Keisha's Story

Her Abuse. Her Pain. Her Hope.

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive and potentially distressing content, including themes of sexual abuse, exploitation, prostitution, police misconduct and violence.

Reader discretion is advised, especially for those who may be triggered by discussions of sexual violence, childhood abuse, and systemic exploitation.

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KEISHA’S STORY

I stand on Long Beach Boulevard, my arms crossed tight against the cold of the night. I nervously tap my fingers against my elbows, silently wishing it was the chill making me shiver.

It’s another late night. Way too late, but this is my life now.

The neon lights flicker off the greasy street, painting everything in a sickly hue blend of green, pink, and blue.

Multiple cars pass by, moving slowly at first, then speeding up once the driver has had his fill of staring or picked up a girl.

While some girls prefer to flag down the fanciest-looking cars, I know it's much better to wait for them to call for you. It gives them some sort of power.

It makes them feel in charge, and sometimes they'll act nicer to you as a result.

In my seventeen years, I've learnt most men are wired that way.

There's a few girls on the block tonight. I think I see some new faces. We all look the same: high heels, barely dressed with bright lipstick on and some of us chew gum.

I rub my nails, freshly done with the remainder of yesterday's money. Red. I like how the colour makes me feel—fierce. A little more alive.

My lips are painted red too, just the right amount to make them look inviting enough.

"Hey!" A voice calls with a whistle. I trace the sound to a shiny black car and the driver signals for me to come over.

I nod and adjust my bag tighter on my shoulder. I walk over as the window rolls down completely.

He's a middle-aged guy, wearing a cheap suit and that stupid grin they all seem to have.

‘Johns,’ that's what I like to call them.

"How much?" he asks as his eyes graze my body from head to toe. His voice is gruff, low, almost bored.

I rattle off my prices to him. I'm glad I can keep my voice flat and emotionless, unlike the first few times I did this.

I realised I didn't need to be ashamed anymore.

"Get in," he says with a nod.

I search his eyes for that glint of kindness or even remorse. Most of them don't usually have it, but the ones that do are typically much better to be with.

Even if they're harsh or a bit rough, at least you know they probably won't hit you. Or try to kill you.

There's none of that kindness in this John.

"Are you deaf, bitch? I said, get in!"

I know better than to go with the likes of him. But tonight, I'm desperate.

I have a little sister and a sick mother to take care of.

It’s just business.

I offer him a smile I hope looks apologetic and quickly slip into the passenger seat.

The smell of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes fills the air as he drives off. His hand twitches on the wheel and he bites his lower lip menacingly before licking it.

It's involuntary when I squirm into the seat and squeeze my legs tight. I look out the window as streetlights and neon signs race past us.

I hope the sting behind my eyes is because of the cologne.

The motel is a complete dump, but it’s where most of them like to go. It’s ridiculously cheap and the police couldn't care less about the druggies and prostitutes that reside there.

We enter the building and I walk wordlessly behind him. He pays for a room and leads me up the stairs. The hallway is filled with the stench of heroin and vomit.

I see some people passed out on the floor, high out of their minds. Some stir as we walk past them. 

The room we enter smells damp and musty. The sheets on the bed look like they've never been washed and the creaking fan does nothing to ventilate the tiny space.

He locks the door behind us and tosses his keys on the table. I slowly sit on the bed, holding my bag tight and looking at everything except for him.

"Take off your clothes," he says, and he starts to unbuckle his belt.

Of course he doesn’t bother with small talk. No saliva to waste on the streetwalker, I guess.

Most of the Johns are that way, so it's usually a relief to meet one that treats you like a human being. Sometimes, they'd even offer to drop you back where they picked you.

Guess I'm not lucky tonight.

"You have to pay first," I say. My voice comes out too timid, so I inject a bit more power into it. "Payment first."

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but he doesn't. He mutters something between the lines of "stupid" and "slut" as he picks up his wallet.

They hate paying before they're sated, but from ugly experience, I know it's better that way. Terrible things can happen once their clarity sets in.

He shoves a bunch of crumpled bills into my hand and he takes off the rest of his clothes. He's completely naked and he gestures for me to do the same.

I inhale a deep breath and keep the money safely in my bag.

Slowly, I start to take off my own clothes. First my heels, then my belt, then everything else till I'm completely bare in front of this stranger.

He stares at me greedily, drinking in my naked body. He has that dark cloud of lust in his eyes; primal, desperate, and disgusting.

I wish the ground would swallow me whole.

He moves closer and shoves me down on the bed. I fall on my back and stare at the peeling ceiling. Almost immediately, his weight is upon me, and I close my eyes tightly. I shut everything off like a switch.

It’s the only way I know how to get through it.

I tuck my lips into my mouth and desperately hope that he's gentle.

It could have been after minutes, hours, or even years, but it finally ends. It’s over, and he leaves the room without a word.

I used to tell myself that I would feel better if I tried or pretended to enjoy it, but I never did. It's much better for me if I don't exist in the moments when it happens.

That familiar prick stings the back of my eyes again but I bite my lip and fight it off.

I promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore.

I'm numb as I pick around the floor for my clothes and wordlessly put them back on. I don't feel anything except the soreness between my legs and the clawing ache in my heart.

It could have been much worse, I tell myself. He could have been violent. Or refused to use a condom. Or forced you to do drugs with him. He could have robbed you after with a gun.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out the money from my bag.

I can add this money to my stash at home and use it to sort the rent. Maybe I can pay off some of Mom's debt too. Tanisha has needs for school, and while this is definitely not enough, it's better than nothing.

I try to focus on the positives.

I try to remind myself why I do this.

I try to remind myself that I am strong.

Yet nothing stops that violent feeling of being violated that comes after from overwhelming me.

And for what feels like the millionth night in a row, I break down into tears in a cheap, smelly motel room.

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After crying myself to exhaustion and my eye ducts to dryness, I walk out of the motel onto the street, numb and lost in thought.

My first thought is to go back and get another customer, but I don't think I have it in me again tonight. I'm physically and mentally shattered, and I just want to go back home.

Walking alone this late is stupidly risky in these parts, but I'm too worn out to care.

As I cross the road, a flash of blue and red catches my eye, and I freeze on the sidewalk. A police cruiser rolls by, and I recognise the driver—Sergeant Michaels. My body tenses and I break out of my fear to hide behind a dumpster.

I desperately hope he didn't see me.

The memory of that night unintentionally comes rushing back. The way he cornered me, offered me an out. "It’s either this or jail," he had said, his eyes travelling over my body to places where they had no right to go.

I’d given in, obviously. What choice did I have? I couldn't go to prison.

The cops would have gone to my house and seen our mother—the state she's in and the state we're living in. Then they'd have tossed my sister in a group home and I'd never see her again. Only God knows what would become of her then.

I couldn't just leave her alone.

That experience still haunts me, even more than some motel nights. The way he kept repeating that he was doing me a "favour." The feel of his weight and his breath against my neck as he held me at the back of an empty building. His disgusting grunts when he finished. The awkward silence as he put his uniform back on. The sly look on his face when he told me to "get home safely."

I hate him, and I hate his uniform, and I hate the world for putting men like him as the ones to "protect" us. It's a sick joke.

There's no protection out here; we're on our own.

The car zooms past where I'm hiding, and I exhale deeply. I come out from behind the dumpster and slowly walk home in silence.

Another night survived.

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I fix my hair again and apply the final touches to my makeup. I'm leaving earlier tonight because I have to make up for yesterday.

Usually, two or three clients are enough for me to make a decent amount. On some lucky nights, maybe even just one. Right now the bills are stacking up fast, so I need all the money I can get.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's ironic that, as much as I hate this life, I desperately need it to survive.

I wonder if it’s hypocritical too.

I stare at the mirror, and I don't recognise the person that stares back at me. Her eyes are weary, and her skin looks pale. She looks much older than she actually is. She looks like she was once beautiful.

I wonder when I stopped thinking I was.

I pick up my large overcoat and wear it over my clothes. Tanisha is still awake, and I'd hate it if she saw me dressed like that.

As I walk through the living room, 2pac's Brenda's Got a Baby is playing from the radio and I immediately cringe. Brenda and I aren't so different, and it always feels like the song is about me. I hate it so much.

"Turn it off, " I say to my sister as I edge closer to the door.

She was busy with her homework but now I have her attention.

"Where are you going?" she asks, dropping her pen and standing up.

"Work, Tanisha. Same as every other night."

"You're always working," she says. Her voice is upset.

"Well, someone's gotta feed your loud ass mouth, yeah?"

"I want to come with you."

My heart skips a beat.

"Girl, go back to your homework. You must be tripping," I say.

I try to sound casual but there's an underlying edge to my voice.

"You're always working late, Keisha," she says, and I see her lips tremble. "It's not safe and you know it."

Tanisha stares back at me in defiance, and it's all I can do not to break into tears. She's so beautiful and innocent and sweet. She doesn't deserve a messed up sister like me.

"Come here, T," I say to her. When she comes closer, I draw her into my arms for a fierce hug.

"I'm good, alright?" I whisper into her ears. "We'll be okay."

I sound like I'm trying to convince myself.

"Now, go back to your homework. And you better not be awake by the time I'm back, you hear me?"

She nods and I ruffle her hair before she trudges back to her table.

My heart swells with emotion.

"Mum!" I call out. "I'm headed out."

No reply.

I grit my teeth in irritation, my hands clenching at my sides as I walk down the narrow hallway to her room. The door is slightly ajar and I push it open. She's lying on her back, facing the wall and curled in a foetal-like position.

I look at her table and sure enough, her pill bottle is turned on its side, empty.

Resentment stirs in me.

"I'm headed out," I say to her.

She turns her head slowly, her eyes glassy, unfocused. She glances at me just enough to acknowledge my presence, but I'm sure she doesn't see me.

"You took too much again, didn't you?" I ask.

She doesn't reply and I scoff.

"If you're gonna blow all our money cause you keep finishing your drugs too early, then you might as well step out of the damn house and get a damn job, eh!?"

"Keisha…"

Her voice is faint, weakened by the morphine that's currently coursing through her system.

"You have a child in the house, mom; at least behave fucking responsibly!"

"Keisha…"

"Yes, mom!" I snap. "What is it?"

She flinches, and her face is masked by hurt.

"I'm sorry," she says silently, turning back to the wall. "I just… I just needed a stronger dose."

I scoff at her and walk out of the room. Stepping outside, I slam the door shut behind me and take off my coat. I toss it on the railing beside the door.

The cold air washes over me and goosebumps break out on my skin.

I stand on the porch, and I take a deep breath. Then more deep breaths. It's too early in the night to be frustrated.

I swear, I try my best not to hate my mother. I really do. She's the only parent I've ever known.

But it’s getting harder to be patient. Harder to understand.

I know she’s sick, and the drugs help keep her calm, but lately, she’s been taking way too much. She keeps saying her dosages aren’t strong enough anymore, but I know the signs. Addiction.

She needs professional help, but where are we supposed to get that kind of money? We can barely afford her monthly prescriptions as they are.

What makes it even worse is that every time I see her face, I see him. Sometimes I still see him when I sleep.

He was one of her boyfriends. At first, I liked him because he'd give me sweets, but he moved in with us. I wasn't ten years old yet when he'd slip into my room at night, whispering "don't tell your mother" into my ears. That was when thingd started to change.

He was the reason I began to hate my own body. Why I'd let those boys touch me every day after school. Because I desperately wanted to feel something. To feel in control. And sometimes I blame my mother for it.

She kicked him out when she found out, but it was too little, too late. She should have done better to protect me, and she didn't. I've never told her why I always leave the house so late, but I think she already knows.

It’s probably why she's always ashamed to look me in the eye. She blames herself too.

My mind drifts back to Tanisha. She’s all I think about these days. She’s getting older, too fast. She'll be eleven in a few months. Every time I look at her, I can’t help but wonder if she'll end up like me.

The mere thought kills me.

That's why I'm so fiercely protective of her. Our mother isn't capable of being a mother at the moment. She hasn't been for years.

It's left to me to fend for the both of us and make sure that she never knows this life.

Tonight's spot is much closer to home. It still gets similar traffic of Johns, but it's usually crowded with more girls. I edge towards the familiar corner, just a block away from Lueders Park, where a couple of working women stand under a streetlamp. They smoke cigarettes that dangle loosely from their lips.

As I move closer, I try to pick out a familiar face. I don't have any "friends" on these streets, but I've become cordial with some other girls. Some older woman is out here tonight. You can always tell by how they dress; trying too hard.

I pay her no regard until I notice a smaller figure beside her. A little girl.

I stop walking.

I watch the girl lean into the woman's side, clearly uncomfortable. I feel a fire rise in me.

I storm over to her.

"She shouldn’t be here!" I blurt out, my voice shaking. I'm surprised by how angry I am.

The woman looks up, blinking like she’s surprised I’m talking to her.

"And who the hell do you think you are?" she sneers, eyeing me from head to toe.

"She's a child; why on Earth would you bring her here!?"

"Mind your own damn business, girl! Get the hell out!"

Now that I'm closer, the girl looks like she's a bit younger than I am. She's wearing very skimpy clothes, and she bounces nervously on her feet. Distress is etched clearly on her face.

I stare at her, and all I see is my little sister.

"Please take her home," I say, my voice quieter now, almost pleading. "She’s just a kid."

"Oh, bullshit!" the woman snaps, pulling the girl closer to her. "You think you can save someone? Look at yourself, you’re no different. Look around, girl, we're all the same."

I feel the words hit me like a slap. I look around, and I see that some of the other girls are staring at us. Tears well in my eyes.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe we're all the same. But that little girl isn't.

"Please," I whisper. "Don't do this to her."

She stares at me for a long time, and I see that flicker of realisation in her eyes.

I know you understand.

Wordlessly, she drags the girl away, and I stand there for a moment, heart pounding and hands shaking. I receive some weird stares from the girls still around the corner.

I hope she takes the girl home. I hope they don't just end up in another of the countless corners in this city. I hate myself for not being able to do more and for being powerless to change any of it.

I can't even call the police. I can't call anybody to help that little girl before she's sucked into this cycle of abuse and pain.

Then it hits me.

As I stand half-naked on the street, ignoring the passing cars whistling for my attention, it comes to me.

There's no escape from this life.

Only those who never get involved have hope.

I’m going back home.

I turn back down the corner and walk briskly towards my house. I try my best not to break into a sprint. There's this beating urgency in my heart to get back to my sister as soon as possible.

For a long time, I thought the only way to save her from this life was to make enough money to give her everything she needed. But I was wrong. I have to be the one to break the cycle.

No one is coming to save us.

I'm dashing across the sidewalk, my heels clicking loudly on the pavement, when I hear a familiar engine purr behind me.

"Hey, Keisha! Down to party tonight?" the driver calls out.

His name is Dame, and he's one of my regulars. He's a John that seems to have a conscience.

But I don’t stop; I walk even faster.

"Come on, girl, don't be like that. You know I'm good for it."

I resist the urge to tell him to go to hell with his money.

The car increases its pace till it's moving right beside me. It's a beautiful El Camino. I always admired how pretty it is and I wondered if I would ever be able to afford one for myself.

"Yo, Kish," Dame calls. "What’s wrong with you?"

I hate that I feel like I owe him an explanation.

"I ain't about that life no more, Dame. I quit."

I hear him scoff, then his car stops in front of me and he jumps out of it.

He's in front of me now, towering over me and panic settles in my chest.

I look around the streets. Empty.

"Fuck you mean, 'you quit'?" he asks. "What's wrong with you, Kish?"

His frame is way bigger than mine, but I could probably outrun him if I wasn't wearing these ridiculous heels.

I ignore and try to sidestep him but he grabs my arm and yanks me back.

"I'm talking to you, Keisha. Fucking answer me."

"Let. Go. Of. Me. Dame," I say as I try to wrestle my hand from his.

His grip doesn't move.

"Come on," he says, bending over to whisper in my ear. "We had so much fun the last time."

His breath is menacing and smells like gin. I stifle a gag.

"Fuck off!" I say.

I try to walk away, but he doesn't release me. I notice that his eyes have darkened.

Suddenly, he's dragging me away from the street and towards an alley. I protest and attempt to break free but my efforts are futile. I fight. I kick. I scream. But he’s too strong.

He slams me against the wall, and I feel the cold metal of a knife press against my skin.

"Shut up, dumb hoe," he growls, his breath hot and rancid. "Stay still and you won’t get hurt."

I hear him fumbling his belt, and tears well in my eyes. I struggle against him, but I'm firmly gripped to the wall. Resisting is futile. He snatches my purse from my hand and tosses it to the ground.

I always thought of Dame as one of the decent guys. Stupid, right? But he'd talk to me like I was an actual person, and he never made me feel used at the end.

Sometimes, he acted like he even cared about me. I never imagined he'd hurt me.

I should have known.

Hopelessness washes over me when I feel him rip the back of my dress. I'm fully crying now, but he doesn't care. He doesn't stop. He's probably going to kill me when he's done.

I'm sorry, T.

I can't struggle anymore. I close my eyes, hoping it all ends quickly.

The image of my sister watching my death on the news fills my mind. We have watched countless reports like that together, and she'd always hold me tight for comfort. I see her alone in this world, left to fend for herself. Neglected by her mother and abandoned by society.

Then I see her on the streets, left at the mercy of Johns and corners to survive.

A burst of renewed anger rises in me and I start to furiously jerk back against Dame.

"Stay still, Keisha!" he shouts, but I don't listen.

I trash and writhe in desperation, and he must have loosened his grip a bit because he stumbles back and his knife clatters to the ground.

The world is spinning, but I see my purse on the ground and I scramble to it. Dame grabs my arm again and pulls me back to him, but this time he's met with a vigorous dose of pepper spray straight in his eyes.

"You stupid bitch!" he screams, clutching his face and shoving me to the concrete floor. "I'll fucking kill you!"

My vision blurs from tears as I lay on the ground.

Dame is on the floor across from me, still crying in pain.

Then I see the knife, with its metal edge glinting slightly in the moonlight.

I crawl quickly to pick it up and I stand over him.

The sharp blade in my hand makes me feel powerful.

I feel strong enough to stand up for myself as I desperately wanted to for years.

He tries to stand up but I kick him right across the face. He slumps back to the ground, grunting and breathing heavily.

As I stand over him, I see all of them. Every man that ever used me. From Lamar, my mom's ex-boyfriend, to the school counsellor, Tom, who took advantage of me when I was fourteen and confided in him about my abuse. I see every single John I've sold myself to in the past year.

I see them all.

I start crying again, because everything in me wants to plunge the knife into him.

To no longer be that helpless girl being taken advantage of.

To no longer be treated like I am not more than just a body.

To no longer be small.

My hands tremble.

I’m so close. I want to drive it into him, to end this once and for all. Maybe his life will be the price for all the times they took a part of me from me. Maybe I can take it all back right here, right now. Maybe he'll feel all the pain I've felt over the years.

My arm is raised to strike but I can't bring myself to do it.

I can't.

My chest is heaving with sobs, and my hands tremble even more. I can kill him here, but that would make me a murderer. Is that really the power I want? Will I get my revenge? Or will it not be another scar for me to carry?

What would Tanisha think of me if she knew I took a man's life?

I look at the knife again. It represents the violence I could choose to inflict.

But I do not want to become the darkness that has been forced upon me.

I choose to be better.

I throw the weapon into the alley, then I start to run.

I don’t know where the strength comes from, but I run like I never have before. Past the streetlights and the cars, past the corners I thought I would be stuck on forever.

With every step I take, I will myself to leave the darkness behind. To leave behind every scar, every cut, and every pain. I want them behind me now.

I choose to move forward.

The adrenaline pumps through my veins and I feel free.

I don’t stop running until I reach home.

The old brick building looks the same as ever, but I feel so much different as I burst through the door with tears streaming down my face. Tanisha is asleep on the couch, her small body curled up under the blanket.

I fall to my knees and pull her into my arms. I hold her tight till I feel her heart beat against mine. Then the floodgates break.

Everything I’ve held back all this while—all the fear, the shame, the hopelessness—I let it all go.

She stirs, confused, her voice sleepy as she asks, "Keisha? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," I whisper through my tears. "Nothing’s wrong now. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise."

I pull back, brushing her cheek with my thumb. I lift her and sit on the couch, so her head is laid on my laps. Her soft skin presses into me, her warmth grounding me as I continue to sob silently.

"Nice clothes," she murmurs, and laughter escapes through my tears.

She's half asleep and she's everything that's still beautiful in this ugly world.

I kiss her forehead and whisper into her hair, "I love you, Tanisha."

She softly falls back asleep, her body moving in rhythm with her breathing.

The adrenaline has properly worn off now, and I am exhausted. Yet, it doesn't quench that glimmer of excitement within me.

For the first time, I have the power to dictate my life. Just how I chose to walk away tonight.

I look at the soul sleeping peacefully in my arms and I know I'm ready to do whatever it takes.

It won't be easy but I'll get whatever help I need.

I can’t change what’s happened to me, but I can make sure Tanisha never knows that kind of pain.

I can break the cycle before it wraps its ugly claws around her too.

There's still hope for her.

And maybe somehow, someway, there's hope for me too.

---

This story is a reminder of our responsibility to speak up more on the alarmingly prevalent issue of sexual abuse, in whatever way we can.

Listen, advocate for change, CALL OUT and stand up against abuse and exploitation. It’s a long long road and there’s so much to do, but if you do it and I do it and we get all our friends to do it,then we can make a difference.

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This story was partly inspired by this beautiful song.

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