Unbreakable, p.1
UNBREAKABLE, page 1
UNBREAKABLE
Dawn Venne
Copyright © 2022 Dawn Venne
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9798352516249
Cover design by: Dawn Venne
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
To all the strong women in my life....You inspire me in so many ways!
To my professors, at SNHU...Your feedback gave me confidence and inspired me to push myself to a whole different level.
From the depths of my heart, I want to thank those of you who never stopped believing in me, even when I struggled to believe in myself.
"Let me tell your story and let's make it a happy ending."
Samantha Wilson
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Milwaukee
The Visit
Mother
The Farm
Cancer
FEELINGS
Half Alive
SUMMER OF 94
Vulnerability
A Hard Goodbye
CONFESSION
Natalie
The Haven
Is This Love?
The End
A Broken Heart
New Beginning
Happy Ending
Milwaukee
1
June 2015
Let me tell your story and let's make it a happy ending.
Telling other people’s stories is not just what I do; it is my passion. I have had the opportunity to meet many inspirational young women. They have survived some of the worse cases of domestic violence and still find a way to shine, to be a beacon for others. Their strength is inspiring, they don’t want to be seen as victims or allow what happened to define them. For me, it is always an honor to tell their stories.
I arrived in Milwaukee on Friday night for a freelance assignment. Brian, a former colleague, invited me to work with him on an investigative story about a fraudulent rehab center that appears to be a part of something dark and much bigger. I have heard that it may be one of the biggest trafficking operations authorities have seen, involving hundreds of girls of all ages.
There are too many of these stories. Being a writer allows me to be the voice for those that haven’t found theirs yet. It also allows me to bring awareness to a sickening crisis that plagues our society on many levels. Too many young women are impacted by this evil that is often hidden in the underlying layers of our communities. My goal as a writer is to expose these layers and help end this hell on earth for so many young women. Monday I will meet with Brian to begin working on this story.
I’m staying in a quaint little house I found in Shorewood, a small suburb north of Milwaukee. I had never been to this area despite living close as a child. The shore of Lake Michigan was about a mile east of here, and the Milwaukee river was a few miles to the west. There were three lighthouses in the area that I couldn’t wait to tour.
Yesterday, it was rainy and a perfect Saturday to stay in bed. I read a book and took a couple of naps, it was nice to have some downtime. Today I will get out with Bella, my traveling buddy and loyal companion, a heeler mix I adopted a few months ago.
I walk out on the small deck and can smell the beach in the air. Summer is the best time of the year here. It was odd being back in Wisconsin. I haven’t been back since my grandfather’s funeral six years ago. At first, I wasn’t going to take this assignment because I vowed never to return to the area, but it is an important story, so here I am.
I go back into the house, and Bella prances up to me; she is ready for our walk. We get to the park and as we stroll along the riverside, the squirrels are frolicking around us as if trying to provoke Bella. She pays no attention to them as she prances down the path beside me. Our daily walks are always enjoyable and a great way to reboot.
“Good morning,” I say as I smile at a passing walker.
“Good morning, “she replies as she struggles with her Pomeranian that appears to want a piece of Bella, we both laugh and move on our way.
The parks are well maintained, the flower beds flawless with great layouts of beautiful blooms. Families walking through with their loyal companions wagging tails and smiles all around. It could quickly become a favorite, and I bet we will come here a lot while we are in Shorewood. I sit on a bench and take in the park and the beautiful morning—the surrounding flower beds filled with violet periwinkle, pink primrose, purple spiderwort, and white campion. Small ponds at the bottom of the hill have colorful fish of orange and yellow, with lily pads and waterlilies. I could hear the river behind me as the water splashed against the rocks on its path between the banks that hold it in. I could stay in this spot forever, taking in the beauty around me. But I have things to do, and Bella is letting me know she is also ready to go.
◆◆◆
It is a gorgeous June morning, I meet Brian at a coffee shop in Shorewood. We sit at a table across from each other, laptops in front of us. He begins to tell me about the rehab. There have been girls showing up at emergency rooms all over Milwaukee and surrounding areas. They are being dumped close enough to the hospitals to be discovered but out of sight of any cameras. It is believed there is someone on the inside that is trying the help these girls. The ones that have survived are too scared to talk about how they got there.
“The investigation has led back to this rehab I told you about,” he said. “The director is a full-on fraud. His therapist girlfriend once was licensed but lost it years ago because of unethical practices.”
“Imagine that,” I say.
“Right! Well, it appears they have been running this trafficking operation out of the rehab and group homes for years.”
“Damn, how did they pull that off? And for how long?” I ask.
“It appears the current director took over in 2003, which is around the time the sex trafficking began, this goes much deeper, and there are a lot of girls involved.”
“I don’t understand. Weren’t they audited?” I ask.
“Apparently not. They don’t hold any contracts with the state or feds, so they don’t get audited.”
“How old are these girls?”
“13 years old is the youngest, from my understanding.”
I gasp, “Oh my god, that is horrible. Are these girls not in the system as missing?”
“I have been told that the girls that have been found were never reported missing.”
“What the fuck. Let me guess, their parents are in and out of the system. The girls simply fell between the cracks.”
“That pretty much sums it up. Some of the girls were placed there through the system, others found their way to the homes because they thought it would be better than where they were. They are getting ready to bust it open. But they haven’t moved in yet because they have to have all appropriate warrants in hand to do so.”
“Place there by the system? Did they not check to assure they were appropriately licensed?
“They believe the ADA and the Director of DHS were just two of the many upstanding community members that are involved in this,” I note the sarcasm in his tone.
“Wow! So how long will these girls have to live in this hell?”
“The goal is to get them out of there asap, but they have to be careful not to tip off any of the players. It could put the girls at risk .” He says.
“I get it, but I also know those girls are suffering every day they are in there.”
“They are working hard to get it done.”
“I certainly hope so. There is no hell like the hell they are in right now.”
Brian goes to refill his coffee while I sit at the table trying to wrap my mind around how an operation like this has gone undiscovered for all these years.
When he returned to the table he asked, “How do you feel about staying awhile? This story goes far deeper than I had anticipated.”
“I’m here for as long as it takes. I hope they will act swiftly for those girls,” I say.
It hurts my soul to think of these young women living in that situation.
“So, where do I come in?” I ask Brian.
“A young woman came in as a Jane Doe at a Milwaukee hospital ten weeks ago. She was in bad shape and unconscious but later identified as one of the girls from the group homes run by the same people running the rehab. She woke up a few days ago afraid and unwilling to talk to anyone.”
“Can’t blame her,” I say.
I close my laptop. I knew where this was going.
“What is it, Brian? Just ask me already.”
“Would you interview her?”
“What makes you think she will trust me or even want to talk to me?”
“Because Sammie, you have this way with people, a kindness that just makes people feel comfortable.”
“I don’t know about all that, Brian, but I will try. I’m not going to promise you anything. I will meet with her, and we will go from there.”
“Of course. Just do that thing you do, Sammie.” He smiles at me.
I roll my eyes at him, “Where can I mee
“I will text you with that information and keep you updated on what is happening with the rehab and homes.
‘Thank you, Brian. I will keep you updated too.”
◆◆◆
Today I'm going to visit the young lady they are calling Jane Doe. As I drink my coffee this morning, my thoughts are with her and all the other girls involved. I can’t imagine what they have been through. And now there are so many people in and out of her room, she is probably tired of it all. I will have to find a way to stand out from the other intrusive strangers.
I get to the hospital. I stop by the nurse’s desk to make sure it is okay to go into the room since the door was closed. They tell me that there is another young lady in the room with her.
She was in the hospital around the same time. They say that she saw Jane Doe one day when the nurses were wheeling her through the hall, and she has refused to leave her side since. Staff later figured out they were from the same girl's home and moved them into a room together.
I walk into the room and they both look at me.
“Hello, my name is Samantha Wilson; you can call me Sam or Sammie.”
The girls look at each other, and Jane Doe’s friend says,
“This is Lexi, and I’m, well, everyone calls me Lou,” she says.
“It is nice to meet both of you. Do you mind if I have a seat over there?”
Lou looks at Lexi and says, “Sure, that will be okay.”
I sit on a little loveseat that is under the window. The curtains were closed most of the way. Lou seems interested in me, but Lexi looks somewhat anxious in my presence. It is hard to imagine what she has been through and how she survived the things she did. There is a reason for everything. I need to find a way to make her comfortable. I don’t care about the story. I can see the pain in this girl's eyes, and I want to help her.
“You have any questions for me?” I ask.
“Why are you here?” Lou asks.
“I’m in Milwaukee to work on a story with an old friend.”
“Why?” Lou asks.
“I’m a writer, and that is what I do.”
“What kind of story?”
“Well, it is an active investigation, so I don’t know all the details yet.”
“So why are you here?” Lou asks.
“To meet you both and to talk if you want.”
“Why do you care?’ The first words Lexi spoke.
“Why wouldn’t I care?” I ask
Silence.
I stand up and walk toward her bed.
“You don’t have to talk to me, and that is okay. But you should know that you matter, you are important, and you’re strong and an inspiration.” I pause. “ I will be here if you want to tell me your story at some point or not. It is ultimately your call. However, I would love to get to know you both if you don’t mind. A girl can always use some friends. I live in New Mexico, so I don’t know many people from up here.”
Lexi’s face goes soft, and a tear tries to fall, but she wipes it away abruptly.
Lou broke the silence, “If I tell you my story, can it have a happy ending?”
“Of course, it can.”
I smile at Lexi and sit back down. Lou does most of the talking, and you can tell she needs someone to hear her, so I listen as she talks. She starts by telling me that her friend's name is Alexis Kay Smith but she likes to be called Lexi. Lou’s birth name is Norma Louise Lewis. She tells me about how her parents were killed in a car accident when she was only ten years old. She was separated from her little sister and put in the system at 12. Lou is 22 years old and has been in this hell for many years. She tells me her happy ending would be finding her sister and getting her GED. As she talks, I see how her face lights up when she tells me about getting an apartment with Lexi and the other things she wants to do.
Hope. I see it in her eyes. The healing has begun, it will take time to overcome the impact of years of abuse, but she is in a great place now.
Lexi is more withdrawn and avoids eye contact as much as possible. From the little I know about her, she has never had a solid parent. It must be difficult to trust anyone because no one has ever been there to keep her safe for who knows how long. Imagine being abused, neglected, or rejected by the ones that are supposed to be there and keep you safe. Some, survive by becoming numb and disconnected from any emotion or feeling. Their inner child is pissed off and certainly is not going to trust just anyone that walks up into their space. I get it. I have heard the stories, some of which rattled my soul. I listen because they need someone to hear them. I write because people need to understand that the cycle needs to end.
As Lou continues to talk, Lexi occasionally glances my way. Her eyes are so dark, surrounded by the fresh scars from a life she didn’t choose. She looks scared, and she probably has a lot of walls up. It will take some time for me to get her to let me in.
◆◆◆
About a month after we met, Lexi was transferred to the rehabilitation wing to begin therapy. I see her often. She seems to like the visits and has started to open up to me. I went to visit her yesterday, and she was excited to tell me about her plans to get her education. I saw a new sparkle in her eyes. Before I left, she told me she wanted to tell me her story.
I arranged for us to have a small table in a quiet private dining room at the hospital for today. Lexi sits across from me. We just ordered our lunch and are chatting as we wait. It has been almost six months since she was admitted to the hospital as a Jane Doe. Her injuries were indicative of grueling hours of being beaten and sexually assaulted, resulting in severe and extensive injuries. She has been through multiple surgeries, and her transformation comes in baby steps, but it is noticeable to me, just in the few weeks I have known her.
She looks good. The scar next to her right eye is fading, and the multiple knife wounds are doing the same. Her broken bones are healing too, and she continues to get stronger in physical therapy. At times she will smile at me with the face of a 23-year-old girl with hope. But other times, the burden on her mind and soul from the years of abuse is still transparent through her big brown eyes.
We finish lunch, and Lexi asks, " Where do you want me to start?”
“Are you comfortable with telling me what led to you being in the girls' home?”
She nodded her head.
She tells me how it all started,
My mom worked two jobs, sometimes three, because my stepfather refused to work. While she was at work, he would drug me and sexually abuse me. It happened every day, and there was no one to tell, she says as she looks down at the table.
I want to tell her to hold her head up because she is better than what happened to her. I can see the shame in the way she holds herself. But how do you tell someone this is not their fault when you know they feel like it is? I reach out my hand, and she takes it. At that moment, I wanted to tell her how sorry I was that no one was there for her. Instead, I just hold her hand. After a few moments, she continues,
One evening he never came to my room. I peeked out my bedroom door and saw him passed out on the couch. I grabbed my bag and went out the bedroom window. A friend of mine told me about this place where one of her friends went after she left her parent's house. She gave me the address one day at school because I told her I needed to get away from him.
Lexi escaped her stepfather’s world and inadvertently found herself in the middle of this sex trafficking ring. She thought she was going somewhere safe, a place for girls like her. But it was not safe, and she was forced to shoot up meth and heroin. She went dark and did what was necessary to survive.
I don’t remember much after I got there. The people there always drugged us before taking us to a new place. When we got to the home, we did what the woman they called the house mom said we had to do. When her husband got home, we had to go to our rooms. He came to my room to have sex, sometimes, he brought friends, and we had sex with them too. We couldn’t go outside, not allowed. When it was time to go to a new home, they would drug us, and we woke up somewhere new, with new people. The last time we were supposed to move, I tried to escape, but they caught me, which is when they stabbed and beat me. Then I woke up in the hospital.
