Adolescent by taiyon winter wai

At a young age, I was always a determined flower, swaying between extremes, chasing the fleeting images reflected in my own mirror. I never imagined I would end up where I am now, tangled in a strange and unpredictable coincidence that felt like the luminous glow of a full almond moon, serene yet enigmatic. My life was nothing short of a labyrinth, and when I fell into his arms, he enshrouded me like a delicate web, wrapping me up in a spell I couldn't shake off. And so, today, I share the story of an 18-year-old boy who married a 60-year-old man—an unlikely, yet inevitable tale of love, loss, and survival.

My journey began tumultuously, marked by the brutality of my father’s rejection. The day he discovered that his son had strayed too close to the rainbow—the colors of my true self—I was cast away without a second thought. He disowned me without hesitation, kicking me out into a world that felt both terrifying and liberating. I remember that day with razor-sharp clarity. The only possessions I had were two pairs of black clothes draped over my thin frame and the single pair of worn-out shoes on my feet, the soles already thinning. I remember the cold, harsh grip of the evening air as I stepped out into the unknown, my heart pounding with each breath, and my feet somehow holding up against the weight of it all.

I walked all the way from Alhambra to downtown Los Angeles—my muscles sore, my feet raw from walking miles without pause. My heart raced with every step, as though it could escape the overwhelming fear that clung to me. But amidst that fear, there was something else, something exhilarating. A sense of freedom washed over me, mingling with the fear. For the first time in my life, I was liberated from the suffocating grip of my parents' expectations and the judgment of society. Yet, with that exhilaration came a crushing wave of despair. My bones ached with the realization that the life I had envisioned—the dreams, the aspirations—had been severed by the very hands of fate that had once cradled them. All at once, everything I thought was within my grasp slipped through my fingers.

The first week was brutal. The world had moved on without me. No one knew where I was or even if I was still alive. They only had the poem I left behind—scribbled thoughts, dark and fragmented, offering a glimpse into my mind at its most chaotic. It was strange; those words, though dark and hollow at times, seemed to carry an unexpected glimmer of hope. I couldn’t explain it, but somewhere within those broken verses, I began to sense something new—a fragment of myself I never knew existed.

Even though I was now homeless, sleeping on the cold, unforgiving streets beneath the indifferent sky, I felt a strange, unexpected sense of aliveness. There was a certain kind of liberation in my solitude. I was free, but I was also utterly alone, lost in a world that showed no mercy. Still, it felt like a different kind of existence—one that was raw and unfiltered. But as I wandered through the streets of Los Angeles, I had moments of doubt, moments where I questioned everything. Should I go back home? Was I really cut out for this? The answer, though, was always the same: I couldn’t bear to go back. To go back meant to face the suffocating shame, the rejection, the endless judgment. I refused to become a broken boy begging on his knees for a second chance.

And so, I embraced the taste of freedom, no matter how bitter it might have been. Survival became my priority. I stole clothes—garments that billowed like a soft breeze around me, creating a fleeting sense of beauty and freedom. Sheer crops that danced and swirled as I walked. I reveled in the chance to express myself, strutting down the street with a defiance I’d never known before. I crossed my legs with flair, laughed in a high-pitched tone that seemed to float in the air, and moved with an exuberance that made me feel alive for the first time. I was no longer the timid boy of my father’s house, chained by his expectations. I was me—a boy, a person, a being—embracing the world with my whole self.

That first day on my own was nothing short of sacred, a transformative moment in time. It was as if the world had stopped for me to breathe, and I inhaled deeply, feeling a connection to something larger than myself.

But then the starkness of reality caught up with me, and the taste of freedom turned sour. The second day, that celebration of newfound independence, morphed into a grim reminder of my vulnerability. I was hungry. No—starving. My throat felt parched, as though I was walking through an endless desert, each breath coming with difficulty. Hunger gnawed at my insides, a relentless reminder that I had no safety net.

I won’t lie, in those first days, survival meant doing things I wasn’t proud of. I found myself stealing just to stay alive. There were no options, no open doors. Going back wasn’t an option, and no one would help me.

On a Thursday afternoon, desperate and exhausted, I wandered into a small convenience store near a church, my eyes darting around nervously. The weight of the gazes of the people around me was suffocating. I could feel their judgment trailing behind me, like a thick cloud, whispering about me. “Look at that boy,” they would say. “He looks no older than 16. Where are his parents?” I felt a hot flush of shame rise in my chest, the invisible weight of their pity settling like a stone in my stomach.

In that moment of reckoning, I put a few items back on the shelf, my hand trembling. I kept only a pack of gummy worms—a meager lifeline, the only thing that felt tangible in that moment. I slid out of the store as quickly as I could, my heart racing with a mixture of guilt and relief. The gummies would be my sustenance for two days. Two days of scraping by.

As time passed, the reality of my situation grew even starker. I grew bolder, stealing fruit, water bottles, anything I could find to stave off the gnawing hunger. That month bled into the next, and I found myself scavenging through trash cans, piecing together scraps of food, holding onto the last shreds of dignity I could find, always in desperate need of survival.

But somehow, in that struggle, I found something I had never expected—an unbreakable resolve. It wasn’t just about staying alive anymore. It was about finding who I was in the mess of it all. And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward truly understanding the person I was destined to become.

As I leaned back against the rough bark of the oak tree behind me, the weight of my thoughts bore down on me throughout the long, restless night. The sky was illuminated by the flickering wings of beetles, and their erratic movements mirrored the turmoil within me. I repeated a mantra to myself: I had to escape this moment. I refused to let the circumstances of my life keep me trapped. I couldn’t allow myself to dwell in the same dirt from which I had come, suffering the same fate as those before me.

Throughout that long and lonely night, I wrestled with the possibilities of how to change my current situation. My mind ran through options like a mental checklist. The first thought was to go to an orphanage, a place that held the promise of safety and structure. The second was to go to the police and tell them everything, hoping they could help. The third option was to travel to a place where I could truly start anew, away from the shadows of my past. 

Feeling desperate, I pulled out my laptop, a lifeline I had managed to keep with me, even though it was almost dead with only 5% battery left. I connected to the park’s shaky Wi-Fi and began to frantically search for shelters that could accept a 17-year-old like me. Each website I scrolled through seemed to lead to dead ends, depths of bureaucracy that felt insurmountable. But then, amid my research, I found a glimmer of hope—one shelter in southern Nevada that might offer the refuge I sought. 

As I closed my laptop with a sigh, the enormity of my situation still loomed over me. I realized I had only one option now. I had no clear plan for how to get there or what my arrival would entail, but I was resolved to pull every trick I could muster to escape. The following morning, my laptop lay lifeless beside me, and I felt a gnawing anxiety. The only fragments of information I could recall were about the local bus routes: I needed to take the 106 bus, then switch to the 1, and ride all the way up to Glendale.

The journey wouldn’t be easy. Over the next two days, I found myself lost in constant loops, wandering aimlessly, missing the bus stop each time, and succumbing to exhaustion that pulled me into unbidden sleep. At long last, after what felt like an eternity, I arrived at the bus terminal. The dizzying cycle I had been ensnared in was finally over. However, my situation had worsened—I had no money and nothing to offer anyone.

When the bus to Las Vegas finally arrived, other travelers quickly produced their tickets, bustling to get in line. My heart raced as I stood to the side, fervently praying for some sort of miracle to intervene. As the last passenger boarded, the bus driver stepped inside to use the restroom, incidentally leaving the door ajar. Seizing the moment, I quickly slipped onto the bus and chose a seat at the back, hoping my presence would go unnoticed.

After about 15 minutes, the driver returned, settled into his seat, and didn’t acknowledge me at all. I felt a mix of anxiety and elation as the bus lurched forward, taking me toward Las Vegas. As we traveled, the dazzling lights of the city pierced through the darkness, their glow heating my skin and igniting my spirit. I had memories of this city—colorful snapshots of when I had explored it with my mother before moving in with my father. Although Las Vegas held shadows of my past, I sensed it might be the only place where I could carve out a new existence.

The bus pulled into the terminal at four in the morning, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I needed to recall the cross streets, clinging to my memories of the familiar—especially Tropicana, which stood vividly in my mind from those days walking alongside my mother. But everything felt like an echo from a distant past, barely within reach. Then one piece of advice resurfaced: the website had mentioned that if I could find a grocery store selling liquor and snacks named Terrible's, they could help call for my safe transport.

Determined, I set off into the heart of the Las Vegas Strip, scanning every store, looking left and right for any sign that could lead me to the haven I so desperately sought. Hours slipped away as I wandered from place to place, experiencing a mix of excitement and hopelessness. After five long hours of searching, I finally spotted it—the store nestled conveniently between Circus Circus and the Stratosphere. 

With a cautious sense of hope, I entered and approached the counter, explaining to the cashier that I urgently needed a safe place to stay. He looked up from his plate of cheddar cheese fries, his expression shifting as he processed my request, and picked up the phone to make the call.

Not long after, a woman pulled up outside, a stranger ready to take me to an uncertain future. She greeted me with a barrage of questions, her curiosity evident. But when she asked how old I was, panic washed over me—I couldn’t even answer that correctly. Time had become a blur, and months had slipped away from me, leaving me disoriented and adrift.

I shared my birthday with her—September 22, 2006—and as the words left my mouth, she smiled warmly at me, repeating the date with a hint of excitement. It was surreal; I couldn’t quite believe it. I was officially an adult. The realization washed over me—a mix of exhilaration and disbelief. I reflected on how swiftly time had flown and how this moment felt like a gift from the universe—or whatever force governs our lives—allowing me a chance to rewrite my narrative in that very instant.

But then, my moment of joy took a turn. The lady’s smile faded as she shared distressing news: there were no rooms available at their shelter. Shock coursed through me; I had come so far, endured so much, only to stumble now at this final hurdle. Just when I thought hope was lost, she surprised me by saying she found a spot for me at the Salvation Army. Though she warned that it was a very different kind of place, populated by adults in their 30s, 40s, and even 50s, I felt an unexpected surge of determination. I would be the youngest there, but I resolved to go regardless.

As she guided me to her car, I felt a strange mix of trepidation and relief. Upon arriving at the Salvation Army, the first night was a blend of discomfort and bewilderment. It was so foreign to me—sleeping in a bed, with blankets wrapped around me, and actually being able to close my eyes safely. I realized how accustomed I had become to a different reality, and this was both a welcome change and an eerie adjustment.

However, what no one had forewarned me about was the fact that the bed was never guaranteed for the next night. In the ensuing chaos, I found myself in a dorm being assigned by a man named John. The moment I walked through the entrance, he eyed me intently, licking his lips in an unsettling manner. He directed me on where to sign in, then asked me an odd question that took me off guard: “Are you a fairy or a warlock?” Initially, I was bewildered, uncertain whether he was serious or just mentally unbalanced, playing some sort of bizarre game with me. But my curiosity got the better of me, and without thinking, I responded, “fairy.” Little did I know, that would be a fateful choice.

His smile widened menacingly as he told me where I would be sleeping. He approached me again, this time bringing a water bottle and a sandwich, and I found it hard not to appreciate his generosity even though I had little desire to engage with him further. Still, I allowed him to speak, reasoning that he had fed me. 

Our conversation took a personal turn when he inquired about my sexual orientation. I confessed that I was gay, and before I could fully process my next thoughts, he asked me another suggestive question about my sexual preferences. Mid-bite of my sandwich, I paused and nodded nervously, confirming that I was indeed a bottom. After that, he left me momentarily, but a strange feeling settled over me—a fleeting sense of being flattered, perhaps. I wasn’t attracted to him at all, yet the notion that someone could find me appealing, even in a grotesque space like this, felt oddly satisfying. However, John wasn’t the only one taking notice; I became aware of several other strange men whose eyes were fixated on me, simmering with curiosity and intent.

I hurried into the restroom, the weight of anxiety pressing down on me as I locked the door behind me. Moments later, the door swung open unexpectedly, revealing John. Surprisingly, I wasn't startled by his intrusion; instead, I was filled with a sense of confusion. Why had he entered without knocking? What could his intentions be?

He approached me calmly and assured me that I had no reason to be afraid. John proposed something that seemed both enticing and unreal: he could transfer me to a safer dorm, but only if I complied with one small request of his. As he began to unbuckle his belt, a wave of dread washed over me. Despite my better judgment, I saw the promise of safety as a glimmering hope amidst the chaos.

I reluctantly went along with his request, and before I knew it, I had been moved to a new dorm—a place that initially felt like a refuge. However, what started as a seemingly innocent arrangement soon evolved into something much more complicated. Over time, John began to shower me with gifts, fulfilling my needs with an abundance of luxury and attention. Jewelry adorned my neck and wrists, even moving me in. glimmering reminders of my decision to accept his offer.

You might wonder why I chose to move in with him, given the circumstances. The truth is, I felt trapped in my situation, and John represented an escape—a way out of my previous reality. The lure of safety and comfort was difficult to resist, even if my instincts kept warning me that such coincidences felt too good to be true...