nsfw Sketches of Survival

LadyStark · June 4

The Story of Kaitlyn Cifuentes

Kaitlyn Cifuentes was born in San Mateo del Río, a forgotten village tucked between the dry hills of Zacatecas, Mexico. She never knew her father — he died in a mine collapse before she turned one. Her mother, Maria, was a quiet, nervous woman who vanished one night when Kaitlyn was just seven. No one ever spoke of her again. Some said she ran off with a man. Others whispered that her body was buried somewhere out back. From then on, Kaitlyn was raised by her uncle, Silvano — a bitter, foul-tempered man who called her a burden and treated her like one. Life taught her silence. Her classmates teased her for her hand-me-down clothes and quiet stare. She learned to never show emotion, never complain, and never let them see her cry. She never had birthdays. She never knew what a toy store looked like. She spent most of her days helping at the local fruit market, scrubbing blood off old tiles, or trying to stay invisible when her uncle came home drunk. By the time she was ten, Kaitlyn had already stopped dreaming. There was no light at the end of the tunnel — only dust, darkness, and the hope that tomorrow wouldn’t be worse.

The place she grew up in was like a wound that never healed — dry, cracked, and always aching. The house was made of sun-baked bricks with a tin roof that groaned in the wind. The walls were stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke, and the floor was always coated in dust no matter how often she swept it. Outside, stray dogs barked at nothing, and broken beer bottles littered the roadside like forgotten memories. There was no warmth in that village — just the hiss of tires on dirt roads and the occasional gunshot in the distance. At twelve, her uncle began “renting out” the spare room to strange men. He told her to serve them food, wash their clothes, and stay in her room when the door shut. By thirteen, the locks disappeared. The nights became longer, and the walls thinner. She tried to talk to the church once. The priest said he’d pray for her. The police laughed when she reported him. “Family matter,” they said, shrugging her off. Kaitlyn began to disappear, piece by piece. She found escape only in her sketchbook — drawings of wings, oceans, and faces without names. Places she’d never been. People she wished existed. Her world became one of shadows, survival, and silence.

At twenty-five, Kaitlyn boarded a plane to Los Santos, clutching a borrowed duffel bag and a torn paper with one name on it — Mason. Her uncle told her Mason lived out in the County, in a small town called Blueberry. "He'll help you out," he said with a smirk, like it was a joke only he understood. The plane ride felt surreal — her first time flying, heart pounding, palms sweating, eyes constantly scanning the window as the land below changed from the dusty browns of Mexico to the concrete sprawl of Los Santos. Once she landed, she took a bus out toward Blueberry, where Mason waited. He was older, cold-eyed, always smiling too wide. At first, he seemed helpful. He gave her food, a place to stay, even said he'd “get her started” with some money. But soon, things changed. He took photos of her. Told her it was "just modeling." Then came the pressure — to pose naked, to act out fantasies for strangers, to obey him or be thrown out. Mason was a manipulator, a psychopath hiding behind fake kindness. Kaitlyn found herself trapped — no documents, no money, and no one to call. She stayed in that house for months, enduring abuse, silence, and shame. Then, one day, Mason vanished. Just gone. No trace. And Kaitlyn, broken but breathing, found herself alone once again — this time in a country that didn’t even know her name.