TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️
This scene contains graphic depictions of child sexual abuse, exploitation, violence, and trauma. It may be distressing or triggering to survivors or sensitive readers. Please proceed with caution. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Huai Khwang-Bangkok
(Thailand)
He woke with a jolt.
Darkness pressed against the walls-thick, unmoving. It wasn't just the absence of light. It was a suffocating void, swallowing sound, air, and sanity. His chest rose in short, sharp gasps, lungs desperate for air that didn't taste like rot.
I'mHe sat back, gasping-gasping for air untainted by his lingering sins. His bare chest heaved as his hands wandered instinctively over his body. The nudity reminded him of the night that had just passed... a night that had taken more than sleep.
As the darkness retreated toward dawn, it took his innocence with it.
His hands brushed against his bare skin again.
Same room.
Same smell.
Same nightmares.
Naked.
Used.
Trapped.
The stench of sweat, alcohol, and regret clung to him like a second skin. He groped around, searching for the clothes he had thrown off-or that had been torn off-hours earlier.
But he wasn't alone.
A large, half-naked man lay sprawled across the bed, snoring through his open mouth, his breath foul, heavy with the weight of last night's indulgence. He was three times the boy's size-dead to the world, unaware or uncaring of what he had done.
The boy, no more than thirteen, stepped closer. His jaw clenched. His voice, though quiet, was cold.
"Hey... Mr. Get up. You promised me money."
The man stirred, opened one eye, and sneered.
"You filthy little whore... asking for money?" he scoffed with a bitter, slurred laugh. "Get out before I call the cops and say you stole from me."
He rolled over with a grunt, oblivious to the mistake he'd just made.
The boy didn't flinch.
This wasn't the first time.
It never got easier-but he had learned to survive.
He stared at the man. A beast in human skin. The kind who believed his money gave him rights over bodies too young to understand shame.
The boy reached into the pile of clothes on the floor and pulled out a small knife-the only thing he truly owned.
A flash.
A gasp.
A warm trail of blood slipped down the man's neck.
He jerked awake, eyes wide in terror. The boy stood over him, unmoved, the knife steady in his grip.
"You said you'd pay me," the boy said, voice flat. "You broke your promise. But my knife? It doesn't break promises."
The man's voice trembled. "P-Please... take the money... just leave me alive."
"I'm not a thief," the boy said. "I saw you hide your wallet under the pillow. I only want what you owe me."
The man fumbled beneath the pillow with shaking hands and pulled out a worn leather wallet.
The boy took it without blinking. He didn't even count the money.
It didn't matter.
It would be gone soon-spent on food, maybe shelter.
Maybe to bribe the next person who'd threaten to throw him off a bus stop bench.
He left the house the same way he came in-unseen.
Another night survived.
Another scar added to his invisible collection.
His name was Kirt Samadhan.
In thirteen years of life, he had never known peace.
Every single day, he dug a new well just to quench his thirst.
And each night, the water tasted more like blood.
But he had to survive.
He had to move on.
Because he was alive.
Because he breathed...
And because he paid for every breath.
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