04: Where the silence began

When people hear about abuse, they think it starts with fear.
It doesn’t.

It starts with feeling seen.
With being told you’re special.
With ice-cold Dr. Peppers and long drives and someone older saying,
“I can help you become something.”

I was twelve when I flew out to Georgia to spend a week with Mr. B.
He had told my parents he was going to help me become a model.
He’d shoot a portfolio. He had connections. This was a big opportunity.

And to be honest? I believed it.

The first few days were exciting.
We went around Atlanta taking photos—Stone Mountain, Olympic Park.
We drove with the windows down.
We ate nice lunches and dinners.
He made me feel like I was going somewhere.

He also handed me a cigar and offered me a drink.

I was 12.
But I did it.
He laughed, said something like “see, you’re already a grown-up.”
I didn’t want to disappoint him.
He was cool. Powerful. And now I had something to hide.

That was the first lock on the cage.

The photos started to change.

At the pool, he watched me while I changed.
He told me to do shots with my shirt off.
Told me to lower my shorts just a little.
Told me boxer briefs looked better—more marketable.

Then asked me to do outfit changes… while he stood nearby with the camera.

He’d ask for more.
A little lower.
A little tighter.
Just one more pose.

And I froze.
I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even speak.

He offered me massages. I agreed, even though I knew it was weird. He was a touchy, feely, emotional person. I

I thought maybe this was his way of showing people he cared about them. But then I started to fall asleep.

As I started to doze off, I felt my shorts lift up. I would see him in the reflection of a cabinet glass his TV stood on.

He was looking down my shorts, feeling. I would move pretending as though I was waking up, and then he’d stop.

But as I laid still for long enough, the abuse would start again. Each time a little worse. I froze.

I finally got he courage to act like I was softly waking up. Just enough to not alarm him.

Just enough so he wouldn’t think I caught on to what he was doing. I got up and went to bed. I didn’t sleep that night. I was terrified. I started to disconnect.

The next day we went on like nothing happened. Eating good food, taking the same awkward photos.

A few days in, he showed me a video game on his computer.
Something goofy—Pac-Man style but with political figures.

Later, when he wasn’t around, I went to the computer to play it again.
But I clicked the wrong file.

What I saw still haunts me.

Photos. Of boys. Young. Undressed.
It was real.
I knew instantly what it was.
My body locked up.

He walked in.

Saw what I was looking at.

Without hesitation, he took the mouse, clicked out, and said:

“Ugh, you know these viruses and pop-ups. They just show up sometimes, you can never get rid of them.”

I just nodded.
Like I believed him.
Like that made sense.

Then I started playing the game.
Because what else was I supposed to do?

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I kept thinking: Is that what I’m a part of?
Is that why he keeps asking for those photos?
Is that why he tells me to change behind a tree and still stands there watching?

But he was so kind.
He made me feel seen.
The Dr. Peppers. The lunches. The compliments.
He called me “movie star.”
He made me feel like I had a future.

So I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t call my parents.
I didn’t ask to go home.

Because somehow, I already knew:

If I said something… he’d say everything was my fault.
That I drank. That I smoked. That I let it happen.

And who would believe me then?

That’s where the silence began.
Not with violence.
Not with fear.
But with confusion.
And charm.
And shame.

He didn’t need to tell me to keep it a secret.
He made sure I would choose to.

And yet, I still had hope. I heard him on the phone with people. He was connected. I saw photos all around his house of him with famous people. Maybe I just had to weather the storm to get to the dream that I was sold. Maybe I was special. I wanted to believe that.

If you’ve ever frozen when you wish you’d spoken—
If you’ve ever carried shame that wasn’t yours to hold—
I see you.
I was you.
You’re not alone.