The following is the introduction to the book I'm writing for a young girl who was sex trafficked. The name of the book is Tragedy to Triumph. I'm hoping to have the book done by Christmas.
Introduction
This is my story, but it could be the story of many women/girls/boys who end up trafficked into sex slavery. Predators are ruthless in their pursuit of helpless, scared, desperate individuals. They don’t care how old you are or from whence you came. To them, you are a commodity, that’s all. You’re not a feeling, emotional, or spiritual human being that can be hurt.
Hurt and wounded are synonyms that infer outward scars. Yet no one can truly comprehend the inward scars unless you’ve lived it. “Lived it” implies that one actually “lives” this kind of life. I contend “living” is not what we do. We captives are really dead. That’s the only way to survive the “life” of a trafficked person. Years ago, trafficked persons were put up on an auction block and sold to the highest bidder. They were chained to keep them from running.
However, I was never chained. He might as well have chained me, but he didn’t need to. I willingly ran into the arms of my jailer. All he needed to do was promise me food and a roof over my head in exchange for sex; no big deal. Right?
Today, slavery stills robs souls. It still turns people into objects of desire. Today’s slaves are put into dirty, dank rooms and sold over and over again to anyone who pays to play. In my room, the men checked their souls at the door to play. The soulless “play” was evil and meaningless with no passion and no affection.
My soul checked out long ago. I was nothing but a shell with innards that didn’t matter anymore. Sure, I had the working parts I needed to satisfy the customers, but the rest of me was as dead and rotting as road-kill. Maybe the men couldn’t smell my rotting, but I did. In the night, when rest eluded me, the smell was as palpable as if I were standing next to my decaying carcass.
I died inside the day I made the choice, at the ripe old age of thirteen, to run away from the only home I knew. I chose to run free. In reality, I ran into the folds of captivity, bondage, and subjugation.
Now, I am searching for freedom again. I’m searching for meaning and life. Will I find it? I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that telling my story will set me free. Telling my story might help set someone else free. Telling my story might help me to find myself again.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m still running. I think a part of me will always be running away. I’m not even sure what I’m running away from, but I know I won’t be set free until I stop running away and run to the right savior…
This is my story of finding myself and running to my savior.
