Page 113 of Unspoken Truths

I’m scared of what we’re going to find at the shipyard if my father is getting sucked off by the girls I saw disappear from the plane. The idea fits with what I heard while I was semi-conscious, I’m just having a hard time getting my mind to accept the knowledge. Who wants to believe that their parents are sex trafficking children?

I have so many questions, but they’re being so careful with the way they couch their words, I don’t want to ask the wrong thing. Instead, I slowly sip my water, and force myself to breathe. Passing out will not serve me at this moment.

What appears to be the shipping yard arrives too soon as the driver parks to let us out.

“He’ll wait for us to return,” Dad grunts, opening the door and getting out.

There’s nothing for me to do but follow him, my empty water bottle left behind. It’s reminiscent of how I feel, deflated of any possible goodness. I should have known this is what my legacy is. I should have paid better attention.

I’m part of the problem instead.

My mother’s impossibly tall heels and perfectly pressed cream suit sticks out like a sore thumb as she walks through the shipping yard. I don’t know how she can possibly know where to go when there are so many different kinds of containers, and there’s different colors as well.

My father whistles under his breath in his expensive double breasted suit, no one is asking why we’re here. I expected the security to be tighter than it is, yet not one person stops us in the deserted space.

“Here we are,” Mom says, stopping in front of several bright blue containers with a sigil of a fancy letter ‘F’, I’m assuming for Fletcher’s Shipping and Supplies. In another life I would assume my family’s company sold things like padded mailers, and not human beings.

“There’s an auction happening tonight,” Dad grunts, his arms crossing over his expansive chest.

While others would imagine it’s fat, it’s not. He’s somehow solid muscle, and very vain about maintaining it as such. It also means that his suits are of course custom made because he wouldn’t be able to properly fit anything else.

Forcing myself to focus, I wonder if this is what the little mouse does when she looks spacy in the hallways. Is she disassociating because her life is that terrible?

I bet it’s not as bad as she believes it is. I’ll have to show her a lesson in how fucked up life can get. We’ve been too easy on her. I will not allow myself to become my parents. I won’t survive it.

“We can’t in good faith bring you to something so sordid,” my mom says in a hushed tone.

It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so damn sad. She’s playing at this as if she’s attempting to show me what a wonderful mother she is because she won’t take me to an auction where they sell people!

Yet, I’m standing in front of a shipping container where I believe they’re currently being kept.

“In this container in front of us are twenty pieces of inventory,” Dad says. “They range from twelve to seventeen, depending on the tastes of the men at the auction, they’ll all sell well. We receive our fee for both importing them here and when they’re sold. There's a high risk for our work, we deserve to be paid well.”

Mom waves at someone that she sees walking toward us, and continues the thread of conversation. “We travel all over the world, and our clients speak many languages,” she says. “I need you to step up your educational endevours. Rugby gets you some wonderful contacts that we’ll need you to use one day.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t mind supplying some of your teammates’ fathers with some merchandise for a special prorate in exchange for a favor or two,” Dad grunts. “For now, it’s easier to keep our work overseas.”

“Much easier,” Mom agrees. “I need you to add Arabic to your studies next year, son. Network with those who take those classes as well. It’s important for you to also continue taking French as well. It’s a wonderful conversational language.”

I have a feeling she’s being facetious.

“Stay quiet,” Dad barks as the men walk up to us.

Mom begins to speak to the men with a smile, opening the container as well. Tying bandanas to their lower face, they walk in, while I’m hit with the worst smell of my entire life. All I can think about is that whoever is inside is dead.

How could they survive being kept inside this shipping container? What were they eating?

The questions swirl around in my mind as the men force the children to leave the container, most stumbling as they walk. A few are unable to walk, which means they’re carried out without a care. Not one of them speaks or cries. They all have a vacant look on their face though, as they’re marched off to their fates.

Mom says goodbye to them as another group of men arrive, and she gives them instructions.

“Time to go,” she says. “I’m not typically needed here, but I wanted you to see how these transactions go. One of our associates will take care of the rest of this. There are two more shipping containers left with inventory, which means there will be men who will be along shortly.”

“The smell,” I rasp, blinking away tears from the sting. “Was anyone dead inside?”

“It does happen,” Dad admits. “It’s always bad for business, so we do what we can by not overfilling the containers.”

“What you smelled was undoubtedly human filth,” Mom says, shrugging. “It’s part of the business, they have to relieve themselves somehow. Now, our crew is going to clean the container until the smells are completely gone. They’ve become quite adept at cleaning.”

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