The Missionary
Page 22
He said something, waved at her, pointed to the door. She glanced at the open doorway, the splintered wood. She knew what would happen if she left. She’d tried, and bore the scars of her punishment. She shook her head and huddled deeper. The man seemed to understand her fear. He shouted something to someone she couldn’t see, someone outside her room. There was a scraping noise, like something being dragged. The light was obscured, and a man entered walking backward, dragging something heavy. He dropped whatever it was, and the girl stared in awe and horror.
It was him. Dead. Eyes wide, staring, a hole in the center of his head.
She looked up at the man, then back at her dead captor. Hope flooded through her.
Someone else came, another man in body armor, and he handed her a thick, soft blanket, wrapped it around her shoulders without touching her. The girl hesitantly stood up, circling far around the corpse of her tormenter, watching him, making sure he didn’t rise up and hit her, force himself on her. He stayed dead, and then she was out in the light, the humid heat. It wasn’t light, really. It was nighttime, but she’d spent so long locked in that windowless room that even the relative darkness of city at night was bright.
The girl found herself in the back of a van with more than twenty other girls just like her, all of them wrapped in identical blankets, dark blue wool with a white insignia stamped on it. The girl’s English was poor, but she could read it better than she could speak it. International Abolition Coalition, it read, the words printed in a circle, with a globe in the center ringed by stylized doves, their wings interlocking.
The door of the van closed, but there was light, and tinted windows to the outside. The van rumbled away, turning and stopping and starting. Lights flashed, circling blue police car lights, following the van, which entered an underground garage. The van doors were opened, and a woman stood in front them, dressed simply in a fitted, floor length yellow dress. Her hair was black, tied back in a ponytail. She was short, curvy, and her belly was rounded slightly with new pregnancy.
She held her hand to the girl, and said in halting Thai, “Hello. My name is Wren. You’re free now. No one will hurt you, or touch you unless you let them. Will you come with me?”
The girl watched the woman’s eyes, saw genuine compassion, and something else. Understanding. The girl took the outstretched hand and stepped down, keeping the blue blanket wrapped tight around her body. The woman repeated her message to each girl as they stepped out of the van. The concrete was cold on bare feet, and the air smelled of old diesel exhaust, but it was welcome change from where they’d been.
The girls were led into an open room. There were benches, and chairs, paintings on the wall, abstracts and landscapes. The light was soft and yellow, coming from lamps in corners. The girls all sat down, and other women passed out bottles of water, little packets of food.
One wall had a window, showing a doctor’s table. Another woman appeared, this one wearing the white coat of a doctor. She was tall and blond, and had kind blue eyes. She spoke in Thai that was so halting as to be nearly incomprehensible: “You coming with me? I look you, make better. Only me.”
Over the next few days, the girl, and the others like her, were checked out by doctors, fed, clothed, and asked a million questions by authorities. No one in the entire building was male, however. Even the guards at the doors were women. A Thai woman explained to the girl that she could stay in this shelter for as long as she wanted, and people would help her learn to reenter society beyond the shelter, if she wanted. She would be given the opportunity to learn new skills, if she wanted. She could learn English. She could stay and help others, others who had been through the same thing as the girl had experienced.
So the girl stayed. She learned to go out into the city, always with another person, and though she was afraid, she eventually learned that not everyone would hurt her. Men frightened her, but no one touched her. The girl was there when another van came, another van full of girls like herself, naked and terrified and abused. The girl spoke their language, and knew what they’d been through, and she helped them, like others had helped her.
A Note From The Author
First, a few facts on human trafficking, according to abolitioninternational.org: over 21 million people are enslaved around the world, which means there are more slaves today than at any other point in history. Just to put that into perspective, during the entire slave trade of Colonial and post-Revolution America, historians claim a total of 12 million people were transported from Africa to America; this covers a time span of almost a century. Sex trafficking is estimated to gross $35 billion dollars annually, and American tourists comprise over 25% of the global sex trade. The average age of girls trafficked into prostitution in the United States is 12-14 years old. It’s estimated that over 100,00 children have been forced into the sex trade in United States; and 1 in 3 runaways is approached by a sex trafficker within 48 hours of being on the street.
A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to charities that fight sex trafficking.
The story I’ve told here is based in reality. What happened to Lisa and Wren has happened far too often. I’ve taken some liberties and artistic license, since I’m a writer telling a story, but the essence is true. The biggest liberty I took is inventing the idea of interconnected shanties out of which Cervantes ran his operation. I’ve never heard of this happening, nor do I know for sure whether it’s even possible, but it seemed to work out in my head, so I used it.
But the way Wren was kidnapped, that was real, based on many different stories I came across while researching. The forced drugs, being locked in dark rooms and raped unendingly, like Lisa Johnson…that’s real. Sexual slavery exists. Human trafficking exists. It happens in every country in the world.
Irena Bulova’s story is real too, as is the story told by Senator Johnson about the depressed teenager who ends up addicted to heroin and forced into sexual slavery in LA. Horrors like theirs really happen; I didn’t invent that. It happens in your city. In your town. To girls and boys, men and women.
The International Abolition Coalition, unfortunately, is fictional. I wish it were real.
There are real organizations, however, that are dedicated to fighting trafficking. Manila is cracking down on trafficking, using task forces to hunt down the slavers and prosecute them. There are charitable organizations dedicated to helping victims of trafficking. You can help, you can get involved, donate your time and money.
Do something selfless. Leave the world a better place than when you entered it.
Be the difference.
Coming Soon from bestselling author
(And my wife)
Jasinda Wilder
The Ever Trilogy
Read on for a teaser from
Forever & Always
Dear Ever,
It’s hard to write this letter. I’m not sure what to even say, but I feel like I can tell you things, because we’re friends, and somehow these letters are almost like a journal. I know you read them, and I read yours.
My mom has cancer. I just found out today. Breast cancer. I guess she’s had it for about two months and they never told me. They wanted to wait and see if the chemotherapy would help before telling me, or something. I don’t know. But I guess it’s not helping, and they don’t think anything will.
My dad told me. He used the same kinds of words I’m guessing the doctors used with him, big words, medical terms. All it means, once you cut through all the bullshit, is that Mom is going to die.
Shit. Seeing that in writing is so much different than thinking it.
What do I do?
She’s afraid, and my dad is afraid. I’m afraid. But we’re not talking about it. They talk about keeping up spirits and thinking positive and fighting to the end, and all that moral-raising shit. They don’t believe it. I don’t. No one does.
How can you, when each day passes and I can see her getting skinny, like the skeleton inside her is coming ou
t through her skin? Am I supposed to tell myself it’ll be okay, when it won’t?
Shit. I’m not a very good pen-pal, I guess. I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. It’s depressing.
I’m not even going to bother writing anymore. You don’t have to write back, if you don’t want to.
I hope you’re okay.
Sincerely,
Your friend,
Caden
~ ~ ~ ~
Dear Caden,
Of course I’d write you back. I’ll always write you back. This is what pen pals are for, after all, right? I’m okay. I learned a lot at the arts camp, and I’m using it all in my photography. Maybe next letter I send you I’ll include a print of one of my photos. Daddy is thinking of making me a darkroom in the basement, so I can do my own developing.
I guess I’m not sure how to talk about your news about your mom. I’m so sorry that’s happening. I know “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” doesn’t really help, but I don’t know what else to write. I wouldn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. When someone you love is hurt, or dying, or dies, it’s not okay. I know how you feel. I lost my mom too. She was in a car accident. I think we talked about this at camp. I told you, and I don’t tell many people. But I feel like I can trust you. Maybe we understand each other, or something. Like, in some kind of way that words don’t really explain. I feel that way. And I know what you mean about these pen-pal letters being like a journal. I write them and send them knowing you’re going to read them, but I never feel embarrassed to write things that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.
So I’ll tell you this: write me as much as you want. I’ll write you back every time. I promise. I’m your friend.
I’m sorry you’re going through this. No one should have to go through it, but you are, and you have a friend in me. You can talk to me about what you feel.
Be strong, Caden.
Your friend for always,
Ever
~ ~ ~ ~
I read Ever’s letter ten times before I finally folded it back up, slid it carefully into the envelope, and tucked the envelope—which smelled ever so slightly of perfume, like her—in the front of the shoe box which contained the others from her. There were twelve letters so far, one for every week that had passed since the end of the Interlochen summer arts camp. I picked up the lid to the box, which had once contained the very shoes I was wearing, a pair of Reebok cross-trainers. They were a year old, now, and getting too small. I wasn’t sure why I had kept the box, but I had. It sat in the bottom of my closet, buried on the left side beneath an old hoodie and a ripped pair of jeans, until I had gotten the first letter from Ever Eliot and needed somewhere safe and private to keep the letter.
Now, the blue box with the red Union Jack flag had twelve letters in it, and it sat under my bed.
I slid the box back under the frame of my bed and moved to my desk. Even though I had a laptop and there was a printer in the living room, I still wrote the letters by hand. I took a long time for each letter, because my handwriting is almost illegibly sloppy most of the time.
I stared down at the spiral-bound notebook for a long, long time, the pencil in my fingers, unable to summon the words. I blinked, took a deep breath, clicked the top of the mechanical pencil and started writing.
Ever,
It feels stupid to write “dear” all the time. So I’ll leave that part off, I guess, unless I think of something else to put there.
I’m writing, but I’m not really sure how long this letter will be. Mom is in the hospital full-time now. She stopped the chemo, said no to surgeries. I guess they said they could do a surgery and it had a 20% chance of working, and it was really dangerous. She said no. They already removed her breasts. She has no hair. She’s like a stick covered in paper, now. She’s my mom, in her eyes, but she’s not. I don’t know how to put it.
Ever, I’m scared. I’m afraid of losing her, yeah, but I’m afraid for my dad. He’s losing his mind. I don’t mean that in an exaggeration. I mean it for real. He doesn’t leave her side, not even to eat. No can, or even tries to make him leave.
Will it make me sound selfish if I say I’m afraid of losing him too? It’s like as sick as Mom gets, he’s there with her. Going with her. But I’m only 15, and I need my parents. I know Mom is going to die, but does Dad have to go too? He loves her so much, but what about me?
I hate how whiny that sounds.
Please send me one of your pictures.
Your always friend,
Caden.
PS, I tried something besides “sincerely” because that sounds stupid too. But I’m not sure if what I put is more stupid.
PSS, Is there a difference between saying “photo” and “picture”?
I thought about signing it again, but didn’t. Before I could chicken out, I folded the letter carefully and put into an envelope, stuck a stamp to it, and put it in the mailbox. I was home, and Dad was at the hospital. He always made me come home and do my homework before coming to the hospital. Something about “normalcy.”
Like any such thing existed anymore.
Jack & Jasinda Wilder
Visit us at our website: www.jasindawilder.com
If you enjoyed reading this book, I would love it if you would help others enjoy it as well. LEND it, RECOMMEND it, or REVIEW it.
You can share it with a friend via the the lending feature, which has been enabled for this book. Or you can help other readers find it by recommending it to friends and family, reading and discussion groups, online forums, or the like. You can also review it on the site where you purchased it. If you do happen to write a review, please inform me via an email to authorjackwilder@gmail.com and I'll thank you with a personal email.
Links to Jasinda’s other titles:
The Preacher's Son #1 #2 #3
Biker Billionaire #1 #2 #3 & Omnibus
Big Girls Do It Better (#1) Wetter (#2) Wilder (#3) On Top (#4) Married (#5)
On Christmas (#5.5) & Omnibus
Delilah's Diary #1 #2 #3
Wounded
Rock Stars Do It Harder
Rock Stars Do It Dirty
Rock Stars Do It Forever
Rock Stars Do It Paperback Omnibus
Falling Into You
Falling Into Us
Big Girls Do It Pregnant
Stripped
Visit Jasinda Wilder on Amazon for current titles.
To be informed of new releases and special offers, sign up for
Jasinda's email news
FB2 document info
Document ID: cb00c0cf-fd72-4833-ad01-6c87888443fc
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2.11.2013
Created using: calibre 1.9.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jack Wilder
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/