Anya came home and I could tell something was wrong straight away. She seemed evasive and would not look at me. Also, her clothes were dishevelled. They often were—Anya was a bit of a slob—but this was more than that. She hadn’t been drinking, and from her eyes, I could tell that she wasn’t smacked up. That’s odd, too. I knew better than to ask right out.

“Want a drink?” I asked, but Anya shook her head. See? Something was definitely not right.

I walked over to her and tried to put my arms around her.

“I don’t consent to a hug,” she said, and straight away, I drew back.

“What’s going on?” I asked. And before I could stop myself, “And what is that smell?”

She smelled of halitosis and unwashed bodies, of methadone clinics and rotten fish and garbage.

“It’s like you’ve been lying in a dumpster,” I continued.

“None of your fucking business, Kniam,” replied Anya, still not looking at me.

“Hey, am I your boyfriend or not?” I asked. “If you’re upset, then it is my business.”

I definitely was her boyfriend. We lived in the same flat and kissed and everything and when we went out I bought the drinks and when she was spaced out I held her hair back while she vomited. It was love. We loved each other. Poor Anya was very sick; she needed me to look after her, so I did.

“Tell me,” I said. “You can tell me anything.” And I let my gaze drift to her ripped tights and torn T-shirt.

“I was raped, if you must know,” said Anya. That’s one of the things I love about her: honesty. Another girl would have said this and that, or maybe lied to me.

“Did you go to the police?”

“No, jackass, it just happened. I came straight here. I thought you would want to help me.”

“I do, I will. What do you want me to do?”

“Stop asking questions.”

“Alright. Should we go to the police now?”

“That’s a question, jackass. No.”

“But there might be DNA, or maybe they could get the guy.”

“I don’t know who it was, alright? It was just some random homeless black guy. I’ve never met him or seen him before.”

“But they can take DNA.”

“No, they can’t. He used a condom. Luckily, I had one in my purse and I said ‘please use this if you’re going to rape me.’ So he did. No DNA. No cops. Got it.”

“Alright,” I said. “Anything else I can do?”

“Yeah, I’m going to take a bath. Go get pizza and some vodka.”

I headed out into the mean streets of Rhode Island. I felt the anger well up inside me. Everything that was precious to me had been violated. It was if I had been abducted by aliens and subjected to anal probing. It was as if I had been raped.

On the way to the pizza store, I stopped at a gun shop. I wanted to kill someone, anyone. I wanted to kill any random black guy that I came across. I stood at the shop window and looked at the prices. There were some pretty good two-for-one deals, but when I checked my wad, I only had enough for pizza and vodka. The gun was going to have to wait. Still, there were plenty of black people around. I could kill some later.

When I thought about it, it would better if I killed them in self-defence. All I needed to do was stroll up and down the promenade at Newport until some black guy attacked me, and then I could kill a potential rapist in self-defence. It would not necessarily be Anya’s rapist, but it didn’t matter.

Cold hatred settled into my stomach like cold pizza. When that thought crossed my mind, I rushed home. Anya would be mad if I was late. She would be cursing and crying. Anya hated being sober; it stifled her creativity. And she would be hungry.

Anya was still in the shower when I got home. She was singing in the shower and I noticed that a jar of cherry brandies had been opened and all the syrup had been drunk. Good job: I liked cherries and Anya liked brandy. I sat on the couch and ate the cherries while I waited for Anya.

She came out of the shower and took a swig of the vodka.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yeah, whatever,” Anya said and grabbed a slice.

Now that I was home, I had time to formulate my plan. I would never have a black homeless rapist attack me looking like I did. I gave it some thought and it was clear that what I would need to do was disguise myself as a white woman. Fortunately, Anya’s clothes fit me. Anya wasn’t a big girl, but I was a skinny little runt. I knew they would fit because I had tried on her bras a few times while she was out. The plan was all coming together perfectly. All I had to do was wait until Anya drank herself senseless and then put on her clothes and head down to the gun shop.

Soon Anya was snoring and drooling on the couch, so I slipped out from under her and went and changed. I put on a short skirt, tights, suspenders, and a cute little pink jumper that I bought her but she never wore. Our feet were the same size, so I could fit comfortably into her slingbacks, and after I stuffed toilet paper into her bra, I looked in the mirror.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

The boobs were a bit lopsided, so I adjusted them a little. Nice ass, nice legs. Now it was time for action. Now it was time for payback for the random homeless black rapist that had deflowered my precious Anya.

I grabbed a purse, shoved in some keys, my wallet, and a few condoms, then headed of to the gun shop.

“Please, God,” I said to myself, “let me be attacked by a random homeless black rapist.” And before I had gone a few blocks, my prayers were answered.

It was at this point that I realised the flaw in my plan. I hadn’t reached the gun shop before a random homeless rapist grabbed my ass from behind.

“So, back for more already?” said the corpulent rapist. I could not see who the man was. All I knew was that he was immensely fat and black. This must have been the very one that had raped Anya. Inside, I was glad it was him.

The fat literary editor took me and threw me face down on a pile of black bags. I wasn’t wearing any panties because I thought that would be too weird to wear Anya’s panties. I didn’t want anyone to think I was a pervert.

Crushed beneath the weight of the random swarthy journalist, I was powerless to resist as his condom-clad cock crept into my crevasse. This was it; now I was certain I had the right man. Unfortunately, there was little I could do as he overpowered me and penetrated me with his adequately-sized member.

The sensation of being raped was not entirely unpleasant for me. I know woman go on about it all the time, but I guess it’s like childbirth. Feminists just like to make a big deal of things. In fact, if I’d met the random chubby editor in different circumstances, we might have been friends. The black guy heaved himself up on his belly and then plunged down like a sperm whale breaching and then diving to the depths of the ocean, the deep salty ocean. I moaned in agony, and it was agony. I’m telling you: it was definitely agony I was moaning with.

Then I realised to my horror that the random fat rapist literary writer was not black. Sure, he was swarthy, but the black colour was boot polish. Fuck, he wasn’t even black and I was going to shoot him. Now I was getting boot polish and fat literary cum all over Anya’s clothes. There was no way I was going to let the right-wing fuck face get away with this. In a rage, I lashed out.

“Your literary magazine is a pile of shit,” I roared. The fat fuck screamed in rage.

“You have no distinctive style of your own and your own work is banal,” he retorted.

“Kettle, pot, black,” I screamed without a hint of irony or self-awareness.

“You hang around with a bunch of losers that pose as right wing hard men.” My words slapped him hard in the face. Although admittedly, they seemed like very nice young men.

“I’m a member of a neo-Nazi death squad,” he bellowed, but we both knew he was lying.

I was merciless. “You published an article calling the president a c*nt.”

“But it was funny!” the fat literary editor defended himself.

“You gave a platform to extreme left-wing writers, gays, and transgenders.” That hit him straight in the gut, but I knew I could not let up, not for a moment.

“You give out your monthly prize to a small group of writers that circle-w*nk each other.”

“It’s a lie,” he claimed, staggering backward before my onslaught before collapsing. It was over. I had won, in my own head.

“Who gives a fuck about your opinion?” he muttered. “I have circulation. Massive circulation. You can’t argue with that.”

But I wasn’t listening.

“I should kill you,” I said. “After all the humiliation you’ve heaped on me with your podcast and social media. You’re not even fucking racist. But I haven’t got a gun, and besides, I need to take Anya’s clothes to the dry cleaners before she sobers up.”