The Man Who Cried Rape

By Tom Wrath

In a world where the scales of justice are seemingly tipped against the innocent, one man embarks on a dangerous journey to save his brother-in-law from the cruel consequences of a bitterly flawed legal system. "The Man Who Cried Rape" is Tom Wrath's suspenseful and heartfelt exploration of the devastating repercussions of wrongful imprisonment and a family's relentless pursuit of the truth.

Colm's life is ripped apart when he is accused and convicted of a heinous crime he did not commit, thrusting his family into turmoil. As they grapple with the merciless reality of Ireland's capricious laws that allow life-altering trials to occur based on mere words and whispers, Tom refuses to stand idly by, letting injustice prevail.

Driven by desperation, love, and an unwavering loyalty, Tom sets out on a thrilling and clandestine mission to unmask the corrupt system, expose its hidden hypocrisy, and restore his family's honor. But, with every step he takes, the line between right and wrong blurs, forcing him to confront the question: How far is one willing to go to reclaim the truth?

"The Man Who Cried Rape" is a powerful and evocative novel filled with intriguing characters, unexpected twists, and a gut-wrenching emotional core that will leave readers questioning the true meaning of justice and the human capacity for redemption.

Grab your copy of Tom Wrath's "The Man Who Cried Rape" now, and enter the gripping world of a family fighting for justice amidst the chaos of a shattered life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Wrath
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224469444

Book preview

The Man Who Cried Rape

Tom Wrath

Published by Tom Wrath, 2024.

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Man Who Cried Rape

120 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

11 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

701 DAYS BEFORE IT

120 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

AN HOUR AFTER IT HAPPENED

50 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

43 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

800 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

179 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

164 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

112 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

61 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

110 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

3 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

340 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

33 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

217 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

700 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

339 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

LETTER NO. 1

708 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

309 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

175  DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

LETTER NO. 2

701 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

100 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

50 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

185 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

59 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

70 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

7 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

189 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

251 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

745 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

84 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

90 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

LETTER NO. 3

300 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

14 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

THE GIRL

4 DAYS BEFORE IT HAPPENED

5 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

FINALLY: THE DAY IT HAPPENED

180 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

WHAT HAPPENED (ACCORDING TO ME)

1 DAY AFTER IT HAPPENED

320 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

313 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

MY PLAN

LETTER NO. 4

343 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

343 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

AFTERWORD

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The Man Who Cried Rape

Tom Wrath

patreon.com/TomWrath

Copyright ©2024 by Tom Wrath. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The Man Who Cried Rape is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For permission requests, contact author at site below:

patreon.com/TomWrath

Note: AI tools were used to proof and edit my work,occasionally contributing phrases, and was part of the process in making the cover of my book.

A note from the author,

When writing this piece, I inadvertently named the main character, Tom, without realizing it was the same as my own name. It was an honest mistake, and once I realized it, I couldn't change it – the character had already become Tom in my mind. I want to be clear that this story is a complete work of fiction and not an autobiographical account. However, it was informed by witnessing a family that experienced something similar to the events in the story. The emotions, struggles, and perspectives expressed within the narrative are fictional, created to bring awareness to the complexities and challenges faced in these types of situations.

––––––––

Disclaimer: Please note that I am not a lawyer, and the information presented here is based on research and personal opinions. While I have made an effort to provide accurate information, there may be inaccuracies or outdated information, and this should not be considered legal advice or a definitive source on the subject matter. Always consult with a legal professional for accurate, up-to-date information and advice specific to your situation.  This is a work of fiction.

120 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

The very first prospect was a good one. 

The others that I saw later that day I decided to reject.  Oh, they were hurt.  They were angry.  Every single one of them.  But for one reason or another, I couldn’t include them. 

One mother would have been perfect except that when we talked about what had happened to her son I could see the doubt in her eyes.  She wasn’t sure.  If she wasn’t sure then there was no way I going to be able to trust her with something like this.  She kept making excuses but they sounded like excuses for what he did.  That wasn’t good enough for me.

Another one, it was a sister this time, she believed.  I think she was hurt more than I was.  I think she was hurt more than Aoife and Ciara.  I’ve never seen hurt like that.  And in the last four months, I’ve seen and felt more hurt than I could ever have possibly imagined.  This woman was in pain.  She was a total believer.  Her unadulterated belief made me a believer in her brother.  She knew him.  He had lived with her and her husband for years after the death of their mother.  He had been an uncle that had verged on being a second father to the kids.  I met the husband and one of the kids.  The husband was in a pain that was nearly as terrible as his wife’s.  He didn’t resent the pain his children had for their lost uncle (almost father figure).  He had nothing but that angry sorrow that I’ve grown so horribly familiar with.  The child I met was too young for school.  Her older siblings were attending a primary school a few minutes away, but she wouldn’t join them for another year.

She said, ‘Are you going to help bring Brian back?’

I said that I really wanted to.

She said, ‘He’s been so busy.  He’s after getting a new job.  He can’t come back for Christmas even.  I really want Brian to come home for Christmas.  He stays up with me, waiting for Santa.  He tells me stories to keep me awake but I always fall asleep too soon.  I’m gonna be all alone waiting for Santa this year.  My brothers won’t stay up with me.’

She cried at the end of that.  I’m not ashamed to say that I shed a tear as well.  If you keep reading this then you’ll get used to me crying.

I couldn’t use her mother.  Like I said, she believed.  She believed so hard that I could never think of anything else myself.  I was terrified of how often I was going to find myself in that position in the coming weeks.

Her mother was vulnerable.  It wasn’t just that she had a life she was afraid to risk.  I could see that plain as day.  They had a nice house.  The two cars parked in the drive were nicer than mine.  They had at least one outrageously adorable little girl and, presumably, two sons who were at least tolerable.  She was vulnerable because of all of that but I knew that I was going to need to take some risks and if I excluded every woman who had a good life then I was going to get nowhere.

The problem was that I could see it in her eyes.  I don’t want to call it weakness because this woman had survived what had been done to her family.  You can’t come out the other side of something like that and be weak.  But there was vulnerability.  She was honest.  For this to work I couldn’t use someone who was incapable of dishonesty.  I needed good people, yes.  But I needed good people who could make good liars.  I could tell immediately that she would make a bad liar.

The others on that first day were all a combination of bad liars and bad prospects.  They were prospects where I couldn’t believe or where I could see they weren’t certain.  I could not get this thing done with either.

But that first lady.  She was perfect.

11 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED

I still remember the cold.  It really was cold that night but that wasn’t the only cold I was feeling.  I was feeling that strange distant cold you get when you’re almost numb from drink.  It’s a chill that I always feel in my neck and shoulders.  The rest of me is too distant when I’ve drunk that much.  My toes and fingers surely have to be worse than the rest of me but the drink has sent them too far away.  It hasn’t sent them to the tropics where they’re warm.  It sent them to a place that is nowhere.  A place where I can’t reach them or feel them, no matter how hard I try.  Sort of like Colm.

I was crying on that cold October night.  I was sitting in the driver’s seat of my car.  Crying and drunk.  I did tell you that you’d need to get used to that.  I’ve moved beyond caring about people seeing me cry.  The only people who have shed more tears these last months are Aoife and Ciara.  And that’s not from any kind of weakness.  It’s because they know that they need to release the pressure valve.  I can’t do it.  I’ve seen what the miracle of crying does for them.  I’ve seen them both sink lower and lower and eventually collapse into the most miserable balls of sobbing misery you can imagine.  And then I’ve seen them rise out of it refreshed, ready to tackle the day anew.

When I’ve felt the tears coming I’ve tried to squeeze those bastards down.  I’m not so unevolved as to think that that’s what a man should do.  I know that it’s good.  I know that it’s a tribute to Colm to do it.  I know that it’s a release of the pressure.  The pressure that builds in a vessel, unrelenting, until the vessel wants to explode.  I think I suppress it because I want Aoife to be able to grieve for Colm.  And for Ciara.  I don’t want to bring that focus to me.  Don’t think for a second that she doesn’t see my glassy eyes sometimes.  And don’t think for a second that she hasn’t tried to prompt me to burst.

I’ve been like a pimple that way.  She’s seen the pressure building in me.  She’s seen the desperate need I have to explode in terrible grief.  She’s massaged that grief in a delicate way.  She’s tried to provoke the explosion.  It was like she was trying to squeeze the pimple so that it would pop, but not so hard as to leave a bruise.  She got so damned close but for some stupid masculine reason, I kept it in.  Part of it really was that I didn’t want to shift the focus to myself.  Part of it was that I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.

Well, nobody was there to see me crying at that moment.  The sobs came in rasping suffocating gasps.  My face was drenched in tears, and my breath was pushed out in terrible gasps of an anguish I had never felt before. 

I could see the door not twenty paces from the window of my car.  It was cold with a very soft misty rain drifting across the scene.  I can remember the image of the concrete footpath, wet and glistening in the amber caste of the streetlamp.  Beyond that was a low plastered wall.  The wall was painted but in that light, it could have been any color imaginable.  Beyond that was the short requisite stretch of lawn and footpath.  And beyond all of that was the door to the house.  The door with the letterbox that was an opening to their home.  That little brass portal that fed into their domain.

Thank God I cried.  Thank God for that release.

I sobbed miserably and struggled to catch my breath.  Each outward vent of pain was so powerful and miserable that it seemed like I would never be able to find the strength to force my lungs to pull air back in.  I choked on the misery.  And the fumes.

The cabin of the car was thick with the fumes.  As I finally found the end of the long tether of sadness I turned my head to the flood in front of the passenger seat of my car.  There, spewing noxious gases into the air, was gerry-can of petrol.  The smell was so thick in the car that I think it's a wonder I didn’t pass out.  I still think about that.  Imagine if I had lost consciousness from a combination of drunkenness and petrol fumes.  They’d have found me there in the morning.  It would probably have been a Garda that woke me up.

Instead, I looked at the can of petrol and gasped in shuddering disbelief.  My fingers brushed the hip pocket of my jeans and felt the book of matches there.  My eyes drifted across the shining footpath and that low wall and the lawn to the letter box and I couldn’t believe it.

Had I really been that close to doing it?

701 DAYS BEFORE IT

I carefully drew my hand back and watched the gently twisted head of the brush leaving a perfect dab of white on the eyeball of the tiny model in my hands.

My other hand held the remnants of my second (and probably last) glass of that night’s wine.  My brother-in-law, Nathan, sat on the other side of the table, several empty cans of Carlsberg littering his side of the surface like so many dead soldiers scattered on the battlefield. 

Nathan was a very tall, very powerful man.  In years gone by his huge shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his black hair always seemed to stick up in sweaty spikes from his square face.  In our latter days, both growing precariously close to the ominous big four-oh, his waist had filled in a little, his hair had thinned somewhat and the pitch black was now scratched with small traces of grey and silver.  He was still 6-foot-six, still strong as a team of mules, and still better looking than me.

I had always been exactly a foot shorter than Nathan.  I had always had the physique of a deflated beach ball.  The changes that time had wrought on me were simply that my hair had taken a total leave of absence, my glasses seemed to grow thicker every decade, and my physique continued to approach a less and less deflated beach ball each year.

Nathan and I might have seemed like unlikely friends.  He was the rugby-playing lady’s man.  I was the dweeb with the fantasy novels and board games.  But from the earliest years of our schooling, we had found ourselves comfortable together and had always followed in each other’s footsteps.  Be it me following him to the discos where I couldn’t have felt more out of place but inexplicably found girls to kiss.  He following me to the Dungeons and Dragons club where my brother nerds worshipped this athletic specimen like a God.  Eventually, we followed each other into an extended family by each marrying one of two sisters.  Aoife (who I very objectively believe to be the more beautiful of the two) was to become my wife.  Her sister, Ciara, made the mostly sound decision of marrying Nathan.

Aoife and Ciara’s mother, Mary, was never married.  She had lived her life like a furious bonfire with too much fuel poured on top.  She traveled widely, worked very little, and dabbled in every kind of chemical substance under the sun.  She chased rock bands and gurus from California to Dehli.  We saw very little of her until she fell ill and came back home, her boy, Colm, in tow.  From all my implementation of the past tense, it’s probably not hard to decipher that Mary died shortly after that.  Our two young families took Colm in.  At the time this happened, we were all in our mid-thirties and Colm was in his mid or late teens.

He fell in with me and Nathan almost immediately.  When he was old enough to drink he came with us to the pub to watch Nathan’s agonizingly bland sports games, or to my man cave to paint Space-marines and Chaos warriors.  The oddly matched duo of Nathan