Monopoly

Every week, I play Monopoly with a child rapist. Every week, she wins. She is gracious in her victory. She allows himself a small, pleased smile as she gathers up her money, her cards, her piece, tosses them in the box, thanks me for the game, and shambles placidly away. Sometimes, we have another player; sometimes, we don't. Either way, she quietly sets up the board, carefully placing my little silver boot on Go, and waits patiently for me to roll the dice. She calls me 'lady,' not in a derogatory or crude manner, mind you, but with a note of respect and deference in her voice. She is quiet, withdrawn, patient, only showing emotion in quick bursts that quickly pass. She makes no mention of the long rows of cigarette burns on his forearms, and I do not ask.

She is fifteen years old.

Where I work, some people never read the patients' charts. They say they prefer to make up their own mind about them. Others, they never look up from the paper in their hand to see the person in front of them. Me, I read those charts at the end of the day, after spending time with them. Usually what I read isn't too surprising. Sometimes, it's shocking. Rarely is it haunting.

I am a victim of a past I can't remember, but which causes me to panic whenever a man steps too close.

Every week, I play Monopoly with a child rapist.

Every week, I look forward to it.