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Publisher’s Note
To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.
This book is dedicated to all those committed to helping victims of trafficking—child or adult, sex or labor—become survivors.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to those who shared their stories with me, opening up so freely about painful situations. You’ve chosen to remain anonymous, and I’ve pledged to respect your privacy. Here’s to your future as survivors. Walk forward proudly.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Can’t Find
The courage to leap
the brink, free-fall
beyond the precipice,
hurtle toward
the abyss,
end the pain. Mine.
Mom’s. Oh, she’d feel
the initial sting, cry
for a day or two, but it
would be
short-lived, a quick
stab of grief. Finite.
A satin-lined coffin
and cool, deep hole are
preferable to
walking a treadmill
over a carpet of coals,
enduring the blistering,
skin-cracking flames of
this living hell.
Cody
Awake
A slow swim toward the light, breaking
the surface to crawl back onto the beach,
here in the land of the living. It seems
like a worthy goal. So why do I wish
I’d died instead? Should that be the first
thought to pop into my head?
I open my eyes. Snap them shut again.
I’ve been treading dark water for . . .
I have no idea how long. I test the light
again, and the fluorescent glare against
white walls makes me bury my head
in the pillow. Bleach stink assaults me
immediately, fights the antiseptic smell
that confirms I’m in a hospital. Hospital, yes.
That information sinks through the fog
licking inside my head, syncs with
the onslaught of noises. Monitors
beeping. Ventilators whooshing. And
somewhere, there’s a game show on
TV. Tubes jut from my arms, and some
sort of brace wraps my midsection, limiting
movement, but I manage to swivel my head
toward the rhythmic snore marking time
very near my right elbow. Mom’s dozing
on a gray plastic chair beside the bed.
Her voice floats from memory. Come back
to me, Cody boy. Don’t you dare leave me too.
And I remember her hands, oh God,
soft as rose petals, and fragranced
the same way, as she stroked my face
over and over, urging, Please, son.
We’ll make it through this. We always
make it through. But I can’t do it alone.
I want to help her make it through.
I want to go back to sleep. Except
I’ve finally accomplished what she’s been
waiting for—resurrection. “Mo-mom?”
I have to force the word through
a thick soup of phlegm and it exits
my mouth a hoarse whisper. She doesn’t
stir until I clear my throat. Cody . . . ,
she mumbles, and her eyes stutter open
to find my own staring at her. Cody?
Are you really here? She jerks upright.
Oh my God! She jumps to her feet,
rushes bedside, and grabs my hand.
Too hard. A wicked buzz, like a static
shock, zaps the base of my skull.
A Low Moan
Almost a growl, leaks from my lips.
Mom drops my hand like she’s the one
getting shocked, backs away like maybe
I’m contagious. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Did I hurt you? Hold on. I’ll get
a nurse. She pounds the call button.
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Except I’m not
sure I am. A shimmer of pain, muted
but present, radiates from my neck.
It spreads across my shoulders,
down into my chest, swelling to fill
the space defined by my rib cage,
finally settling in my belly. It stops
there, having traveled pretty much
everywhere. Everywhere, except . . .
Anywhere below my waist. Weird.
What the hell? I see Mom watching,
assessing me in some alien way.
With great effort, I reach down,
poke my right leg. Nothing. Left?
Numb. “What’s wrong with me, Mom?”
My voice slurs. My brain is slow.
I’m drugged, yeah, that’s it. A phrase
comes to mind: morphine cocktail.
I’ll have another, please, bartender.
That cracks me up, and I laugh like
a madman. Mom looks terrified.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m just loaded,
you know? They gave me some pretty
good drugs.” She nods agreement, but
her expression argues there’s more.
Where’s that nurse? I’ll be right back.
She hustles off, calling for someone
to come right away. Wonder how long
I’ve been here, hooked up to these
machines. A day? Two? A week?
Logic argues it’s probably been
a few days at least, or Mom wouldn’t
have been so worried that I wasn’t going
to wake up again. And now, duh, it hits
me that must be a big part of the reason
my legs feel so weird. They’re still asleep.
Try, try again. I pinch my right thigh.
Hard. Pinch my left thigh. Harder.
Zip. Nada. Man, this is excellent dope.
Bet old Vince would go for this shit.
Vince. Wait. There’s something about Vince.
I need to remember. I close my eyes. . . .
Tumble Backward
in time to . . .
Vince’s apartment.
A poker game.
I remember that and . . .
winning for once.
Did I win?
Yeah, that’s right.
Six hundred . . . no,
six hundred and fifty bucks.
Played it smart.
Left the table still ahead,
like smart gamblers do.
Ronnie.
Oh, Ronnie, Jesus,
I’m sorry. I never meant
to hurt you.
That day, after work
(work?), I was going
to see Ronnie.
She wasn’t mad.
I thought she’d be mad.
Quick stop at the bank.
Deposited the cash,
half in my account,
half in Mom’s
before . . . my date?
I dated Ronnie.
It wasn’t a date,
it was a three-way meet.
Oh shit, no. Misty . . .
<
br /> The thought of her
makes me sad.
Sad? Why? Misty.
Sweet Jesus.
Ambulances. Stretchers.
Misty, but where is her face?
Under the sheet.
Dead.
Misty is dead.
Before that, what?
Misty in bed
with some squeaky guy
with a teeny dick
telling me to hurry.
Time is money.
Time.
Tick.
Bam.
Noise at my back.
Splintering wood.
A fist against my kidneys.
Down I went.
Crack-crack-crack.
The report of a gun.
Small. Sharp. Deadly.
You fucking whore.
You promised no more.
Chris. Misty’s boyfriend.
But she didn’t answer.
And you . . .
Addressed to me,
right before
his boots found my ribs.
Boom. Boom.
He took out two
just like that.
And then, snap!
Electric. Brilliant
sizzling white heat.
A shattering
splintering of bone
in my back.
My back.
I felt it go.
He shot me in the spine.
Chris.
Shot.
Me.
He was at Vince’s.
I taunted him.
He was crazy mean
and I knew that.
Why take chances?
My fault.
My fault Misty is dead.
My fault I’m lying here.
My fault that I can’t feel . . .
No! Screw that!
I’m okay. I’m fine.
Just a little numb.
I’m just fucked up.
It’s the killer dope.
Killer . . .
Spontaneously
Tears spill from my eyes, track
my face. Spontaneously, one word
falls from my mouth, in quick
repetition. “No. No. No. No. No.”
I’m still babbling when Mom
returns with a nurse the approximate
size of a large gorilla. Take it easy,
she soothes. I’ve sent for Dr. Harrison.
She’ll be here as soon as she can.
I’m sure you have questions and
she can answer them better than I.
Meanwhile, how’s the pain?
I dissolve into hysterical laughter.
Both Mom and Nurse Gorilla look
ready to flee. “Can’t feel a thing. Hey . . .”
I reach down to the approximate level
of my pecker. “Am I wearing a diaper
or what? How am I pissing?”
I pat, pat, pat. “Nope. No diaper. Do
I still have a dick? ’Cause I for sure
can’t feel it if I do.” Jesus. H. Christ.
Laughter segues to sobs. Mom shifts
into Mommy mode, rushes to my side.
It’s going to be okay, Cody. I promise.
She starts to reach for me. Remembers
what happened last time, withdraws
her hands. Her soft, rose-petal hands.
Nursilla steers Mom back into the chair,
and when she moves closer, her badge
tells me her name is Barbara. Listen.
You have experienced major trauma.
Do you remember what happened?
At my nod, she continues. I’d prefer
Dr. Harrison explain in more depth,
but I can tell you that you have a spinal
cord injury. The good news is it’s in
your lower thoracic region, which
is why you’ve got the use of your upper
extremities and can breathe on your own.
Barbara lets that sink in. Spinal cord
injury. Lower thoracic region.
I have no clue what any of that means.
But, hey, I can breathe on my own,
and should that become difficult
I can still use my hands to pick my nose.
That’s the Good News
I’m about to ask what the bad news
is when two people bustle into
the room. The nurse introduces us.
Dr. Harrison, apparently my neurosurgeon,
is a tall, pretty woman, with toffee-colored
skin and striking blue-green eyes
that seem determined to look anywhere
but straight at me. Not a good sign.
The dude, who’s Hispanic, stands a good four
inches shorter, but man, is he buff.
Federico will oversee your PT, explains
Barbara. When I look confused,
Federico clarifies, That’s physical
therapy. He extends a hand. Awesome
to meet you, Cody. We’ve got work to do.
PT. Also not good. I shake his hand
anyway, wait to hear the information
I need, but am absolutely sure I don’t
want to know. Dr. Harrison delivers
it. I must be perfectly honest with you.
Your life has been irreparably altered.
Great bedside manner, Doc. I swallow
hard. “What do you mean? I’m not
going to get better or what?”
You will improve some as your body
heals, and we’re not even sure
what the ultimate prognosis is.
We’ll need to do some tests, now that
you’re conscious. What I can tell you
is the most improvement you’ll see
will be within the first six months.
That said, there are lots of promising
new treatments for spinal cord injury.
And SCI researchers are very close
to tremendous breakthroughs, for
quadriplegics as well as para—
“Are you saying I’m paralyzed?”
No, goddamn it! It’s just the drugs.
I can move, and I’ll prove it. I try
as hard as I can, but no amount of
concentration makes my legs so much
as twitch. “No. You must be wrong.”
Finally, she looks directly into my eyes.
We can’t tiptoe around the truth here,
Cody. Your spinal cord has been severed.
It’s incomplete, so some function may
return. As I said, we’ll have to run
more tests. But first, let me explain.
Thirty Minutes Later
I know a lot more. Hell, I’m
a walking, talking SCI textbook.
Let’s see. The spinal cord is a soft
bundle of nerves, traveling from
the base of the neck to the lower
back through the spinal canal—
a tunnel in a person’s backbone.
Electrical signals ping from
the brain down that pathway,
reminding body parts how
to move, or telling them to feel
pain or pleasure or whatever.
But sever the cord, or even nick
it, the communication stops
beneath the site of the injury.
Now let’s get technical. She sure
as hell did. The spine has thirty-three
vertebrae, divided into regions:
cervical (neck); thoracic (upper and
middle back); lumbar (lower back);
sacrum (pelvis); and coccyx (tailbone).
There are twelve thoracic vertebrae.
The bullet struck my lower spine,
sending bone chips on an upward
trajectory. One or more dinged
my spinal cord betwee
n T(horacic)11
and T12, but didn’t cut through it
completely. Still, it silenced the flow
of energy between my brain and
the body parts beneath my middle back.
Oh, but wait. This is where it really
gets good. Not only are my legs
confused, but so are my bladder
and bowel. Far fucking out. I’ll be
able to piss and shit with the aid
of “specialized equipment.”
Meaning, (one) stick a tube in the end
of my penis several times a day.
And, (two) . . . well, that is just too
disgusting to think about right now.
So, yeah, once I get out of this hole,
where they’ve got waaaaay underpaid
orderlies to drain my dick and
massage my anus, it’s giant Pampers
for me until I learn how to make
myself take a dump. Make. Myself.
Crap. I know I’m guilty of awful sins.
But do I really deserve this kind of hell?
The More
The good doctor talks, the more
I just want to fold up and die.
But since that won’t happen
right away, there’s something
she hasn’t told me. I need to know.
“Will I ever walk again?”
It’s really too early to say. You might
be able to, aided by leg braces,
though you won’t be running marathons.
It depends on how much feeling,
if any, returns. Meanwhile, your
wheelchair will be your best friend.
Wheelchair. The word slams
into my gut like a brick. I will be
confined to a wheelchair, at the mercy
of a caregiver? Someone to tell me
where to go, when to go, if I can go?
“What about driving? Can I do that?”
Absolutely, with a specially equipped
vehicle. She smiles. That’s usually
the question I get after “What about sex?”
Holy shit.
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Will I Walk
Away from here, this dirty
city, where people come
in search of Lady Luck,
certain she’ll guide them to
the fortune she owes them,
or
to shed their skins, reveal
the extraordinary creatures
beneath, aliens they struggle
to conceal from spouses,
ministers, their local PTA.
Will
I walk away from her?
My best friend turned lover