This is another story that came from a visual prompt on Instagram. As soon as I saw it, I had a pretty serious plot idea. Part of me wasn’t even sure if I should post this, but I 100% believe that fiction can and in many circumstances should, bring awareness to things. Hopefully, this piece of fiction will. Because this story centers on a serious topic, (child/human trafficking and exploration in the porn industry), I’ve included information about reporting abuse and trafficking at the end of the story. Reading some of the tweets and reports from victims of sexual abuse, specifically linked with Pornhub, is gutting.
If you see something, say something.
“Pornhub faces lawsuit alleging it knowingly participated in trafficking and child pornography.”
“Pornhub removes millions of videos after investigation finds child abuse content.”
“Dozens of women sue Pornhub, alleging it published non consensual clips.”
The cool marble under my feet allows me to move soundlessly across the foyer and into the living room. It’s a huge expanse: floor-to-ceiling windows, a wraparound bar, sleek sofas, and a TV that is one of the walls. The remnants of a party still linger in the air, only dampened by the darkness of the night.
Platters of food are strewn across most surfaces. Empty chip bags, beer bottles, and pizza boxes are in stark contrast to the still half-filled fruit and veggie platters.
I pluck a grape from one of the platters and put it into my mouth. It’s perfect. The skin is crisp, allowing the grape to burst with the slightest pressure of my teeth; a satisfying pop of extinction.
I grab three more grapes. It’s not as if they’ll get eaten.
Surveying the room, I spot the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Within a few seconds, I’m standing in the doorway of his room. It’s just as garish as the living room. Expensive and aggressive.
The huge bed dominates the room. Even in the near darkness, I can see that the sheets are blood-red silk. Above the bed is a mirror, and at the sight, my stomach roils. For an infinitesimal moment, I can see the red light of a video camera blinking back at me from the smooth surface.
Then I see her. She’s lying in bed next to him. I can’t quite tell how old she is. It’s always been hard for me to guess age. In this darkness, she could be nine or fifteen. Either way, a child.
She’s awake. Her eyes are fixed on me, but she’s not made a sound.
I move around the bed to her and lean down, whispering in her ear. “How old are you?”
Her breath comes quick but she doesn’t answer.
As gently as I can, I grab one of her arms and pull her from the bed. “You need to go.”
I see her eyes flash with fear, only to be replaced with relief. I give her a nudge toward the door. “My car’s at the end of the driveway. Wait there for me.”
I can’t tell if she’s heard as she hurries to the door. I notice that her blonde ringlets are twisted up with a pair of chopsticks. I’ve never been able to do that. If I remember correctly, he always had a fascination with Asian culture.
When I can’t hear her anymore, I turn back to him. He’s passed out, a bit of vomit crusting his lips. Revolution guides me. I lift the gun, checking the silencer before pointing it at his skull.
“Goodnight my little China doll, I’ll see you bright and early in the day,
if you’re gone when I come back, I’ll hunt you down and blow your head away.”
After years of hearing that same rhyme whispered to me every night, it’s fitting that it should be the last thing he hears. I squeeze the trigger.