Unknown Happen Stance

Chapter 50: People Will Love You Even When You've Stopped Loving Them

I wrap Musa's lap in a thick blanket, my blood boiling. I am disgusted by how so many children are neglected, myself included, but I carry a more horrific story, one often silenced. Girls garner all the news when it comes to trafficking, yet young boys who become victims are shunned, even if they desperately wish to tell their stories. The public simply turns away, unwilling to face the truth of male suffering.

My experience extends far beyond merely being a trafficked young lad; a stark, undeniable scar on my body serves as a constant, burning reminder. I was sexually assaulted by another child, forced into that horrific act within the very system that held us captive. We were even destined to be married, a perverse mockery of life. People need to understand, truly understand, the depths of this depravity.

When the traffickers were finally apprehended, the girl, my co-victim, made a choice that haunts me still: she pled guilty and, more importantly, she bravely gave up their names. This act, born of desperation and courage, led to her tragic end; she later died, refusing to eat, consumed by the weight of what she had done. But before her death, she wrote me a letter, a sacred trust I now bear, urging, "Don't stay silent. Be the voice the universe has to hear and believe without question. But don't be overconfident or naive."

I never had the chance to forgive her, not for the forced crime she committed, not before she died the exact day of her release from a prison cell. Her guilty plea, though painful, saved me from the agonizing prospect of a court testimony against her. Now, I am consumed by a bitter, unyielding determination to see her words through, to fulfill her dying wish as soon as humanly possible. Her suffering, her sacrifice, was meant to ensure my survival, however unblemished I might tragically remain.

She knew, as I now know, that not all men, not all boys, are the monsters in these narratives. Sometimes, ladies hold the remote that actively ruins the lives of millions of lads like myself. They can be old or young, and if young, they too are often coerced into these acts without any choice. These coerced ladies are victims just as much as I was of her traumatic act, and I don't blame her; my regret burns because I could not travel to forgive her for a deed she was utterly forced to perform, face to face.

I recall the dark, stark, silent woods, stinking hard with animal scat, the pervasive moisture weakening my binds on that fateful day. I fled, running straight to authorities, right into their waiting arms. I arrived breathless, thoroughly weakened, terrorized, scarred up, with cruel rope burns marring my ankles and wrists. Today, those visible marks have faded, almost healed, but a more insidious scar lingers beneath the surface; it damaged not just my private parts but, indirectly, the very blood flow to my heart.

That internal scar began to heal too early, unclean scar tissue attempting to block the toxic damage, but ultimately failing. My body still holds the telltale signs: my insides, especially near my heart, are not right from the profound stress. This emotional torment caused several of my heart valves to narrow rapidly, which in turn burst the compromised scar tissue back open, and persistent swelling in my abdomen makes my legs feel consistently asleep. My heartbeat rate is hardly considered normal.

I carry it, and I hate it. I carry that dreaded disease, the very reason everyone fears unprotected sex. Yet, no one ever speaks about the unspeakable horror of being forced into a partnership with another victim, only for both of us to be marred by that same dreaded disease. She died from it. This was the true reason she couldn't eat anymore; it wasn't stress, it was the unbearable pain of an illness ravaging her from within.

This is why I must speak. This is why I am Cardell, and I am a survivor. I bear witness to the brutal truth that male victims exist, that their stories are valid, and that their suffering is profound. I will not allow their experiences to be swept under the rug of silence any longer.