The rhythmic scratching of insects against the hut’s walls became her new clock, each squeak a tiny, unwelcome reminder of the passage of time. Onesmus’s visits became less frequent, yet each one was a fresh wave of terror, a chilling reminder of her captivity. His absence, however, was not a relief; it was a silent, suffocating pressure, a constant threat hanging heavy in the air. The silence itself had become a weapon, slowly eroding her spirit, chipping away at her resolve. On rare days she was given a basin of tepid water to wash up and she had been given a toothbrush. Her hair was unkempt despite her efforts to use her fingers to groom her tight curls.
She learned to listen to the sounds of the outside world, to distinguish the chirping of crickets from the distant barking of dogs, to identify the rhythm of the wind rustling through the tall grasses. These sounds, once merely background noise, had become her lifeline, her connection to a world beyond the confines of her small, suffocating cell. Each sound was a tiny fragment of hope, a whisper that life existed beyond her current reality.
Hunger gnawed at her, but it was a hunger that paled in comparison to the emptiness that gnawed at her soul. The food Onesmus brought was meager, barely enough to sustain her, yet it served a purpose beyond mere sustenance. It was a reminder that she was still alive, that the flicker of defiance that stubbornly refused to be extinguished still burned within her. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, transforming a simple act of survival into an act of rebellion.
Her body was bruised and battered, a roadmap of his brutality. But her spirit, surprisingly, remained unbroken. The trauma of the assault had left her emotionally raw, but it hadn’t managed to completely extinguish the fire within. The act of defiance, of surviving the assault itself, had somehow become her shield, a newfound strength she had never known she possessed.
One day, she decided to investigate a small crack in the wall, barely visible, hidden in the shadows. At first, she had ignored it, dismissing it as another insignificant detail in the monotony of her imprisonment. But then, the idea of escape, however improbable, began to creep into her mind. It was a tiny seed of hope, planted in the fertile ground of her despair, and it began to sprout.
She started to examine the crack more closely. It was small, barely wide enough for her finger, yet it represented a possibility, a potential pathway to freedom. She spent hours studying it, tracing its contours with her fingertips, feeling the rough texture of the cement-covered mud, assessing its weakness. The idea of escape became her obsession, her focus, the thing that kept her alive, pushing back against the suffocating darkness of despair.
Slowly, painstakingly, she began to enlarge the crack, using a twig Onesmus must have brought in when he came to empty her bio-bucket. The work was agonizingly slow, each tiny increment a testament to her determination, her unyielding resolve. The pain in her body was a constant companion, but it was a pain she willingly endured, a pain that fueled her efforts.
She worked on the crack the next day, when Onesmus was absent. Her body screamed in protest, her hands were raw and bleeding, but the growing possibility of freedom kept her going. She lived on hope, on the tiny possibility of escape, the distant whisper of a future beyond the walls of her prison.
That night, under the cover of darkness, the crack was finally wide enough. She hesitated, a wave of fear washing over her. The fear of failure, the fear of being caught, the fear of the unknown, all threatened to overwhelm her. But the greater fear, the fear of remaining captive, spurred her on.
With a deep breath, she kicked the wall and surprisingly, it mostly gave way. She squeezed through the narrow opening, in between the wooden poles were the hut’s framework, and was elated when even more mud and cement crumbled around her, showering her with dust. She was free. She scrambled out, her heart pounding in her chest, her legs unsteady, but her spirit soaring.
She ran blindly, driven by the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the fear pushing her forward. She didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t have a plan, but she knew she had to get away, to disappear into the darkness. She ran until her lungs burned, until her legs ached, until she could run no more.
The darkness behind her represented the life she had left behind. The world before her held the promise of a new beginning.
She collapsed beneath a large tree, exhausted, bruised, but free. The silence of the night seemed to wrap around her, comforting and reassuring, and she allowed herself to cry, to let the tears she had held back for so long flow freely. She cried for the pain she had endured, for the violation she had suffered, for the loss of her innocence. But she also cried for joy, for the freedom she had regained, for the triumph over despair.
As dawn broke, casting a pale light over the landscape, she looked up at the sky, at the vast expanse of the heavens, a symbol of the boundless possibilities that lay ahead. The ordeal had left its mark, but it hadn’t broken her. It had made her stronger, more resilient, more determined than ever before.
She had no money, Onesmus had taken whatever she had. She knew she was at least an hour’s drive away from her home.
The town was a labyrinth of narrow, winding paths, a maze of huts, ramshackle and palatial houses, maize fields and grazing livestock. People began to stir, their lives unfolding in the pre-dawn stillness. She moved cautiously, blending in with the shadows, her presence barely detectable. She observed the townsfolk, their routines, their interactions, her sharp eyes noticing every detail.
The pre-dawn light, a pale, watery wash, barely penetrated the dense thicket where Mary crouched. She pressed herself further into the thorny embrace of the bush, the prickles a minor discomfort compared to the fear that clenched her chest. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still clung to her memory. Her escape from the hut had been brutal, a desperate scramble fuelled by adrenaline and terror. Now, the adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a chilling emptiness.
Then she saw him. Onesmus. His silhouette, elongated and distorted by the weak light, moved with a predatory grace through the undergrowth. He wasn’t looking for her, exactly. He was hunting for her, the way a tracker follows a wounded animal. How had he found her here, in this seemingly impenetrable thicket, miles from his homestead? The question gnawed at her, a bitter taste in her mouth. Perhaps it wasn’t luck; perhaps someone had seen her, followed her.
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