30 Red Dresses

  30

  RED

  DRESSES

  Johan Twiss

  Twiss Publishing, Copyright © 2017

  by Johan Twiss

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Illustrator: Sky Young

  Editor: Adrienne Burger

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  DEDICATION

  To those suffering from the evils of human trafficking, my heart aches for you. I weep for you. I pray for you. And I will try to help as best as I can.

  And to those wonderful organizations and souls who are fighting against this modern slavery, I say thank you. Keep up the good fight.

  CHAPTER 1

  I wonder if he will remember it’s my birthday? Veata thought.

  Chances were there would be no gifts and she would spend the day doing all the housework—as usual—but that did not prevent a smile from spreading across her face.

  Today I am eight!

  She prepared breakfast, enjoying the smells of fried eggs and curry wafting through the tiny one-room shack. The smells reminded her of her mother’s cooking, bringing a tinge of sadness to the happy day. It had been two years since her parents died from cholera and she desperately missed them—struggling to keep their faces in her memory.

  She was sent to live with her uncle, who spent his days gambling—that is, when he wasn’t passed out, drunk, or hitting her. Still, it was her birthday and she was happy.

  Veata heard a low growl from the other side of the hut and watched her uncle lazily roll off his sleeping mat. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and grunted his disapproval at rising so early.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” Veata said quietly. Her special eyes saw brown, flat swirls of color slowly shifting around her uncle. He was tired and groggy, but she was thankful he was not in a bad mood.

  Since the time of her first memories, Veata had always seen the colors surrounding others. Her mom had been a bright yellow, like the sun, and her dad a watery bright green, like the rice fields he worked in. Her mom had always told her she had special eyes and that hers were a gift—the ability to see the aura of others—but Veata did not know what aura meant. To her they were just colors, and all living things showed her their true colors.

  Her Uncle slowly stood up, a grimace crossing his face as he arched his back to stretch. With heavy feet, he walked over to the tiny stove and scooped up one of the fried eggs Veata had cooked.

  “I’m going to the city today,” he announced. “You’re coming with me. Clean up and get ready.”

  Veata froze, her face flushed with anticipation at the unexpected birthday surprise. She had spent her entire life in their small village and this would be her first trip to Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia.

  Her uncle’s colors changed from dingy brown, to emerald green, with a shade of gray swirling around him. She’d never seen him this excited before.

  The bus ride was long and uneventful, but as the city came into view, she marveled at the tall buildings, paved streets and thousands of cars.

  Veata swallowed a lump in her throat. All those people, she thought. They look just like the ants after I poke an anthill.

  The bus stopped in an older part of town and her uncle motioned for her to get off with him. Veata silently followed her uncle through a maze of narrow and increasingly dirty alleys. The colors of those she passed varied like a rainbow—some dazzling and bright while others were dull and dark.

  After turning down a new alley, Veata nearly collided with her uncle when he came to an abrupt stop outside a weathered green door.

  “Wait here!” he said sharply, waving his finger at her. “I’m going inside to take care of some business. Don’t you dare move!”

  Veata nodded and waited patiently in the alley, but curiosity led her to explore her surroundings. Near a pile of trash, she found two small snails. Their colors were shimmering pink and silver. With the snails in one hand, she gathered up two sticks and built a makeshift track.

  “All right, little ones,” she whispered, placing one snail in each lane. “Race!”

  The snails crept forward. One gradually veered into the middle stick. Oh no, he’s trapped. Veata reached down to free the snail and heard the door open behind her.

  Her uncle exited with a stranger who had spiky black hair that was dyed red at the tips. The stranger handed her uncle a small stack of cash and they shook hands.

  Veata tilted her head. I’ve never seen Uncle smile before, she thought as his colors exploded in dark green and violet.

  “There,” her uncle pointed dismissively at Veata. Looking greedily at his newfound wealth, he turned and walked away. Veata stood to follow, but the spiky-haired man grabbed her from behind, smothering her mouth with his dirty hand.

  She bit the man’s hand and screamed, “UNCLE! COME BACK!”

  Her uncle stopped and turned around. His colors went solid gray, like cold, hard stone, and flashed dark green as he looked longingly at the money in his fist. Without a word, he turned his back on Veata a second time, and left the alley.

  Veata screamed and scratched, vainly attempting to twist free as the man dragged her into the building. He threw her into a large closet and slapped her across the face.

  “I’ll keep hitting you until you stop screaming!” he shouted, his colors changing from dull gray to burning red and orange as he slapped her.

  Each blow felt like a hammer driving Veata deeper within herself. She stopped screaming, but her mind pleaded, Help! Uncle! Come back! Help me! Someone help me!

  But no one came.

  The spiky-haired man ignored her tears. His gray colors moved sluggishly around his body as he looked down on her. He grabbed a tiny red dress from a shelf and threw it at her. Veata watched as the dress fluttered in the air, almost gliding, before falling to the dirty floor at her feet.

  “Change!” the man commanded.

  Veata tasted the salty tears streaming down her face, trying to push away the pain—trying to understand. An image of her mother in a yellow dress drifted into her mind.

  “Mama,” she sobbed as her mother smiled and extended open arms to comfort her.

  “Mama. Hold me.” Veata reached out to her mother, their fingers nearly touching, when a hard slap crashed against her cheek. Her mother disappeared.

  “Shut up and change!”

  Veata blinked rapidly, trying to bring her mother back into view, but she was gone. “No,” she whimpered. “Come back, Mama.”

  “I told you to shut up and change,” the man hissed. He reached back his hand to hit her again, but Veata quickly grabbed the dress off the floor and began changing to avoid being hit.

  The man grunted, seemingly satisfied as he lowered his raised hand.

  Once she dressed, the man grabbed her by the arm, led her down a hallway, and shoved her into a small room with a dozen other girls in red dresses. All of the girls looked much older to Veata, like teenagers. Some whispered to one another while others stared blankly at a maroon colored curtain against one wall.

  “Stop tal
king and line up!” the spiky-haired man shouted.

  As he walked down the line, he stopped at each girl and placed a sign over their neck. Written on the signs were numbers. Veata’s read “30”.

  Bright lights came to life above them and Veata shielded her eyes.

  “Show time,” the man called. He pulled a rope that opened the velvety curtains, revealing a large glass window on the other side.

  None of the girls spoke, but some began posing and twisting. Through the glare of the lights, Veata saw they were standing on a stage with men looking at them through the glass. Some of the men pointed toward her. Weak, frightened, and too hurt from the beating to fathom what was happening, she stared at the ground, paralyzed. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Today is my eighth birthday.

  CHAPTER 2

  James set down the pen and rubbed his aching hand, thankful the long line of fans had finally disappeared. The jet lag from flying into Cambodia early that morning was catching up with him. He hated flying, especially on international flights, and felt a throbbing headache building at the base of his skull.

  I need a Dr. Pepper and a long nap, he thought, continuing to massage his hand.

  But the hand cramp from Hades wouldn’t let up after nearly five hours of signing book after book for his fans at the Momentum Bookshop in downtown Phnom Penh.

  He still couldn’t believe how many people showed for the signing. Upon arriving at the bookstore, the line outside the front doors wrapped around the corner of the building.

  For once, I was wrong. Apparently, ‘Whispers of Golgomoth’ really is big in Cambodia.

  He had doubted his agent’s claim that a trip to Asia would prove worthwhile, but the first movie was about to be released. It had been a dud in the U.S., but projections showed it grossing quadruple overseas, especially in Asia.

  His translator, a young local by the name of Munny Chey, tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Are you ready to go back to your hotel?” Munny asked with a broad smile. “It is only mile to your hotel, Mr. Moore. I thought we walk and I take you on scenic tour. Show you all the best sights.”

  James groaned and ran a hand through his thick mop of gray hair. He’d just turned sixty last month, and felt like an old geriatric standing next to Munny, who was barely twenty and full of energy. It also didn’t help that James stood a more than a foot taller than Munny, at six-foot-eight inches, making him feel like he was being accompanied by a little kid.

  “I don’t know,” James murmured. “I just want to grab a cab and head straight to the hotel. We have two more signings tomorrow and then I head to Thailand and Hong Kong after that.”

  Munny shook his head and clucked his tongue. “No, no, Mr. Moore. You been sitting all day on plane and in hard store chair. Walking good for you. Good for heart,” he said, thumping his chest. “Plus, cab drivers here are cuckoo. Like riding in metal death trap. No, you come follow me and I show you the best of Phnom Penh. Trust Munny Chey. He help you see.”

  Munny beamed another youthful smile and James rolled his eyes, letting out a soft chuckle. He couldn’t help but laugh at the way Munny’s name was pronounced in the Khmer language.

  Money G, he help you see, he thought. The kid sounds like a rapper straight outta Compton.

  James stood up from the chair he’d been planted in the last five hours. Pain pulsed through his arthritic knee. It was a constant reminder of an old football injury from his college days.

  “Fine. We can walk,” he relented, hoping his knee wouldn’t swell up like a cantaloupe later that night. But his doctor had told him he needed to exercise more, not to mention lose a good eighty pounds.

  After offering his thanks to the bookstore staff, James stepped outside and groaned.

  The air was thick, muggy, and a stifling 102 degrees Fahrenheit with 99% humidity.

  “Just imagine you’re back in Dallas,” he muttered to himself, sweat immediately forming along his brow. “It’s just as hot here as it is back home.”

  But Phnom Penh was nothing like Dallas. The architecture, the sounds and even the smells were different. Spicy scents of curry and other seasonings wafted through the old streets as they passed a handful of small cafes. Though the smells were interesting, they were not what James associated with food and his stomach turned at the thought of eating the local cuisine.

  But there was at least one thing that felt familiar to James––the sight and sound of hundreds of cars stuck in traffic. Oddly, he found the smell of exhaust comforting. He’d always been a bit of a gearhead, and this was a smell that he recognized and understood.

  Munny pointed out various landmarks, like the Royal Palace with its ornate golden spires and immaculate garden park set against the backdrop of the river. And although James would never admit it to his young guide, the more they walked, the happier he was with the decision to skip the cab back to the hotel. It felt good to be out on a walk, even if the exertion caused him to breathe a little harder than normal.

  “We go on shortcut now,” Munny said with a grin. “It faster and I show you best view of Mekong River. They almost finish brand new dam up the river. Bring power to city. Very nice. Had problems with other dam built further north. Broke and flooded farms. Bad karma.”

  James wrinkled his brow. “Bad karma? What’s that supposed to mean? Like bad luck? I didn’t think that’s how karma even worked.”

  Munny nodded. “You right, Mr. Moore. You very smart man. I start saying ‘bad karma’ around English tourists when I first start translating. They always ask if doing this or that bring bad karma. I joke with them and start saying it all the time. Now it like bad habit. But tourists eat it up.”

  Munny gave James a wink and turned down a narrow alley, escaping the main thoroughfare and the noise of the busy street. The wind picked up and dark clouds blew in overhead. A few minutes later, a light drizzle began to fall.

  James wiped a mixture of water and sweat from his face, removing his glasses after his futile attempts to keep them dry. “Maybe we should head back to the main road and get a cab.”

  “Bah,” Munny replied. “The monsoon rains come every day. Last one hour. You either soak with sweat or soak with rain. You get used to it my friend.”

  “We wouldn’t be soaked with rain or sweat if we had taken a cab,” James scoffed, becoming annoyed by the constant drizzle.

  Munny only smiled. “Ah, Mr. Moore, but now you experience the real Phnom Penh.”

  Now that his clothes were wet and sticking to his skin, James’ previous appreciation for the walking tour all but disappeared. The only thing he wanted to experience at this point was a hot shower and his hotel bed.

  Grumbling to himself, James followed Munny through a maze of streets as drips of rain fell from his gray hair and ran down his neck under the collar of his blue button-up shirt. The wet clothes rubbed against his skin, chaffing with each step.

  A clap of thunder shook the air and lightning danced through the sky. They turned another corner, walking onto a deserted street. James felt the wind slam into him as they came into view of the Mekong River shoreline. The view was striking as the gray clouds swirled over the wide expanse of the river. The powerful winds struck up white-capped waves that crashed against the massive dam that was still under construction. Another clap of thunder rang out, and as if on cue, the light drizzle transformed into sheets of torrential rain.

  “This is bad karma! This much rain not normal!” Munny shouted over the deafening sound of water pounding the tin rooftops of nearby buildings.

  “No. Really?” James shouted back sarcastically. “I thought you were used to this weather.”

  The road by the river was not paved, forcing the two men to trudge through thickening, sludgy mud. Another crack of thunder shook above them, and James felt like someone was blasting him with a fire hose from heaven. Visibility nearly disappeared, and soon the painful, hammering rain was replaced by painful, hammering hail.

  “We need cover, now!
” James shouted as the hail grew in size, golf-ball-size chunks of ice pummeling his head and shoulders.

  They lifted their shirts over their heads in a poor attempt to protect themselves. Reaching the door of an old building, James started pounding. No answer. He tried to open it. Locked.

  Fumbling their way down the muddy street, they turned into a narrow alley, searching for refuge. Munny pointed to a worn green door further down. James hurried toward it, but his shoe started to slip off in the mud and he tripped.

  Hard chunks of ice slammed into his back as he laid face first in the brown sludge. He struggled to get up, slipping on the muddy surface, until Munny held out a hand to steady him.

  Together, they trudged to the green door. James pulled on the handle. It opened.

  “Thank goodness,” James panted as he and Munny slogged through the door, filthy and dripping wet.

  Immediately, James’ senses were assaulted by the smell of body odor, stale cigarettes, and alcohol. A thick, bald man stood up from a stool in the corner of the entry room and eyed the two newcomers in annoyance before speaking in Khmer.

  James looked to Munny for a translation and Munny’s eyes went wide. He shook his head and whispered, “bad karma.”

  A puddle of muddy water collected on the floor beneath James and his one bare foot. The burly, bald man spoke again, his voice rising this time as he waited for a response.

  Munny shook his head. “This is bad place, Mr. Moore. We should leave. He ask if you American. Say he take care of you, but we pay to enter. No just hide from rain for free.”

  “Fine. I’ll pay!” James barked in irritation. He was soaking wet, covered in mud, and he could feel welts forming on his back and head from the impact of the hail. No matter the cost, he was not going back outside and into that storm.

  James pulled out his wallet and struggled to remove a couple of soaked bills clinging together. “Here! Is this enough?” James scoffed, shoving the money toward the doorman.