I have learned many things while in the company of men.

I knew the brothel was bad because of the girls having babies around me, the girls who couldn’t leave because they wouldn’t have enough money to live outside of these walls. There was no life for them or their baby within these walls, but there was no life for them outside either. The brothel is bad because of the men who come in here, either too inexperienced or too angry.

I have grown up here, my mother by my side on her mat. When men came by - many men did not come by - I was sent into another girl’s room. My mother spent what little money she had on books for me, thick books with lots of colors on the cover. I’ve read them front to back, but my questions on science and literature were usually ignored. Some of the girls here don’t even know how to read, so I know no one can answer my questions. I know no one wants to listen.

By the time I was 14, my mother died of a miscarriage. My little brother was purple when I laid eyes on him, and he was gray when my boss took him away, swearing under his breath. I was forced the next day to see a man. I had seen men before, but my mother took my “shifts” (more like shafts) for me. He was 28. I used too much teeth and he slapped me across the face. My cheek stung underneath his hand. It hurt to cross my legs after he left. I cried and cried but no one wanted to comfort me and my mother was gone.

Girls left and girls came and throughout it all, I stayed. I had nobody to live with, nobody to talk to. I kept reading my books, flipping through Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and Romeo and Juliet every chance I got. Nobody could answer my questions, so I couldn’t ask any of the girls why Romeo and Juliet was so romantic. All of the other girl's gaze dreamily at their Bachelor posters anyways. They all dream of romance. Passion. A man who will hold them tight at night, whisper compliments in their ears. They don’t want the men who come to see us - the men who punch us and kick us after they use us.

I’ve met a man who I thought I loved for awhile. He was an American on a month-long business trip who saw me every chance he got. At times he came in the early hours of the morning, at other times he came in the late evening. He at first fumbled with the buttons on my dress until I raised it for him, guiding him between my legs. I thought I could love him and the way he laughed as he laid on the mat with me when I asked about America. I thought I could love him when he cried after I told him how old I thought I was: 16. He wrapped his arms around me that night, although he was the one who was crying. His name was Jack. He used to spend the night sometimes. He could speak my language, he knew how to talk to me. And he wanted to. Jack wanted to listen.

When it was time for him to leave, he asked me if I wanted to come with him. He said he had a lot of money, enough to take me back with him. Jack said I could live out my dreams as a teacher, and I felt myself crying as I said,“You’ve already helped me live out my dream.”

“How? How could you dream in such a place?” He cried.

“I have dreams now when I close my eyes. Lots of dreams. I dream of colored houses and colored cities, of lots and lots of books, and of American food,” I said. “I can dream of you when I close my eyes.”

“Come with me, please come with me. There isn’t a life for you here,” Jack pleaded.

I persisted, even when he held my hands and kissed them over and over. I said I was going to stay even when it was his last night, even when he kissed me goodbye, tears streaming down his face. I knew I would never see him again. My heart ached.

I found a book he left me after he was gone, lying under a blanket. The book was A Tale of Two Cities, and I cried as I thought of Jack walking American streets, looking into shop windows, a woman in a pretty dress by his side. And I thought of me lying here on my mat, my friends in rooms next to me with strange men. I thought of me staring at the ceiling as a man touched me. And I thought of the life that might exist outside of this brothel, the cold, dark streets and the men who would do worse to me than they could do here. Even if I did get out, I know I’ll die on the streets. And so, A Tale of Two Cities. Both in the same world, but universes apart.

I read my books as often as I can. There are still many questions that I have. Jack answered some of my questions about science. He’s a very smart man. He laughed when I asked about America and the rest of the world. But I learned because of my questions, and he admired me for asking. For wondering. For constantly thinking.

But many questions still remain, like how I do not understand why Romeo and Juliet kill themselves for love.

I know one thing, though. My story is a lot better than theirs. Theirs is a story of passion and romance. Of unrequited love. Of beauty. But my story is one of bravery, strength, and survival.

I am going to survive.