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She was twelve years old and had blood red lipstick. Her face was flushed and her hair tangled. She knelt at the bottom of the door frame, holding her red gown to her shoulders so that it wouldn't slip off.

Her father would pick her up soon. Relish over the money he made today. Not ask her how her day was. Ignore her fidgeting and discomfort. As long as she kept her customers satisfied, her dad was satisfied. Or rather, his drinking addiction was satisfied.

She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs. Someday she would get out. Someday she would find someone who really loved her for her, not for her body. Someday, somehow.

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Eh, toss this story
6:10
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.

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