Perfume From a Predator

Untapped Beauty

There’s a perfume that sits at the back of my closet. It’s almost 10 years old and still in its original box.

Every once in a while, it catches my eye.

I noticed it today as I was moving something, and uncharacteristically sprayed myself with it a few times before sitting down to write.

It was a gift to me from a very bad person: a man who I have known my whole life, who has (allegedly) harmed several children.

Thankfully, I was one of the lucky ones.

He never hurt me in the ways I’d learn that he harmed others. To me, he was gregarious- albeit weird- and he gave me gifts.

Yet still, I felt an undercurrent of something that I wouldn’t have been able to describe. I can’t say that it was unease, but rather something less conscious.

Confusion, perhaps.

There was uncertainty over how to interpret his off-handed jokes, or the way some people refused to share a space with him.

I didn’t know how to reconcile his projection of kindness with the way the adults around me encouraged the relationship, but also protected me from him.

It was- and still is- confusing.

The contents of the perfume have dulled and yellowed with time. But I see the gift more clearly now.

Time hasn’t changed the smell of it, though. That is still the exact same.

There is something about this particular gift that makes it feel different from the rest. The way, once it’s been sprayed, if won’t leave you. It follows you around. Even as I type this, propped up in my own bed, I can smell it with me; rubbing from my clothes and body onto my sheets.

There is also something about this particular scent that unsettles me- not the smell itself, but the circumstances of the gift. The smell is youthful, innocent, clean. It’s not sterile, but soapy, sweet, and floral.

I’m 34 now, and this scent feels too young for me- it was gifted to me a decade ago, after all.

And it smells nothing like the situation by which it was given. Filthy, dirty, guilty. It is not a sexy perfume. Although, maybe if it were, that too would feel off-putting.

No particular aroma would make this perfume smell good.

I thought about this perfume as I finished up my mini-series on Virginia Roberts Giuffre’s memoir.

The opulence of Epstein’s life hid so much abuse. He flaunted his wealth, and displayed his harm. The luxury was distracting enough for bystanders to ignore the ugliness.

But perfume from a predator isn’t a gift, it’s a manipulation tool.

The Lolita Express wasn’t a private jet for those girls like it was for Jeffrey Epstein. It was a transport to hell- a one-way ticket to a life forever altered.

A private island is only an oasis to those who enjoy being there, not those who want to escape it.

I put my perfume back in the box and pushed it to the back of my closet.

The smell seems overpowering and relentless.

I regret spraying it.

Maybe I’ll go take a shower.

Messy Bun Book Lover