The Cassette Tape

It started with a promise of music.

The instructor I mentioned earlier had a younger relative who ran a small shop. In those days, getting a custom recording made was a special thing. He told me he would help me make one. He asked me to come to the shop on a Sunday afternoon.

Obviously, me being me, I didn’t suspect any foul play. I just wanted the music.

But when I got there, the plan changed. He said, "Before we start work in the store, I need to check on something at a site nearby."

I went with him. I followed him into the empty, half-built building.

The Empty Building

He took me to a secluded room on the first floor. And there, amidst the dust and concrete, he did what he had planned all along.

By this time, I had been abused by so many men that I had started to notice things. I had seen several male bodies up close. And in that room, a confusing thought took root in my mind.

I wondered why I was different. I wondered why my body seemed smaller, less developed than theirs. I didn't understand the biology or the age difference; I just interpreted it as another defect. Another sign that I was weak.

Burning the Beauty

This period of repeated abuse created a pit of self-loathing in my stomach. I began to hate the way I looked.

I remembered that the instructor—and others—had targeted me partly because of my fair skin and my pink lips. To them, these were features of beauty. To me, they were a curse.

So, I tried to destroy them.

I started smoking cigarettes.

I didn't smoke to be cool. I didn't smoke for the buzz. I smoked to turn my lips black.

I thought that if I could ruin my face—if I could stain the pink lips that they liked so much—maybe they would stop wanting me.

It was a harmful coping mechanism, born not from rebellion, but from a desperate need to manage the distress. I was trying to burn away the target on my back.

But the smoke didn't hide me. And the music never played.

(Next: The Secret Armor)