The Long Way Home

Depictions of sex, violence, drug use, and mental health

“I was a freshman at St. John’s Academy, a catholic school for girls, just fourteen years old, when I met Bobby at the mall. He was so cute with his big blue eyes, that curly mop of hair, and those dimples when he smiled. He was sixteen, could drive, and said he was a junior at a prestigious private school in the city, St. Louis University High School. He had a way about him that was very different from other boys. He seemed more focused on having fun with me rather than doing stupid things to impress me. I liked that. He was big and looked strong. It made me feel safe to be around him. I liked that too. I was with my friend Stacey. He was with his friend Brandon. We walked through the stores, played at the arcade, and split soft-twist pretzels and sodas. The boys invited us to go do something else, but I didn’t dare go. That was the first time my parents let me roam the mall without them being there. I was not about to lose that privilege. Mom was on her way to pick us girls up as we spoke, so we called it a night.

“The next day, after school, Stacey, my other friend Tosha, and I were walking home from school. Bobby and Brandon pulled up beside us in this beautiful, brand-new cherry-red Mustang that purred like a cougar. He looked so cool. I was very impressed. They asked if we wanted to go for a ride, saying they’d take us to a place where a lot of people hung out after school to unwind. I immediately hopped in the car, excited to be seen with my new boyfriend in his stylish new ride. Brandon even slipped into the backseat so I could ride shotgun. Stacey and Tosha said no. Tosha’s parents were very strict, and Stacey didn’t want to leave her hanging.

“Bobby got on the highway and opened her up. Before I knew it, we were weaving in and out of traffic as Linkin Park’s ‘Given Up’ blared on the radio. That’s when, from the back seat, Brandon grabbed my face with a cloth. The next thing I know, I’m waking up in a cage designed for transporting wild animals, stripped of my clothes. Only my underwear remained.

“Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Fight or flight and I couldn’t do either. I rattled my cage, realizing it was just one of many crammed into a corner of a warehouse, in rows, stacked on top of each other. I was cold. My eyes burned. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and that I might lose my lunch. I could hear the soft cries of other girls and a few boys along with their sniffles, the smell of their defecations wafting through the air. Across the room I saw a very large man counting out cash and handing it to Bobby and Brandon. God, I hated them in that moment. I wanted to scream and claw their eyes out for betraying me like that.

“I sat back and cried. I felt so stupid for trusting some guys I just met. For all I knew they weren’t even high school kids. I cried because I let my parents down. By that time, they must have been worried out of their minds. I cried because I had no idea where I was, no idea why I was there, no idea what was going to happen next. I fell asleep crying and hungry, balled up on the cold steel floor of that cage.

“I woke to the sound of cages rattling and men shouting. The occasional hiss of a cattle prod made me jerk. We were lined up single file and led to a make-shift photo studio there in the warehouse. It was pretty much just a white canvas backdrop, some painfully bright work lights, and a man with an iPhone and computer. They took pictures of us and made quick videos that they uploaded to the internet.

“None of us had fully developed yet, having just started puberty. Some looked like they hadn’t even started puberty yet, especially the boys. Looking around, I wasn’t sure if anyone there was even old enough to drive. What I learned really quick is that there is a fetish for that age range. They will pay a good price for you and sexually objectify you, hurting you without any sense of remorse.

“After we were photographed and our profiles placed online, we were put back in our cages and fed some beans with a slice of bread and a cup of water. We weren’t even allowed to finish before they started loading us, cages and all, into a trailer bound for California. That’s where I met my employer, Ms. Crystal LaShea.

 “LaShea owned a busted down old motel off a desert highway where men could rent us to satisfy their shameful, disgusting urges. Now I don’t know how the business side works. I don’t know how she brought in the clients or how much she charged. All I know is that we gave the customer what they wanted, or we were beaten and/or starved. LaShea didn’t like to damage the merchandise, didn’t want anything visible, so it was usually taken out on our feet. Drugs were used to subdue the more resistful girls. That’s where I became addicted to heroin.

“At first, I was fearful and very cooperative. I pushed through the pain and would cry it out later. Then I grew numb, hateful, angry. One customer decided to do me anally while fish-hooking me in the mouth. Once he was done, I turned on him, slapping him, and ended up scratching his face. He was a married man who was going to have a hard time explaining that to his wife, the mother of his daughter who was the same age as me according to LaShea. Ever since that incident, I had to be sedated. It reached a point that I became very cooperative just to get the heroin.

“I had been working for LaShea for about two years when they brought in a new girl, Shannon. Shannon had a habit of screaming, crying, and trying to fight off the customers. They starved her. They took razor blades to her feet to the point that she had to be carried in to one client. But she never quit fighting. A new batch of girls came in and LaShea made an example of her in front of us all. She slit her throat from ear to ear and we all saw the fear in Shannon’s eyes when she realized she was dying. It was a very effective way to get the new girls to mind.

“My body fully developed at the age of seventeen. My services were no longer needed, so I was sold to a man called Loppy. He was a heroin dealer/pimp who had a reputation of lopping off body parts of those who didn’t pay for services rendered. Loppy kept me and a couple other girls in his home, which was a small place where he ran his product. Significant buyers were allowed a free taste of us girls during the day. We would work the streets at night. By that time, I had become used to servicing anywhere between six and ten men a night. I was used to crazy request. In a way, it was easier. Most of these guys were just lonely. Some of them were pigs with wives at home. I’d see pictures of beautiful families while swiping cash from their wallets. But for the most part they were lonely.

“The only difference between being with Loppy and LaShea was that with Loppy I didn’t want to get back to my family as bad. By that time, I guess I just accepted things as my lot in life. I wasn’t the same girl they remembered and questioned if they’d even want me back. I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do. Loppy was rough and scary but there was a roof over my head, and he kept the withdrawals away.

“At the age of twenty-four, someone got me pregnant. Loppy dropped me off at the abortion clinic. They took care of the pregnancy. Part of me wanted that baby, but I knew my life was no life for a child. The thoughts of who I used to be started haunting me along with the thoughts of who I could have been. They made me crazy, and I lashed out at everyone, including Loppy, which was a bad idea.

“Loppy locked me away and let the withdrawals take control. First there was sweating and chills. Then diarrhea and vomiting started. My body tried to expel things that weren’t there. Every muscle and bone in my body hurt. It was like being punched in the same spot repeatedly, all over your body. He came to me while I was at the peak of detoxing and told me he would give me a hit if I’d give him a little head. I did so eagerly, I was suffering so bad. I knew what he was doing. He was making a point. The drugs owned me, and he owned the drugs. Therefore, in a roundabout way, he owned me.

“I prostituted for Loppy for another three years, but because of the life I lived, I looked ten years older than I really was and wasn’t earning him enough money, so he turned me loose. After Loppy kicked me aside, I lived on the streets for a while, selling myself for next to nothing, just enough to buy a hit of smack.

“A church van came around one nasty evening looking to get the homeless out of the cold and rain. The idea of a warm, dry place to sleep and maybe a hot meal was too much to pass up. I agreed to go with them. There I got some soup in my belly, the first decent meal I had in a long time. A man sat down on the cot across from mine and began talking to me.

‘My name is George Tisdale. Who are you if you don’t mind me asking,’ he said.

‘Rebecca Shaw,’ I told him, a little guarded.

‘Rebecca, I would like to get you off the streets. What would you like,’ he asked.

‘I’d like to be rid of this heroin addiction I didn’t ask for. I’d like to clean myself up and go back to St. Louis, go home, and find my parents. I want to someday be a mom, but not like this,’ I replied.

“George checked me into a rehab and visited me every day. Detoxing from drugs or alcohol is a painful and torturous experience. I recommend never starting. George was there when I got out. He flew with me back to St. Louis and helped me locate my parents, which wasn’t hard, they had never moved. George stood by my side as I rang the doorbell, unsure of what to expect.

“My mom opened the door and gasped for air, her eyes filling with tears. I was surprised she recognized me. She reached out and touched my face and smiled. ‘Larry,’ she yelled back into the house to get my father’s attention. He came running, expecting an emergency. When he saw me, he stood up strait with a look of recognition. He tilted his head and started to cry. ‘Don’t just stand there, Susan. Let her in,’ he said.

“It may not sound like it, but things worked out better for me than most girls. I eventually found my way home. Some never get out. Some die, usually at very young ages. Some are sold overseas. Some are turned into slaves once they are no longer found desirable. I hope my story has some effect on you, so that when you meet someone new, whether at the mall, at a party, or online, you think before agreeing to do anything or go anywhere with anyone alone. You never know who someone is until you truly get to know them.”

Mrs. Rivers, the principal at Northwest High approaches Rebecca and shakes her hand before taking the microphone. “Let’s give Mrs. Dent a warm round of applause for coming here and sharing her story. I hope you ladies take to heart what she has told us and use caution out there in the dating world.”

The gymnasium erupted with clapping as young ladies rose to their feet. A lump formed in Rebecca’s throat and tears moistened her eyes as she felt that her message didn’t fall on deaf ears. Mrs. Rivers shook her hand again and Rebecca left with a wave to her audience.

After her speech, Rebecca stops at her parents to pick up her daughter. From there, she is meeting her husband at home who is preparing dinner for their second anniversary. He’s a good man and they have a nice home. Rebecca still suffers from PTSD. She still sees a counselor regularly and takes her medication as prescribed. She considers herself extremely lucky, blessed, and now puts the past behind her, focusing on her future, going from school-to-school warning young women about sex trafficking.