Chapter 1: The Predator Goes Viral

The man who assaulted me is now internet-famous.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I still can’t believe it—the same guy who shattered my life is now hawking women’s hygiene products to thousands of swooning fans. He’s got that calculated, camera-ready smile, the kind you see on reality TV contestants who know exactly how to work a crowd. Surreal. Almost comical—if it weren’t so sickening.

He got out of prison, crafted an image as a "changed man," and now he’s raking in cash every day selling women’s hygiene products on social media livestreams.

The irony burns. Every time I see his face trending, I wonder if any of his fans would recognize the real him behind that reformed-bad-boy act. But in America, we love a redemption story, don’t we? The bigger the fall, the more dramatic the comeback. He’s milking it for all it’s worth, cashing in on the pain he caused me and countless others.

Years ago, he was a poor scholarship kid I mentored. I brought a wolf into my home.

Back then, I thought I was doing something good, something that would matter. I never imagined I was handing a loaded gun to someone who’d point it right at me. Sometimes, I still can’t believe how naïve I was. It hits me in waves.

Now, not only does he profit off my pain, he shows it off in front of millions.

There’s something twisted about watching your trauma become someone else’s content. He’s turned my nightmare into his brand, and every like, every comment, every dollar is another slap in the face. It’s like he’s daring me to speak up, to challenge his narrative. It’s exhausting.

I will never forgive him.

That’s not bitterness—it’s just the truth. Some things you can’t move past. Some wounds never close, no matter how many years go by or how many apologies you hear (or don’t).

His video found me by accident.

It was a Tuesday night, just after dinner. I was scrolling through TikTok, trying to unwind after a long day at school, when his face popped up on my For You page. My heart stopped. I almost dropped my phone. There he was, larger than life, acting like the prodigal son come home. For a second, I thought I might throw up.

The man with the buzz cut had his release papers propped up front and center.

It was like a prop in some twisted performance art. He angled the camera just right. Made sure everyone could see the official stamp, the date, the signature. Like he wanted the world to know he’d "paid his debt."

He explained to his audience that he was an ex-con, just out after serving his sentence. He talked about being out of touch, struggling to find his place in the world again. How relatives and old friends shunned him, how jobs slammed doors in his face—how he was broke and hollow inside. I almost laughed, but not in a funny way.

He spun it like a country song—hard luck, heartbreak, a man against the world. You could almost hear the sad guitar in the background. He made himself sound so small, so lost, you’d think he was the victim.

He swore he wouldn’t let it drag him down. He wouldn’t beg. He’d stand on his own, make something of himself, prove he could be a good man. He was determined to start fresh.

He even said, "I’m not looking for pity. I want to earn your respect." Like he was auditioning for a second chance on national TV.

By the end—he was crying.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, voice cracking just enough to be believable. The chat blew up—digital confetti, hearts, virtual roses. I watched, numb, as the donations rolled in, each one a little celebration of his so-called rebirth.

The livestream chat was exploding—most people cheered him on, sending gifts, pouring out support.

It was a carnival of forgiveness. People love a comeback kid. They love to believe anyone can change, that even the worst mistakes can be washed away with a few tears and the right hashtags.

Because the man was undeniably handsome. God, even I can admit it.

Even I can admit it—he’s got that all-American, clean-cut look, like he could be cast as the misunderstood jock in a CW drama. It’s infuriating how much that matters. On camera, under those studio lights, he looked like the poster boy for a redemption arc.

You know what they say: a buzz cut is the real test of a good-looking guy. He passed with flying colors. He was even more striking than some of the actors you see on Netflix.

I saw the comments flying by—some flirty, some downright thirsty. It was like watching a high school pep rally, only everyone was rooting for the wrong team.

His livestream was flooded with fans simping for him, calling him “king” and dropping heart emojis left and right.

—He’s such a snack!

—Prison-style heartthrobs are trending now!

—Ugh, he can get it!

Some even joked about "prison chic" and how they’d "let him break their heart." The internet has no shame, and no memory.

Watching the face that’s haunted my nightmares, my hands shook as I typed out a comment, one word at a time. I hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor.

—Eric Morales is a sexual predator.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could feel my pulse in my throat, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. It hurt. It felt like standing on a cliff’s edge, about to jump.

His victim was me.

The words looked so small on the screen. Just a handful of letters, but they weighed a ton. For a second, I wondered if anyone would even care. Or if I’d just be another troll, lost in the noise.