Read Online Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1) by Nathan Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathan Wilson
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outskirts.”
FOUR
Vivian emerged from the metro as a
train howled obscurely in the distance. She almost expected the
tunnel to collapse behind her in a wave of concrete shambles.
Joakim had faded into the darkness long before Vivian tasted fresh
air. She reared up from the stairs to greet a city wreathed in
humid fog.
Nostalgia ached in her chest as she
scanned the vacant lot. She left the mouth of the tunnel as the
churning wind tugged her forward.
Even at the age of eighteen, Vivian
felt trapped in a child’s body, reborn into this unforgiving world.
Except the man and woman who birthed her were absent now, and in
their place was a void of fragile independence.
She relied so much on her parents as
she braved this emotional cyclone more commonly known as life. They
helped her register for classes, taught her how to drive, and
provided a dry roof over her head.
That security had been stripped away
just like the clothes from her body when she worked at the
gentlemen’s club.
But not even those perverse times
could match the vulnerability she felt as she entered the main
plaza. This place stirred feelings in her that remained dormant
since childhood: ignorance that shielded her from
danger.
She palpably felt an outside presence
that invaded this place and claimed dominion over the ruins.
Condemned houses broke the skyline like jagged nails.
The district looked like a modern
Gomorrah scorched by divine fury. Vacant shops lined the
streets.
Vivian knew the secrets of this
district, a reality that too many denizens shied away from. All the
lies concocted by the media could never hide the tragic past that
smoldered here. Her eyes fell on a child’s mangled
bicycle.
Twelve years ago, racial riots drove
hundreds of Chinese immigrants from this poor district. Chaos
spilled across the district heavily populated by disenfranchised
immigrants, resulting in the deaths of twelve armed officers and
more than 200 civilians. The area had virtually been quarantined by
the government and thus could only be accessed by foot.
Renovations had been scheduled to
begin last fall but the city council lacked the funds—or more
appropriately, courage—to move forward.
Vivian strolled past the disgraced
cathedral, its Gothic façade bruised by Molotov cocktails. Even the
hospital had been tarnished by the violence that oozed through the
impoverished ghettos. Cartridges from assault rifles littered the
streets, giving silent testimony to the martyrs who fell to their
knees in puddles of blood and tears only twelve years
ago.
She wondered how the police felt as
they walked among the site of an ethnic massacre. How many of them
had donned riot gear and faced a disparaged population in the
bondage of poverty? How many defected when they saw the charred
bodies of children being disposed of in the sewers before the
camera crews arrived?
Not
enough , she thought, watching the wind tug
on the bicycle wheels. To this day, she still felt the sting of
prejudice. She would never shed the label as a “Chink” or “Mulan”
in the eyes of the older generation. She was an unwelcome immigrant
and no amount of assimilation could cleanse her of that
stigma.
Suddenly, she remembered the night
that violence washed ashore in her neighborhood like a
disease-ridden tide. Riot police had swarmed their residence,
mistaking it for the lair of a militant activist.
The stench of napalm still wafted up
from the streets, eliciting unwelcome memories. She could still
picture the burning liquid adhering to the wallpaper in her
bedroom.
She woke to the sound of screaming as
a military unit kicked down the doors. Vivian tried to scurry under
the blankets before her bedroom door exploded. A loud pop preceded
a flash, dissolving her vision and hearing. Silence replaced the
discordant bellows of federal intruders.
When her vision cleared, incendiary
chemicals were eating away at her bedroom walls. Her belly dragged
along the carpet as
FOUR
Vivian emerged from the metro as a
train howled obscurely in the distance. She almost expected the
tunnel to collapse behind her in a wave of concrete shambles.
Joakim had faded into the darkness long before Vivian tasted fresh
air. She reared up from the stairs to greet a city wreathed in
humid fog.
Nostalgia ached in her chest as she
scanned the vacant lot. She left the mouth of the tunnel as the
churning wind tugged her forward.
Even at the age of eighteen, Vivian
felt trapped in a child’s body, reborn into this unforgiving world.
Except the man and woman who birthed her were absent now, and in
their place was a void of fragile independence.
She relied so much on her parents as
she braved this emotional cyclone more commonly known as life. They
helped her register for classes, taught her how to drive, and
provided a dry roof over her head.
That security had been stripped away
just like the clothes from her body when she worked at the
gentlemen’s club.
But not even those perverse times
could match the vulnerability she felt as she entered the main
plaza. This place stirred feelings in her that remained dormant
since childhood: ignorance that shielded her from
danger.
She palpably felt an outside presence
that invaded this place and claimed dominion over the ruins.
Condemned houses broke the skyline like jagged nails.
The district looked like a modern
Gomorrah scorched by divine fury. Vacant shops lined the
streets.
Vivian knew the secrets of this
district, a reality that too many denizens shied away from. All the
lies concocted by the media could never hide the tragic past that
smoldered here. Her eyes fell on a child’s mangled
bicycle.
Twelve years ago, racial riots drove
hundreds of Chinese immigrants from this poor district. Chaos
spilled across the district heavily populated by disenfranchised
immigrants, resulting in the deaths of twelve armed officers and
more than 200 civilians. The area had virtually been quarantined by
the government and thus could only be accessed by foot.
Renovations had been scheduled to
begin last fall but the city council lacked the funds—or more
appropriately, courage—to move forward.
Vivian strolled past the disgraced
cathedral, its Gothic façade bruised by Molotov cocktails. Even the
hospital had been tarnished by the violence that oozed through the
impoverished ghettos. Cartridges from assault rifles littered the
streets, giving silent testimony to the martyrs who fell to their
knees in puddles of blood and tears only twelve years
ago.
She wondered how the police felt as
they walked among the site of an ethnic massacre. How many of them
had donned riot gear and faced a disparaged population in the
bondage of poverty? How many defected when they saw the charred
bodies of children being disposed of in the sewers before the
camera crews arrived?
Not
enough , she thought, watching the wind tug
on the bicycle wheels. To this day, she still felt the sting of
prejudice. She would never shed the label as a “Chink” or “Mulan”
in the eyes of the older generation. She was an unwelcome immigrant
and no amount of assimilation could cleanse her of that
stigma.
Suddenly, she remembered the night
that violence washed ashore in her neighborhood like a
disease-ridden tide. Riot police had swarmed their residence,
mistaking it for the lair of a militant activist.
The stench of napalm still wafted up
from the streets, eliciting unwelcome memories. She could still
picture the burning liquid adhering to the wallpaper in her
bedroom.
She woke to the sound of screaming as
a military unit kicked down the doors. Vivian tried to scurry under
the blankets before her bedroom door exploded. A loud pop preceded
a flash, dissolving her vision and hearing. Silence replaced the
discordant bellows of federal intruders.
When her vision cleared, incendiary
chemicals were eating away at her bedroom walls. Her belly dragged
along the carpet as
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