The Education of Silence

My parents sent me to the learning center to save my future.

They wanted me to pass my exams. They wanted me to master my subjects. They thought that placing me under the guidance of a respected instructor was the responsible thing to do.

But predators don't always lurk in dark alleys. Sometimes, they sit behind desks.

The Curse of Appearance

There was something about me that drew them in.

I was a very fair-looking kid—something that stood out where I grew up. I had pink lips, very little body hair, and a body that leaned more towards the feminine than the masculine.

I didn't know these were things to be wary of. I just thought it was how I looked.

But the instructor saw these traits differently. He didn't see a student; he saw an object. He figured out very quickly that I was soft, submissive, and terrified of conflict. He realized I was an easy target.

Two Years of Captivity

He was a pedophile. There is no other word for it.

For two full years, that classroom became a prison. While other students were learning equations, I was learning how to dissociate. He used his position of power to access me, and just like the man from our inner circle, he enjoyed every inch of the body I was trying so hard to hide.

I couldn't tell my parents. They were the ones paying him. They were the ones hoping he would fix my grades. How could I tell them that the man they trusted was destroying their son?

So, I endured.

It reinforced the pattern that was now etched into my soul: My body is not my own. It belongs to whoever is strong enough to take it.

But the betrayal wasn't over.

(Next: The Cassette Tape)