𝗥𝗲𝗱 | JJk ✔️

44| Entry 1

September 9th, 2003 (20 years ago)

I was seven years old when I visited a brothel.

Yoongi called them Broth Hell because the moment we stepped in, we were sinners.

"You're too gruff, pipsqueak," the man complains, readjusting himself on top of me.

The scent of dirt and beer hung close in the air of this miserable brothel. Screams and moans of little boys that sent a flickering ounce of scary comfort within me. I wasn't alone.

A pain like nothing I've felt--sparked through my insides--a white, dizzy spell in the back of my head that zapped through the contours of my teeth. Oh Lord.

My client lets out a gargle from the back of his throat. "Damn, little one, you act like u ain't feel nothin. Maybe moan a little more next time, aight?"

My lips tasted like salted metal as I nearly cracked the bone in my arm when I bit on it to stifle my screams. I sit up, just as he slips his underwear on. I couldn't feel my body. 

Before I can leave, the man grabs my hand, places a couple pennies in the palm of my hand. "Go buy yourself some candy or weed."

I take the money from his hand and start to walk away, feeling the space between my legs burn. I didn't have the energy to say anything to him. Because I was so tired, and my pelvis itched and all I wanted was to go home and lie down.

I didn't know my biological mother or father. I didn't grow up in an orphanage. I grew up in a monastery. And monasteries were meant to be holy, peaceful, and quiet.

But the priests and monks didn't teach us to pray. They didn't teach us to say the rosary. They didn't teach us at all.

At seven, they made us prostitutes.

The night I turned seven was the night I lost my virginity to some pedophile. 

Some think monasteries were cooler than adoption centers but I would give away all my candies to be anywhere else. Because at the monastery, we lost every ounce of our humanities.

At first, we thought it was normal. That everyone does it as a way to make a living. But I soon realized that sucking someone's dick for money is very different from from selling corndogs at a flee market.

These people weren't priests. They weren't holy. They weren't humans. They were demons. They made us do all their dirty work.

"Father, please don't do this. Please—"

The priest grabs me by my hair and shoves my head into the tub of water. "You little slut can't do a job right!"

I didn't satisfy the full needs of my client so this was my punishment. Getting "baptized" over and over again until my windpipe was clogged with water.

The water was ice cold and the urgency to breathe made my lungs hurt. 

Before the priest can dip my head back into the barrel, a lady's voice breaks in, distinct and loud. "What's going on here?"

I squint up at her, my vision groggy as my eyes sting with salt water. She was pretty, with long curly hair and big clear glasses. The woman had a notebook in one hand and a pen clutched in her other hand.

Father June drops his hand from my hair. "Oh," he says. "Hello there. Don't mind us, I was just teaching him how to wash his face."

There's a furrow between the woman's eye brows, her face growing red. "By drowning the poor child?"