Schadenfreude, or shameful joy. A German word that so very neatly describes the pleasure we derive from the misfortune of others.

Over the last few days, I've ranged from inconsolable to overjoyed to plain damn stressed at the hands of another. I can only say now that I hope he's suffering too.

I hope, for the pain I have been caused, he doesn't feel nothing now. I hope that for the fear he caused me when we last spoke, that I was going to be raped, he maybe feels half that. I hope that he panics for his job now just as much as I panicked yesterday, when I found myself calling the head office of my company and informing them that I had genuine fears for my safety to the point that I felt I could not go in. I hope he feels stress even somewhere near the level of having to have a conversation with a man five pay-grades your senior, where you have to frequently and graphically describe the frequent and graphic things going on in his building unknown to him.

He cannot be going about his day as if it was all okay, surely? Even if he has confidence that his higher position and the lack of evidence will eventually see him through without disciplinary action, somewhere deep down, I hope he panics, knowing that I am right. I hope he questions his every action for fear he inadvertently provided evidence of what he's been doing. I'm sure the guilt of knowing he's lying through every second of his impending cross examination is present every minute of his day.

But I don't think schadenfreude is the right term. Shameful joy? No. I have gone through periods of shame over the last few days, interspersed with even more periods of regret, but I know, deep down, that I cannot be ashamed. What I did was not only the right thing to do, it was the only thing to do

The joy I feel for every terrified bead of sweat on his temple is not schadenfreude.

It's retribution.

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