Eden: a sex slave’s story


Please read this and take it to heart.

Originally posted on Investik8:


Wearing just their underwear, the girls line up with their backs to the wall, arms by their side, heads down, frozen to the spot. They dare not move.

Their captors walk up and down the line – picking them seemingly at random and tapping them on the shoulder – ‘You, you, you and you… come with me’.

In the back of a warehouse truck, they are driven for miles across the scorching Nevada desert until they reach a hotel. There, they are forced to have sex with up to 25 men one after the other.

This was life for Korean-born American Chong Kim who, at 19 years old, was sold as a domestic sex slave in 1994 to Russian gangsters and held captive for more than two years.

“The clients never came to the warehouse,” she recalled “That was just where we slept. There was nothing there but bed mats…

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I am a phoenix rising,
Reborn from the flames and ash,
from the rubble of my life.
Renewed and reborn in you.
I may become old and tired,
haggard and broken outside.
I am always the small child
When I stand in your glory.
All my wisdom is nothing,
and my knowledge is worthless.
I’m just a babe in your arms,
Held close to my mother’s chest.
I have been born once again,
and I will rise from the flames,
Spread my wings and fly once more.



People have been talking,

They tell me what you did.

Please tell me they’re lying.

They say you’re flying high,

You’re using and abusing.

Didn’t you say never?

That you hated that stuff?

Please tell me it’s not true.

Rumors make me wonder,

Was what you told me true?

Or was it all just lies?

I don’t know what to think.

Or who I should believe.

You stink of all the lies.

You don’t want me to know,

Well of you should I think.

Be honest with me, please?

My faith has been shattered

By the countless liars .

I don’t know who to trust

Please don’t join the liars.

You can’t talk your way out,

Not again, not this time.



Do you really think its a torture

when you avoid me for no reason?

Do you really think that you’re God’s gift

and it will hurt me to withhold you?

I’m done with the passive aggressive

games that you play with the whole wide world.

Find a new target, I’m done with this,

I’m done being shot at for the thrill.

I’m done trying to play mind reader,

to figure out what I did wrong now.

You used to be able to hurt me,

but I’m fed up with you and your games.

Go find someone else’s heart to cut.

Mine is no longer there for your games.

Why don’t you grow up and grow a spine?

You can’t play the victim forever.



When I don’t feel safe in my own place,

when my heart has been broken again,

you are always here to help me up.

I’m not good at returning the favor,

and I only know how to hurt others,

so I fail them again and again.

Just once I want to be there for you.

Just once I want to show that I care,

To be there just once when it counts.

Will this be my just once?

Will you let me be there?

Will I know how to show it?

To show that I care?

I don’t ever want to be the cause

For you to walk away from here.

I don’t know how to show it-

I’d scream it from the hilltop.

Just tell me how to show care.

Tell me how to show my love.

Don’t focus on me when you hurt.

Let me pour my love on you.


Ragged Edges

The ragged edges of my heart

have begun to heal over.

There was a time they were smoother,

Like a polished glass heart.

But then my heart was broken,

completely smashed,

utterly destroyed.

I cut myself picking it up,

Trying to put it back together.

But superglue and scotch tape

won’t bring it back together.

Holding my heart now,

I see the rough spots.

But time has worn away the sharpness,

and it no longer cuts me.

I still see the ragged edges,

but they are healing over.


Story Without a Name III Chapter 1

The rain fell outside, hitting the windows of the small townhouse. I sat by the bed in the center of the room, numb, despite the warmth of the fire crackling merrily behind the grate. Mother was sleeping now, peaceful at long last.

As I sat there, watching her, I couldn’t help but remember the day the illness had struck. She had gone to the opera with Father the previous night, and hadn’t gotten back until late. Even so, Mother had gotten up early, as usual, to oversee the servants as they went about their morning chores.

She had looked pale, but assured Father that she was fine. He had then left for work, as usual. Mother had then sent my sister and I off to school, and the day had passed just as many others had.

Julie, my sister, and I had not known that anything was wrong until we had seen the collection of vehicles parked outside our humble townhouse. At the sight of them we had broken into a run, dashing headlong across the street, panic driving us.

We saw no one until we entered the small hall, where the maid, Lizzy- or as she was fondly called by us children ‘Liza-Bet’- took our hats and coats, hushing us and half-heartedly scolding us for tracking mud onto the Gallian rug. She hustled us up the steps, sending us into the old nursery.

“I’ll let your papa know you’re back home,” she said, leaving the room. “And I’ll bring you your supper.”

“Liza-Bet, who do those carriages belong to?” Julie asked before the door had closed completely. Lizzy paused in the doorway, uncertainty flickering across her face.

“I’ll tell you when I bring your supper, Miss Julie,” she said, finally. As the door clicked shut, Julie turned to me.

“Sammy, I’m scared. Why is she bringing our supper here? Why are we not eating with Mother and Papa, like we always do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling helpless as I held Julie close to me. Gently I stroked her hair, like Mother used to do when we had nightmares. “Liza-Bet will explain it all to us. It will be alright, Julie.”

I held her for several minutes as we waited, not knowing what was happening. Finally the door opened, but it was not Lizzy bringing the food.

Our brother Henry walked in, a serious look on his face. Julie pulled away from me and ran to him, happy to see him once more, as he had been away at University for the previous five months.

“Has anyone told you what’s happening?” he asked, hugging Julie but looking at me.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “We came home from school, but nothing-“ I didn’t know how to express the scene we had come home to.

“Mother took ill this afternoon, so Lizzy sent for Father, who called for Uncle Charlie and the physician,” Henry explained, his face twisting. “The physician says that it’s gone on too long, that he can do nothing more for Mother.”

“But Mother was quite well this morning,” I protested.

“Oh, Samantha, if only,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Mother’s admitted to having pains in her side for quite some time now, but she never complained. If only she had, maybe she’d have more time now.”

“No,” Julie whimpered, searching Henry’s face for some sign he was joking. “She can’t be dying. Surely there’s something that can be done?”

I had frozen, a numbness beginning to spread through me. Henry wouldn’t lie about something so important. Surely not. Horror filled me, choked me.  I couldn’t make a sound, though I wanted to scream. My eyes were dry, though I wanted to cry a river. I wanted to flee, to run and never stop running, but my legs wouldn’t move.

“There’s nothing,” Henry murmured. “She has maybe two months, at best.”

“No!” Julie shrieked, tears coming to her eyes. “Stop it, Henry! Tell me this is all a joke? A prank you’re playing!”

“I wish it was a prank,” Henry said bitterly. “If it is a joke, someone has duped us all.”

That had been two months ago, and with every day that came and went, it felt as though our household had fallen apart. Without Mother overseeing the day to day comings and goings, the house seemed darker and dirtier.

I had tried to fill the empty spot, making sure that the house and its inhabitants were clean and presentable, but it still didn’t contain the same comfort, the same warmth that Mother had given everything she touched.

“Samantha, could you come with me to the library for a few minutes, please?” my father stood in the doorway. I didn’t know how long he had been there, but I was so tired from my vigil at my mother’s bedside that I didn’t care to find out.

Reluctantly I rose from my seat, glancing down at her as I moved. She was sleeping peacefully still, though sweat was beginning to give her forehead a shine.

“I’ll be right back,” I promised her quietly. I followed Father out of the room, closing the bedroom door behind me. He didn’t speak again until he had firmly closed the door to the library behind me.

“Samantha, I know these are trying times for our family, but it has not escaped my notice that you have become a beautiful young lady, nor has it escaped the notice of Thomas Cook.”

“Thomas Cook?” I said, confused.

“He has asked me for permission to pay you court.”

“Pay me court?” I repeated slowly, confused. Like a sunrise, his meaning dawned on me, and with it came the anger. “You mean to say that while my mother, your wife, has been sick and dying this last month and a half, you’ve been planning my marriage?”

“Er, not exactly,” he said, looking confused by my reaction. “I mean, I only told Thomas that he could court you. I’m aware that now is not the most opportune of times-“

“Not the most opportune of times? Your wife will be lucky if she lives through the night. She is going to die, and then we will all go into mourning! Don’t you care at all about your wife?” I was hysterical, crying and screaming.

“Samantha!” he said sharply, standing up, angrier than I had seen him in a long time. “I am only trying to do what is best for you!”


“I am your father, and you will do as I say. I have granted Thomas permission to court you. If his courtship of you is interrupted by mourning, then so be it. This is what your mother would have wanted for you. Thomas can provide you with a secure future, a home and a solid income,” his expression softened slightly. “I am just as concerned for my wife as you are, and I had hoped to bring you some happiness in these dark days.”

Guilt for yelling at my father filled my chest and as tears filled my eyes. I was exhausted and all of my emotions were closer to the surface than they should have been. Father walked around his desk and wrapped his arms around me.

I could smell the spices from his shop on his shirt and the clean scent of the soap Mama made for our use mingling with the stale scent of his tobacco. This was my father’s scent, and it soothed me with memories of him comforting me after nightmares had woken me.

“Samantha, all will be well,” he murmured. “I’ll sit with your mother this evening. Go, get some sleep. You’ve carried more than your share of this burden, and I am proud of you.”

“Papa, I am sorry,” I said quietly, feeling like a little girl again. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“Don’t think of it,” he said, smiling as he let go of me. “Now go get some sleep.”

~                                          ~                                          ~

After I had washed and rested, I prepared Papa a breakfast tray, with Lizzy’s help. When I let myself into my mother’s room, I paused, surprised by what I saw.

Father sat in the chair by her bedside, asleep, her hand in his. The fire still burned in the fireplace, and I stepped in, setting the tray on mama’s bedside table.

“Papa,” I said quietly, so as to not wake mother. “Papa, I brought you breakfast.”

He stirred, and blinked blearily up at me. He looked so old in that moment, as the fire cast shadows across his face.

“What time is it?” he asked, reaching for the mug of coffee that was still steaming.

“It’s just after seven,” I answered, keeping my voice low. He looked up in alarm.

“I need to go,” he said, taking a hasty gulp of the coffee as he bolted from the chair. He set the mug back down and he leaned over my mother to kiss her.

I knew something was wrong when he pulled away, mumbling a mixture of prayers and curses. He fumbled with her linp hand for a couple of moments before his fingers settled on her wrist.

“No,” he murmured. “Meredith, no.”


“Meri, you can’t leave me,” he whispered, ignoring me. I blushed at my father’s nickname for my mother, but I felt the blood drain out of my face as he lifted her to his chest, kissing her chest.

I knew then that she was gone. My mother had died.

I backed out of the room, feeling panic building inside of me as I turned and ran out of the room. Down the stairs I flew, through the halls and the kitchen, into the pantry. I slammed the door behind me and sank down into a sitting position on the floor.

It was then that the tears came with great choking sobs. Alone in the dark room I allowed myself to lose control for the first time in weeks.

It was Lizzy who found me, who convinced me to leave my hiding place. Lizzy who urged me on in my duties. Lizzy who helped me fill my mother’s shoes.

~                                               ~                                          ~

I stood, staring down into the coffin, looking at my mother’s body. She was just an empty shell, the hollow skin of my mother.

It was there that I saw Thomas for the first time since Papa had given him permission to pay me court. For all the good that had done. I was now in mourning. He couldn’t do anything for another year now.

“Samantha,” he said quietly, approaching me. “I’m so sorry, for your loss.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” I said quietly, looking up at him.

His hair was a sandy blond color, neatly combed into place as always. Everything about him was tidy, well kept. In the back of my mind I wondered how many maids his mother hired to keep him as he was.

“Has your father told you-?” he began awkwardly.

“Yes, he did,” I cut him off. “Mr. Cook, I don’t believe this is entirely appropriate.” Tears filled my eyes as I thought about where I was. Why we were here.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, searching my face anxiously. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive-”

“Thomas!” my brother appeared at my side, as if summoned by magic. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”

“I heard about your loss,” he said. “It would be wrong of me to not come and offer your family my sympathies.”

“We’re grateful for it,” Henry said.

“Miss Samantha,” Thomas said, turning back to me. “Before I go, I want you to know, I will wait for you until your mourning period is over.” With that he turned and walked away, leaving me feeling more vulnerable than I had been before.

I Am, Am I?

I’m not used to people staying,

not for long and not forever.

They always walk away in the end,

cause they don’t like what they see.

When I finally let them in

they all recoil in disgust.

I’ve wondered what was wrong with me,

that I drive away my friends.

They used to call me poisonous, a bitch,

arrogant and difficult.

They call me hateful and shallow,

self-absorbed and close-minded.

How could they know what’s in my mind,

what I hold dear to my heart?

And how can they know who I am,

when they don’t bother to learn?

Am I difficult and bitchy,

or arrogant and heartless?

I do not believe it is true,

but I could be wrong again.


Nameless Story, Needs a name desperately! Chapter 6

I followed the instructions on the note, and I didn’t view the contents of the SD card until I was completely alone, an event which happened several weeks later. During that time, however, I didn’t just sit around.

The rookie arrived the very next day, and I discovered that she was assigned to take Sarah’s bed in our hall. I helped her move in, though I really just wanted to protest her presence.

She was a tiny little thing, and blonder than almost anyone else that I’d seen. Privately I wondered how she had gotten into the MRA in the first place, but I didn’t ask. She might have been Sarah’s replacement, but that didn’t mean she was going to replace Sarah as my friend.

Her name was Autumn, and she was way too loud, in my opinion. And that was just the first impression. When I took her to training with the team for the first time I saw exactly how viscous she was.

Because of her, it felt like I was never alone. Autumn showed up everywhere, and there was no way I could get rid of her. She picked up on my dislike and tried to ask me about it.

“I can understand why you might not like me,” she began the conversation. I had been filling out some paperwork and I paused, startled and confused by this. We had been sitting in silence for about a half hour, and I had almost forgotten that she was there. Which was how I liked it.

“Oh?” I asked, setting down my pen but refusing to look at her. I could feel her stare, burning the back of my neck, and I fought the urge to squirm.

“I’m new,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I couldn’t stand showing someone like me around, if I was you.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” I said sharply.

“Obviously,” she said. “You also lost one of your team-mates. Squad members. You wish that I was her.”

She said this so bluntly that I all could do was stare. She had pegged a large portion of why I didn’t like her, but not all of it. My fingers itched to pull out the SD card, to find out what was on it. And I couldn’t do that if she was there.

“That’s part of it,” I conceded. “You’re a rookie. You haven’t lost you best friend to a mutey. You live, work and train with these people. You trust them with your life.” With each word I had become far more emotional. Autumn shifted uncomfortably, and I stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

“No, you’re not,” I said coldly. “You don’t know yet what it’s like to lose your best friend.” I turned away, not wanting to talk anymore.

A couple of minutes later she left the room. After the door closed behind her I rested my head in my hands, giving in to the weakness I felt inside.

I just wanted to cry, again, but I knew that it wouldn’t do me any good. Besides, my eyes were beginning to burn from the constant tears.

I wonder how much time I have before she comes back, I thought by way of distracting myself from my misery, sliding a hand into my pocket, my fingers curling around the micro SD card. I slid it out and looked at it.

Suddenly I felt like precious time was slipping away. I pulled my laptop into the center of my desk and turned it on while I rummaged around for my adapter for the card.

With trembling fingers I inserted the card into my laptop. The seconds stretched out, each one feeling like an eternity as my laptop slowly read the card.

Twenty-five folders met my expectant stare. Each one had a series of numbers as its name, Dates, from the look of it.

I selected the first folder, which was dated two years ago. Inside it were three documents, each titled with a name.

“Alex,” “Jack,” and “Jen.” Adrenaline and confusion rushed through my body, and I opened my document. I was terrified I’d get caught, and yet eager to know at the exact same time.

Dear Jen, the document read. If you’re reading this, it means that something happened to me. It also means that I can’t explain to you in person what’s going on here.

The MRA is more than just a tagging and registration program, like they told us when we were recruited. They’ve been working on a way to “cure” the mutants. In other words, to neutralize the powers.

I know what you’re thinking, but let me tell you, it’s not as great as it sounds. The MRA has a team of scientists that specifically work with cloning and genetics. They also have unlimited lab rats. 

Some of the muteys (take that, spell-check!) we bring in have no records of family or a permanent address. Sometimes they refuse to tell us their names, and they’re entered into the system as “John” or “Jane Doe.”

Who cares if these unknowns go missing for the sake of science? But even with the people who have families, sometimes the family gives the MRA permission to experiment on the mutey.

I don’t know exactly what happens in those labs, but I do know one thing- when the mutants come out, they’re either powerless (and test clean of the drugs, too) or dead. I saw them removing the bodies while I was on watch one evening, and I went to Iron Silk about it.

He told me that he’d look into it, but he hasn’t gotten back to me and he’s been treating me differently since then. I think I might be in trouble here, Jen, BIG TROUBLE.

Anyhow, I’m sure you’re wondering what all of this has to do with the rest of the SD card. They’re profiles organized by the date we collected the mutey on.

When you open the larger folders, that’s by month and year. I went back two years and copied every John or Jane Doe, every mutey whose family turned in a form saying they could be used in experiments, and every mutey we’ve lost, or who’s gone missing.

I don’t know exactly what they’re doing to them, but this is not what I signed up for. Look into it for me. Promise me, Jen?

Lots of love,


I stared at the screen for a moment, tears welling. On one level, this explained so much. On another, it opened a whole new world of questions.

I knew in that moment that I had been thrown into a whole new world of problems, and I didn’t like it. If what Sarah had told me was true, then I didn’t want any part in it. If what Sarah had told me was true, that explained why she had been killed.

Even if it wasn’t true, Sarah had died believing it, and I wasn’t going to just ignore her last request. The letters on the screen blurred as I stared at it. I knew in my heart what my response was.

“I promise,” I whispered.

“Promise who what?”

Battle Wounds

No matter how much time,

nor how much healing,

I still feel the scars,

like it was yesterday they were opened

by your hands.

Aren’t you proud of your work?

Don’t you admire the lacerations?

Some days I feel them more,

some days it’s like they’re not there.

Some days I carry the weight of the world,

some days I’m light and free.

Some days I think about you,

some days you haunt me.

My soul is restless, my body sore.

There’s only so much I can take,

and I wonder about you,

why you do this.

Do you like the pain?

Does it make you feel better,

to see me like this?

Does it make you feel big,

to make me so small?

I cared for you,

and you cut me.

I cared for you,

and you destroyed me.

I cared for you,

I cared for you!

Why don’t you see that?

What’s blinded you to that?

Who’s whispering in your ear?

I surrender.

I give up.

I can’t do this.

I’m not fighting.

I’m done.

Why don’t you see, the war’s over,

like there was a war to start with.

Here I stand in the end with my battle wounds.