re someone easy. They don't have to deal with any consequences after the fact. They get to use you, and then they get to ignore and block you after they leave—they're only there for a short amount of time anyways. It's sad, really, Bunny. I hope you’ll understand that one day. I hope one day you finally stop letting them treat you like that. Eventually, you will, and when you do, please don't tell me. I don't want to know. I don't want anything to do with you anymore. It's tragic, honestly. I trusted you, considered you one of my best friends, but the treatment and complete disrespect from my trip to Korea ruined that. Unfortunately, I still care for you; my heart is big, so I wish you the best. But it's best for my sanity that we don't speak again, because all you do is remind me of Diablo. You remind me of one of the worst nights of my life—all because you left my side, because you were selfish, because you had to go and claim rape, making the entire trip to Korea about it when all I wanted to do was forget.

For that, I hate you, but I also still respect you. I hope you did whatever you felt you needed to. Again, I couldn't be bothered to show you sympathy, but I can show my respect. Maybe it's the remnants of our friendship, or maybe it's just that I still care enough not to wish you harm, despite everything. I hope you learn from this situation. I hope you mature and understand the gravity of your actions. I hope you eventually stop letting men take advantage of you. But when that does happen, I don’t want to know—just remember that.

This is my final goodbye, Bunny. I wish you nothing but growth and realization. And for me, I wish peace, a chance to move on without the weight of your decisions and their impact on me. I’m letting go of the anger, letting go of the hurt, because holding onto it only keeps me chained to that room, to Diablo, to the red lights and the powerlessness. I deserve better. I deserve to be free of this, and so I will be. Goodbye, Bunny. Take care of yourself, and please, don’t look back.