Chapter 15
Thursday
Razor blades are clawing at my throat and there’s a pounding in my chest, and that’s before I even get to the throbbing migraine.
The simple task of recording one video now feels like a mammoth undertaking.
The first two attempts left me with hives all up my left arm, now hidden under a black hoodie as I wait for the antihistamines to kick in.
“Come on, Alexander, you can do this,” I say out loud to my phone staring back at me. “Third time’s the charm.”
A layer of protection, in the form of concealer, hides my blotchy skin and the dark set circles under my eyes that no amount of rest seems to erase.
I readjust my phone, held in place by my laptop, and make sure that only the top half of me is exposed. The table shields my restless legs bopping up and down and the fidget spinner twirling in my right hand.
I take three long, drawn-out breaths and look at the script on my laptop screen before I reach out with a trembling finger to press the Go Live button, this time opting to live stream on TikTok rather than upload a video.
If I don’t do this now, while I still have access to my TikTok, I’ll never do it.
I take one more deep breath and press the button.
“Hi everyone. I want to start by saying thank you for all your messages. All your words of support while I’ve been away. It means the world to me.”
Hearts fly up the screen. Over five thousand people are already watching, just in the first ten seconds. The razor blades are still clawing at my vocal cords and a burning sensation floods my throat as I inhale again.
“Apparently, there’s been a lot of speculation flying around the internet over the past couple of months and I wanted to clear the air on a few things.”
One finger slows the fidget spinner’s spin as another intertwines with the drawstring from my hoodie.
“Back when I started my career, I was still a minor, and that meant I was required to have a tutor on the road with me to keep up my education and ensure I got my high school diploma. A friend of my father’s was a teacher, and my team thought it would be better for me to have someone we knew.
So, for the next two years, as I toured the world and got to meet so many of you, he helped me with my studies. ”
I take another deep breath and remind myself of the mantra Lee taught me to help heal my wounded inner child:
He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re safe now.
He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re safe now.
“Unfortunately, the man, who I’ve decided not to name, took advantage of me. Repeatedly. For nearly two years. Initially, he groomed me. Then he molested me. Day in, day out.”
A deep exhale and a rapid succession of blinks does little to push down and fight away all the emotion bubbling up inside. But that’s what got me here in the first place. Keeping everything bottled up inside.
“The man preyed on my vulnerability, threatening and controlling me. Abusing the power he had over me. It’s a kind of power no person should have over a child.”
Stoicism was never going to win this battle, so I let the tears flow from my eyes down my cheeks and onto the hotel room desk. I start up the fidget spinner again, its speed competing with that of a jet engine.
“None of this excuses what you witnessed in September and what I did to Aiden Matthews at the VMAs. For that, I am wholeheartedly sorry. I spoke with him personally to let him know what I am sharing with you now. And again, for the record, he is not a pedophile. I want you all to know that.”
He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re safe now.
He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re safe now.
My throat loosens each time I repeat the mantra.
“In the haze of that night, when Aiden tried to hug me, it activated everything inside that I hadn’t dealt with ten years ago.
I’d never spoken about it to anyone. And that’s what you saw live on TV.
A little boy, in my adult body, screaming out, fighting back against the abuse I couldn’t prevent as a child. ”
I keep my eyes steadfast on the script, avoiding glancing at the comments and emojis flooding the screen.
“For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been debating whether to share this with you all and trying to decide whether I’m trying to justify my behavior, garner sympathy, or absolve myself of guilt.
But then I realized I need to do this, not only for me, but for the child who is being molested by their babysitter.
For the young boy who doesn’t feel safe in their own home because their stepfather comes in at night to abuse them.
For the little girl whose father brings over his friends and shares her in their basement.
For the one in eight girls and one in twenty boys that are a victim of childhood sexual abuse.
In the US, Child Protective Services receives a report of childhood sexual abuse every nine minutes.
And the numbers are no doubt higher than those reported. ”
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I read off the statistics, and bitterness fills my mouth. I reach for the bottle of water next to my laptop and take a sip, buying a moment to regulate myself before finishing the live stream.
“I wish someone had been able to help me. To protect me from that man. And while I can’t turn back time, I can use my platform to shine a spotlight on this issue. To do all I can to prevent what happened to me from happening to another child out there, now or in the future.”
The shaking in my legs subsides and the fidget spinner begins to slow. My mind and body start to remember that young boy who just wanted to play and be free. The little boy I lost along the way. The one who waved goodbye to his childhood the day David first laid his hands on me.
“In the coming days, I’ll be announcing more about what I plan to do to support this issue, but until then, to anyone who is going through something similar, please know you are not alone.
Help is out there. I love you all and thank you for your ongoing love and support.
It means more to me than you’ll ever know. ”
I hit stop on the live stream and immediately turn my phone off. I plug it into the charger and close my laptop. My body sinks into the chair and I slide down, leaning my head back on the top. A surge of electricity rushes through me and warms my heart.
We did it, Alex. We did it.
He can’t hurt us anymore. We’re safe now.
Friday
My phone has been blowing up all morning.
Emails with support and condolences from friends and fellow artists who were shocked by the news flood my inbox, offsetting the lack of text messages.
That’s primarily due to no one having my new number, but worryingly, the family group chat has remained suspiciously quiet ever since the live stream.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were going to talk about it?
” Connie rapidly paces round the trailer, which is parked outside the latest filming location for the movie.
Her movements stir the unease in my stomach like a spoon in a teacup.
“We could have secured a proper sit-down interview to discuss all of this. Announced you as an ambassador to one of the hundred charities out there.”
Connie abruptly stops at the fridge, opening it to help herself to a Diet Coke.
“Jesus, Connie, not everything I do needs to be turned into a PR opportunity.” My words come in a breathy explosion after having listened to Connie bang on about this for the last five minutes while Paul watches. Lucy and Rob have wisely chosen to stand quietly at the other end of the trailer.
But if the last two months have taught me anything, it’s that I need to grow even more of a backbone.
“Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten this morning? How many email requests I’ve received for you to come on shows to talk about what you disclosed?” Connie retrieves her phone from her pocket and waves it at me.
Paul is still sitting in the black leather armchair across from the couch, sipping his latte and scrolling through the news app on his iPad. He readjusts his oval-framed glasses and looks at Connie, then over at me. Then he cranes his neck to look back at Lucy, and uses his finger to call her over.
“Why did you give him access?” His tone is stiff and surly.
If Connie is a pit bull in her attacks, Paul is a cobra, just biding his time before landing a blow.
“He asked me to update his phone. Download and install all the apps.” Lucy’s voice is cracked and raw as she pulls at her ponytail.
“We discussed this. No social posts go out without a sign off from Connie and me.” Paul takes off his glasses and turns back toward me.
The rage in his gaze is somehow magnified, despite the removal of his glasses, and it ignites my own.
“Leave Lucy out of this.” I push myself off the couch, forcing Connie to take a step back from the fridge.
After what I said to Lucy in New York about her trying to replace Samuel, the least I can do is protect her from Paul’s wrath.
“You mean, you discussed it,” I say, pointing between Connie and Paul. “Not we. You.”
“And this is the reason why.” Paul tosses his iPad on the couch like a live hand grenade, and I turn to pick it up. The headline from a news article and a screenshot from my live stream covers the entirety of the screen.
Silent Scars: Alexander Morgan Breaks His Silence Revealing Childhood Abuse.
I fling the iPad back at him, the rage inside me now like a whirlpool.
“You think it’s okay to shame me? To make me feel guilty for speaking out about what happened to me?”
The sheer audacity of the man.
“Have you stopped to think about what this has done to your family, your father?” His tone is so cold it could freeze Death Valley.
My heart skips a beat.
What does he mean, my father?
Is this the reason I haven’t heard anything from them?
Paul crosses his arms and waits for me to respond.
“What do you mean?”