Episode 15

...BELEN CLINT...

A kind woman who assisted me took me to purchase a train ticket under her name, even using her credit card so there would be no trace of my own.

"Where you aim to go, I know a trustworthy woman; she was a friend of my mother's and is unwell. Perhaps you could work there if you wish," she suggested.

"I was intending on heading to the place my aunt, the one whom this happened because of, had told me about," I shared with her.

"Do you think that's safe? He might somehow learn of it, and I believe you'd rather avoid that," she rightly posited, and it occurred to me then.

"I hadn't considered that; you are correct," I said, looking at her, chagrined.

"Go to her; say I sent you. You'll be safer," she assured me. I wept with relief; at last, someone was aiding me in my escape, and I could begin to envision a brighter future elsewhere.

I boarded the train filled with hope that from here on, things could only get better. He wouldn't find me, and besides, like his aunt had said, he wouldn't check the path I'd taken. I only hoped he would give up searching for me, that he would not do so ever.

It was a long train journey—a great many hours during which, for the first time in quite a while, I managed to sleep peacefully.

With the man who swore love to me, I endured hellish years. The ring he gifted, I abandoned in oblivion. I was not his, never would be, and did not want to remember what it symbolized.

After many hours, I finally arrived. I hailed a taxi and proceeded to the address the woman had given me, eager to start my new life at last.

An elderly woman, evidently burdened by health issues, received me. She was momentarily startled at seeing me, but upon explaining who sent me, she hesitated not in welcoming me into her home.

That very day I helped her into bed and cooked for us both. This lady had money and children who neglected her, she conveyed to me—a sorrowful fate to be alone in one's old age after a life spent raising them, but such is the lot of many elders, alas.

I had a small, worn bed, but it sufficed. Here, at least, I was safe from abuse, from blows and affronts of any sort; the absence of insults was more than enough for me.

There was a time when having money brought me happiness, as it meant I could stand on my own feet; but in this moment, material wealth mattered least. What I now valued was peace and security.

Over several days, my bond with the woman steadily improved. I accompanied her to doctor's appointments, managed her errands, and the bruises on my face began to fade, the marks on my body gradually vanishing.

In her younger years, the lady had labored long in a food establishment and now taught me to cook, instructing me on which ingredients to add and how to use various spices. I truly felt better, felt useful, and she never belittled my efforts but expressed genuine gratitude.

To me, Doña Marta became like a grandmother, and I grew to love her dearly. She often said that I had saved her life, yet in truth, she had saved mine.

Weeks passed and we found ourselves at the doctor's for another check-up due to troubling previous test results that needed monitoring. But I could never have anticipated what unfolded right there.

Suddenly feeling ill, dizzy and disoriented, the doctor quickly had me rest on an examination table to check my pressure, take my temperature—the basics.

Doña Marta, concerned, insisted that I too be tested, as she was aware of the dire state in which I had arrived. I had confided in her the tribulations with my sole former boyfriend.

A sharp sting was what I felt next, and a nurse then escorted me to give a urine sample, fearing I might collapse. I was pale before, but the bathroom mirror reflected someone ghastly, as if I were a ghost still striving to pick up the fragments of my shattered self.

Love had wrecked my life, and the last thing I desired was to meet someone of the opposite sex who would seek to impose their will upon me.

I was roused from my thoughts when the doctor returned to where I lay. He moved to lift my blouse, but instinctively, I caught his hand, a reflexive defense against disrobing, something I once hoped might protect me but was futile against the rage-fueled blows that would make me lose consciousness.

"I need to examine you, Miss Clint," he said gently, and with embarrassment, I relented.

"I'm... I'm sorry," I murmured with remorse.

With practiced hands, he pressed on my abdomen and nodded solemnly to the nurse, who gave me a look that was more than just embarrassed; it was one of pity.