Heartless People

SEVEN

⚠️This chapter mentions r*pe, it might be disturbing for some readers⚠️. If you're not comfortable you could skip until you see (****)

Im a coldhearted bastard. Im insular, Im jaded, a workaholic, Im ruthless,
and Im self-serving.

~ Ally Blake

OLIVIA

I grew up poor.

Poorer than typical poor.

My parents werent struggling between jobs.
We didn't live in trailer parks or the back of cars.
No. Poor in Chinatown was a completely different type of poor. My father committed suicide when I was nine, leaving my mother, who would have traded her hands for a bottle of Soju, to take care of four kids by herself. Safe to say, she failed. My sister froze to death one winter night as we slept under the bridge. My mother told me to take her jacket and when I didn't, she took it for herself. My brotherhe ran away, but not before stealing $1.89 worth of change I had collected. It was just my mother and me until my mother sold me into a prostitution ring. I didn't even fight. They told me I would be fed
and warm. Food. Not rats. Not leftover garbage, but actual food. The first time I remember eating sticky rice, I stood no more than ten feet from a man fucking someone up the ass. I was ten and I sat there eating rice and just listening.

Yes, for a brief moment I wondered if that would be me, but it was a very brief moment because I had rice and I was warm. I was there for two days before someone bought me. He was a relatively young man, in his mid to late twenties. He never touched me, just wanted to me undress, dance, and then dress again. He paid so much that no one else would
touch me. When I was twelve, he brought me home to be the playmate of his own daughter. I noticed that we looked alike, his daughter and I.

He even had me call him Father. He made sure I went to school with his daughter, made sure I dressed well; to everyone on the outside it must have looked like I was fortunate like I had been adopted by a kind and generous family. I never spoke a word of the things that went on in his home. He waited until I was fifteen before he touched me. When I was seventeen, they brought home another young girl. His wife quietly sent me away with hush moneyit was then that I realized it wasn't that she didn't know, it was that she pretended not to.

I knew what that girls life would be like.

I told her before leaving and all she asked me was if there was any rice. It was funny in a sick, twisted, horrible way. I understood her, and looking
back I wasn't sure what else would have happened to me. Would I have frozen to death? Would I have been raped on the street? Would I have starved before being raped? Frozen before starving?

It didn't matter because I was free. I had money and I was free. It was scary how normal my life after that was. I got a job at a chicken shop and lived in the basement. I went to one of the best colleges in the country by getting loans. I fell in love once, had a daughter, and realized he—like everyone else—didn't give a shit. He disappeared, but not before labeling me a slut.

It was funny and when I say funny, I mean cruel the way women are treated all over the world.

If they are silent, they are walked all over.

If they speak, they are attacked from every direction.

It was only when I had a daughter that I realized I wanted to speak—not just for me, but for her—because at least I could fight back. I had never fought before; Id never had the power to. Once I did, I realized I had scars on top of scars from the life Id lived.

I wasn't a good person.

I was quiet but never good.

Screw being good.