Circuit

Streams of light flutter through the cracks of makeshift cardboard blinds and hit me at the center of my face. I shift around the cold cement below me and tug on the torn-up sleeves of my shirt and pretend that they provide warmth. My eyelashes bind together as I work hard to sluggishly open my eyes. The sun says good morning as the light slowly makes its way down my body, warming every inch on its way down. This is my favorite time of the day. It's the only time of the day that I can be present. The only time that my circumstances don't fester in my mind, creating a chain reaction of disappointment and misinterpreted reality. The only time that I feel good enough just as I am. I think it's the consistency of the sun rising every morning and laying her warm hands on my body as if to say, "you are seen, and you are loved." The moment is short, but it's the closest thing to perfection that I have come across in this life.

My life wasn't always made up of cold concrete floors and lonely nights. I used to have everything that anyone could have wanted. At least that's what it looked like from the outside in. I grew up encompassed in money and wealth. My family came from old money in the oil industry. We grew up in a 90,000 square foot mansion that overlooked the water, and the gates were so high that on a cloudy day, you couldn't see the top. The halls were long and wide, and at night they often scared me as a child. I was homeschooled throughout my childhood by various contracted teachers who had to undergo thorough security checks to ensure they weren't a threat. I was an only child and the sole air to the family fortune of Somerfield Limited. The only people I would see regularly were the house staff and tutors who were too afraid to interact with me outside of the professional realm. Consequently, I spent a lot of time on my own, which made me feel isolated. I always looked up to my father, although I only saw him on special occasions because he was always busy with business that I never understood.

The night before my 18th birthday, where I would be given my right of passage into the family business, I decided I wanted to impress my father. He was away on business in Morocco and would be back in the morning. At 10:30pm, when the staff went to sleep, I grabbed the fluffiest socks I owned and pulled them over my feet, and tiptoed through the halls as quietly as I could. I traveled from the right-wing to the left-wing and into my father's office. I figured that there would be information in the office that would help me appear mature and ready for my family company role. My father had always looked down upon me as if I was never going to be good enough. I was going to prove him wrong, though. I had been told since I was old enough to understand that it was forbidden to enter my father's office, and if I were to do so, there would be extreme consequences. Nonetheless, my need for parental validation consumed me, and I entered the office anyway.

The walls were high and painted dark maroon with golden frames. A bookshelf lay fully stocked on the right side of the room and a shrine of business awards and academic achievement on the left. As I scanned the room, I noticed a mahogany desk stared directly at me with nothing but a small, black rectangle on it. I thought it was odd that the desk was so clean and decided to investigate further. The small, black rectangle was a book, and on the cover read, "Somerfield Limited." This was precisely what I was looking for, I thought to myself before opening the first page. My eyes darted to the top left corner of the page, which read "Nondisclosure agreement of all contents within this book." I followed the words from top to bottom, which revealed a list of names,

• Dr. Martin Sommerfield

• Dr. Elvis Sommerfield

• Dr. Timothy Sommerfield

And right at the bottom printed my father's name.

• Dr. Eric Sommerfield

These were the names of the men in my family, dating back to the 1920s. My eyes lit up with excitement because I knew I would be able to sign my name very soon and become part of the legacy that is Sommerfield Limited. I stayed with this thought for a moment before my excitement turned to curiosity. I wondered to myself, why is there a nondisclosure agreement for a little black book? I pressed on and turned to the next page. The page was ruled in the form of a logbook, and below was shipment information. I knew my family bought and traded oil, but this log appeared to log something different. The first line read,

Shipments to Morocco:

The second line read,

Date: Shipment No.: No. of Women: Age Range: 01/25/1920 1 12 19yrs-35yrs

I scratched my head and lowered the book as I struggled to understand. Questions started to fling into my head. Why are there shipments of women? What does this mean? What has this got to do with the oil industry? These questions remained floating in my mind as I continued to flipping through the pages. The pages were filled with the same ruled format and continued listing shipments of women to Morocco, however as the lines progressed, the number of women increased, and the age range decreased. My pace quickened as I aggressively flipped through the pages, almost ripping them with every turn. My palms were beginning to feel sticky, and I could feel my face heat up as I reached the end of the logs. The latest entry date read,

Date: Shipment No.: No. of Women: Age Range: 03/02/2021 1065 189 4yrs-17yrs

The latest shipment was just yesterday. I slammed my hands on the desk and took a few deep breaths trying frantically to calm myself down. My eyes darted quickly from left to right, working hard to follow the millions of thoughts that entered my mind. '4 years old. 4 years old. 4 years old.' repeated in my mind like a broken record player. My family has been shipping women to Morocco for years and has never been caught. Why would my father be part of such a sickening thing? Images of young women bound and gagged in large shipping containers flooded my mind. Sommerfield Limited is not what I thought it was. I do not want to be part of this family legacy that is built upon exploitation and pollution. I paced back and forth with both my hands pulling on my thick, black hair.

I need to get out, I thought to myself. I took a seat on the edge of the desk and stared at the little black book. I was so spaced out that I almost missed the sound of keys rattling at the door. 'Oh shit!' I whispered to myself as I grabbed the black book and tucked it into my waistband. I made my way over to the bookshelf and quickly looked around. I noticed a space between the books on the third row where four stacks of cash were neatly arranged. I grabbed one of the stacks and darted for the window. About a ten-foot drop from the window frame to the grass below, but I had no choice. Just as the door began to squeak open, I made a leap for it, hitting the grass hard and fast. The grass was wet and the air thick. I fought my way to my feet and began to run as fast as I could. Thankfully, the night was dark and the moon a waning crescent shape. I never looked behind me.

That was two weeks ago. I am now in an abandoned warehouse three hours away from my home. I have been hiding out here ever since, disguising myself as a homeless man. After all, who would think that the son of the wealthiest person in America would look like I do, with holes in my shirt and mud covering almost every inch of my body. I managed to grab 20,000 dollars from my father's bookshelf, but I know I'll need that for what I have planned. I need to take my family business down, even if it kills me. I have the evidence in the little black book. All I need to do now is be patient and smart. My father is a very resourceful and wealthy man. I mean, there's a reason the family has gotten away with the crimes they have committed over the years. I am uncomfortable and wet and feel alone, but I know that what I need to do is right. For now, I will lean into my friendship with the sun every morning and feel comforted by her warm hands till the time is right.