Chris hasn't won anything. He's still Chris. He's still a flabby homunculus with a bent duck and body odor that would kill an elephant. He will never have sex with a sane, well-adjusted, attractive woman who isn't a prostitute or a rape victim. The fantasy world he erects around himself will be harder to maintain as he grows older, his body grows flabbier, smellier, and his duck starts to curl itself into a spiral that would put any in the Uzumaki manga to shame. He hasn't triumphed over the Justice system. He merely outlasted it. He wore it out by being so insubstantial, so unimportant in the grand scheme of things, that even if the woman he raped wasn't a dusty mummy with a cursed womb and was instead, someone noteworthy, the State still wouldn't want to prosecute him.
Far from skipping away from his crime with a song in his heart and a bright future on the horizon, Chris is going to toddle around his newfound haunts looking like a bag lady and talking like a 10 year old with an inhalant addiction. He'll be a ripe target for any con artist, grifter or ween on the make. He'll never know true love and, once his mother dies, he will never know what it's like to be mourned and worried over by anyone who isn't a rubbernecking goon or morbidly curious bystander.
The real tragedy from all of this, is that if Chris had any potential for independence or for genuine creativity, his horrible upbringing quashed it for good. Chris needed someone who would help him fight his own laziness and reject a falsely constructed reality in favor of one that was challenging, but true and satisfying. Instead he got lazy parents with backwards beliefs about mental health treatment, and a huge chip on their shoulder about how their gifted little tardchild could do no wrong.
