Wincestiel.

Hey, guys!

The above picture is the man who raped me when I was eight years old.

His name is Andrew Gonzalez. I’m not 100% positive, but I am fairly certain he was 18 or 19 when he raped me, making him 24 or 25 as I write this.

A few weeks ago, my mom announced that the police officer working my case had arrested him. The officer has tracked him down, and asked Andrew to come in one day and do a polygraph. Before the polygraph, he got a lawyer; they immediately arrested him.

However, due to the fact that there’s no physical evidence at all, he was let out of jail.

The case was dropped.

Let me explain:

When I was eight, my mom had to leave me alone with him twice, 30-45 minutes each time. My room was dark, only my pink and purple Disney TV, which was playing Lilo & Stitch both times. He would start by rubbing my stomach, which was a relaxation technique that has been passed down in my family for generations. The adults lightly run their fingers over a baby’s back to calm down the child. Andrew did this to my stomach, to relax me. His hand traveled into my pants, and he fingered me. I’m not quite sure how it progressed, but suddenly he was on top of me and his hand wasn’t the only thing inside of me anymore.

I haven’t told anyone that his penis was inside me. Well, not anyone in a position of authority, anyway. I didn’t want anyone fucking touching my vaginal area, or doing whatever they do to check to see if you’re a virgin.

So, no authority knows he stole my virginity. All they know is he fingered me without my consent.

Now, I have a therapist for all this trauma. She has asked me a few times, “Do you remember what you were wearing?”

I didn’t think anything of the question at the time, just said, “No, I don’t remember. I have horrible memory.”

The other night, it hit me that she had asked me what I was wearing when I was sexually assaulted - what an EIGHT YEAR OLD was wearing when she was sexually assaulted.

Since law enforcement won’t do anything about it, I decided I would try and warn people. I want you to know about him. He works at the new Dunkin Donuts in Belleview, Florida.

The other night, I was with my mom, my cousin, and my aunt. My mom assumed he was fired from his job as manager at the Dunkin Donuts, so her and my aunt pulled into the parking lot. It was dark, but I immediately started panicking. My mom said, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t work here, anymore, Punkin, it’s okay.”

But as my aunt went to park, my mom said, “No, we’re leaving.”

He was standing at the front door, chatting with some girl. I started crying. My cousin and friends tried to comfort me.

I was so goddamn upset. Why?

Because this monster destroyed my life, and he’s living his with no worries.

That’s not right. That’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve such happiness. He doesn’t deserve to have such a nice lief after he completely obliterated mine. I have no feeling of self-worth, or value. I see myself as an object, even though I try my hardest not to.

My own mother can’t touch anywhere near my stomach without me lashing out violently.

Please. I am begging for help. Spread this like wildfire. Hit reblog, don’t just like it.

I need your help.

PLEASE SPREAD THIS. PLEASE. EVERYONE, PLEASE, I AM BEGGING YOU.

MY LOVELY FOLLOWERS, I NEVER ASK ANYTHING OF YOU, BUT PLEASE, FUCKING SPREAD THIS. GET THIS PUT OUT THERE, PLEASE.

Sam: We don’t hate ANYBODY!!

Dean: HATE is not COOL!

Cas: I hat BROC’LI.

Dean: That’s OK, Cas.  BROC’LI is kind of yuck.

Sam: But we don’t hate ANYTHING!  Except BROC’LI!!

Dean: ….BROC’LI an’ mabes SEASON 7 of TRUE BLOOD.

“what are you writing?”

“it’s a….story.”

“oh cool, what’s it about?”

“…uh…”

last two letters of your first name

middle two letters of your last name

first two letters of your mother’s name

last letter of your father’s name