Let me tell you a story.
When I was a little girl of 12 or 13, a boy who lived two doors down from me used to menace me. We used to walk home at the same time, and since we were so geographically close, he'd usually end up walking a few feet behind me. He'd say things to me, barely audibly. He'd tell me about fantasies in which he and his friends raped me. He'd tell me about fantasies in which he undressed me in my house. He'd speak in graphic detail. If I ran, he ran. If I took another route home, he'd catch up with me. I stole condoms from my mother, and began carrying them in my school bag because when he told me he was going to rape me very soon, I believed him. A woman had recently made the news for asking her rapist to wear a condom, and it seemed like a good idea. He told me if i told on him he'd burn my house down when my mother was alone. (She was in a wheelchair.) I began getting home from school just a tiny bit earlier, or much, much later to avoid him. He never raped me; I almost never saw him.
Well, that creepy neighbor shot someone on the next street over 17 times, and then fled first to Jamaica, then to England. No one knows where he is now or they're not saying. He left behind a former friend of his who served three years for the brutal slaying before he was exonerated based on new evidence that the shooter had to be right handed like the guy who got away, not left-handed like the one they arrested. Meanwhile, he spent three years in Riker's with the grown-up offenders. I saw him a few months ago and he still seemed ruined.
I'm not a frightened little girl anymore. If a man says he's going to hurt me, and gets close enough that he could, I will ruin his mothafuckin' day. Believe that!