The following survivor story was written by Keith Smith, who is breaking his 34-year silence with his book, Men in My Town, scheduled for release late-March on Amazon.com.

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I was abducted, beaten and raped by a stranger. It wasn’t a neighbor, a coach, a relative, a family friend or teacher. It was a recidivist pedophile predator who spent time in prison for previous sex crimes; an animal hunting for victims in the quiet, bucolic, suburban neighborhoods of Lincoln, Rhode Island.

I was able to identify the guy and the car he was driving. Although he was arrested that night and indicted a few months later, he never went to trial. His trial never took place because he was brutally beaten to death in Providence before his court date. 34 years later, no one has ever been charged with the crime.

In the time between the night of my assault and the night he was murdered, I lived in fear. I was afraid he was still around town. Afraid he was looking for me. Afraid he would track me down and kill me. The fear didn’t go away when he was murdered. Although he was no longer a threat, the simple life and innocence of a 14-year-old boy was gone forever. Carefree childhood thoughts replaced with the unrelenting realization that my world wasn’t a safe place. My peace shattered by a horrific criminal act of sexual violence.

Over the past 34 years, I’ve been haunted by horrible, recurring memories of what he did to me. He visits me in my sleep. There have been dreams–nightmares actually–dozens of them, sweat inducing, yelling-in-my-sleep nightmares filled with images and emotions as real as they were when it actually happened. It doesn’t get easier over time. Long dead, he still visits me, silently sneaking up from out of nowhere when I least expect it. From the grave, he sits by my side on the couch every time the evening news reports a child abduction or sex crime. I don’t watch America’s Most Wanted or Law and Order SVU, because the stories are a catalyst, triggering long suppressed emotions, feelings, memories, fear and horror. Real life horror stories rip painful suppressed memories out from where they hide, from that recessed place in my brain that stores dark, dangerous, horrible memories. It happened when William Bonin confessed to abducting, raping and murdering 14 boys in California; when Jesse Timmendequas raped and murdered Megan Kanka in New Jersey; when Ben Ownby, missing for four days, and Shawn Hornbeck, missing for four years, were recovered in Missouri.

Despite what happened that night and the constant reminders that continue to haunt me years later, I wouldn’t change what happened. The animal that attacked me was a serial predator, a violent pedophile trolling my neighborhood in Lincoln, Rhode Island looking for young boys. He beat me, raped me, and I stayed alive. I lived to see him arrested, indicted and murdered. It might not have turned out this way if he had grabbed one of my friends or another kid from my neighborhood. Perhaps he’d still be alive. Perhaps there would be dozens of more victims and perhaps he would have progressed to the point of silencing his victims by murdering them.

Out of fear, shame and guilt, I’ve been silent for over three decades, not sharing with anyone the story of what happened to me. No more. The silence has to end. The fear, the shame, the guilt have to go. It’s time to stop keeping this secret from the people closest to me, people I care about, people I love, my long-time friends and my family.  It’s time to speak out to raise public awareness of male sexual assault, to let other victims know that they’re not alone and to help victims of rape and violent crime understand that the emotion, fear and memories that may still haunt them are not uncommon to those of us who have shared a similar experience. For those who suffer in silence, I hope my story brings some comfort, peace and hope.

I never thought it would happen to me.

Does anyone really believe it’s in their future to be raped?  It’s only been recently that I’ve been able to say that I am a victim of rape, and this happened more than thirteen years ago.

He was my high school sweetheart.  We’d dated for two years, which in high school-speak meant we were practically engaged. We were a bit of a golden couple, both of us captains of our athletic teams, honor roll students and happy. Even after we broke up, we were still very close friends. He told me about the girls he was dating; I asked his opinion on guys. We hung out together when we were both dateless on weekend nights, shared hot fries from McDonald’s and talked on the phone all the time.

College took us to different places, but we still kept in touch and saw each other when we were both home. I was his date for several of his formal events. He came to visit me at my campus, and made all my roommates swoon. He was one of my best friends, and I loved him dearly.

After graduating from college, he went on his way to a new job in a new city while I stayed in our hometown to work. One Friday, he showed up on my apartment’s doorstep. A conference had brought him to town for the weekend! Excited, we settled in for a night of catching up and hanging out. We cracked open a bottle of tequila and played silly drinking games.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve gotten stupidly drunk; This was time number two. Not much remains in my memory of what happened that night. What I do remember is very out-of-body, as if I were floating in the corner of my room looking down on the scene below. I was naked in my bed. He was on top of me and inside of me and it hurt. I had never had intercourse before — was it supposed to hurt so much? I was groaning and panicked. I think he took it to mean pleasure.

I woke up alone. My private parts were burning and I felt red and raw all over. I was so ashamed — I couldn’t even remember all of what had happened. I blamed myself because I’d drunk myself unconscious. I took a hot shower and I pulled myself together as best as I could. My roommate saw my brave face and gently asked if I was okay. I softly told her what happened with my eyes down. She apologized that she hadn’t come in — she’d thought she’d heard something from her room on the other side of the apartment, but wasn’t sure as she’d been drunk herself. She felt horrible even though I assured her she shouldn’t.

I moved through the rest of that weekend in a daze. My best friend. Quite honestly, had he asked me to have sex, I might have done it out of love for him. I had vowed to remain a virgin until marriage, and now I wasn’t sure I still fit the definition. I just knew this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

I told my big sister, who didn’t have words for me. Yet she and my roommate both did the same loving thing for me. In that day and age, the term “date rape” was just becoming a familiar one. Talk shows were covering the topic. My roommate taped an episode of Sally Jessy Raphael on the topic. My sister also taped a talk show — maybe it was Rikki Lake, I can’t remember. Quietly, and without knowing the other had done the same, they each gave me those tapes.

I never watched either of those shows. I didn’t speak about this experience for a long while. I never even really broke down and cried about it. I was so ashamed, and felt it was my fault because I’d been drunk. So I suppressed it, hoping that if I didn’t think about it, all would be fine and I wouldn’t be affected anymore. Nothing was farther from the truth, of course. It affected me every single day, with every relationship I had, with every encounter I had with anyone.

A few years later I spilled this story to a co-worker, who hugged me close and told me I had been raped. She told me I wasn’t to blame. That I’d been wronged. That my drinking didn’t nullify what he had done to me. That I could be helped. I found a therapist and cried a river. I was no longer in shock. I was able to examine what had happened. I learned from it and no longer allowed it to own me.

I never heard from my “best friend” again after that night. I guess that’s not a surprise. I don’t know where he is anymore, and I’m fine with that.

Hitting me became the norm, except he learned to punch and kick me in inconspicuous spots on my body. My stomach was his punching bag and my shins were splintered from his kicks. I lived in a dark hole, wearing long sleeves and pants in the middle of the Texas summer to cover the shame that I felt.

If you’re in a violent relationship, find the courage to escape and find a shelter.   You don’t have to live in fear. You can contact me at manicmariah [at] gmail [dot] com if you need ANY help.