The Healer’s Touch — “A Soul in Shards”
Chapter IV/XIV
Read Chapters I, II, and III
She walked. There was no destination, no drive — just the monotone movement of walking, memorized and automatized as a child and now the last thing that remained for her. At least so she thought.
She walked. Her hands were full of mud and dirt, fingernails broken from the attempt to dig a shallow grave into the frozen ground. The sun was rising, but she didn’t realize how all trees to both sides of the road lit up. The light’s warmth melted the frost on needles and the iced-over puddles on the ground.
She walked. But nothing was able to light up her heart. Her eyes didn’t focus as she stumbled on with bloody feet. The shoes had fallen off days ago. Her walk was unsteady like a drunkard’s, her mind felt numb, glazed over with the haze of winter. A rag of a dress covered her thinned out body. She had forgotten the taste of food on her tongue.
She walked. Because there was nothing else to do. She stared ahead and never saw the riders until it was too late to hide. Her thoughts were too deep, sunken into the depth of her darkening soul. Help hadn’t come — only winter had, and death had accompanied him. She had survived because she had been the strongest. Now she would keep walking until exhaustion and starvation carried her off as well.
She walked. Her breath left her blue lips in little clouds. Her fingers felt like claws, so cold she could hardly bend them, so frozen they burned with pain.
She walked, but then was stopped.
The neigh of a horse broke through the pressing silence of the day. She gave a jump and turned around.
“Look who we have here,” said one of the two riders who had caught up to her.
“A scarecrow,” replied the other.
If it was possible that she froze even more, she did. Her eyes darted between both sides of the road. There were strips of brown grass saturated with blotches of snow before the trees started to rise. The underbrush had all frozen to nothing. If she could make it that far, she wouldn’t even be able to hide.
“Yes,” mocked the first after he saw her scared face. “Where is your field, little, ugly scarecrow?”
“It is unwise for a scarecrow to leave her field,” said the first and dismounted. She saw his heavy boots. No outrunning here. Thick saddlebags full of supplies covered the backs of the horses, the hilt of a sword stuck out from underneath a blanket.
She needed to talk her way out of this.
“My field fell barren,” she said, her voice rasping. “I am starving.”
“You are right,” she continued, and stepped back as the second man approached, hands on his belt buckle. “I am not from here. I am looking for the nearest town. I need food, shelter… help.”
The grin on the man’s face was anything but comforting to a starving young mother.
“The little crow lost her nest,” laughed the first man and dismounted as well. The two towered over her like giants. She felt her heart hammer against her ribs, trying to calm her nerves, but she felt her strength fade already. Would her legs even support her if she ran? Could she maybe distract them and get a horse?
“And now she’s looking for a new one,” said the second man, still grinning.
“Where are you from?” asked the first and folded his arms over his broad chest.
She gestured behind them. “West,” she whispered.
“Oh, from the war.”
The second man looked at his companion. “Looks like our little scarecrow is a refugee from the enemy.” He turned to her again.
“Are you with…?” she muttered.
The second man laughed like a barking dog. She cringed. The sound parted the silence like hammer strikes.
“We are with nobody. Wars here, wars there. You know who survives?” He stepped so close she could smell his breath. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her response.
She was too scared to answer. Where is your courage, woman? she demanded of herself, but knew both the strength to fight back as well as the motivation to do so had left her.
The man grabbed her upper arm and yanked her close. “Those who don’t succumb to such foolish things as family, loyalty, virtue and weakness.”
She tried to raise her forearm between them, when the other one replied, “And you have to be a man.”
The second one, not letting go of her arm, barked again. “Seems like our little scarecrow has her unlucky day.” He leaned in for a kiss, foul breath and rotten teeth assaulting her.
The slap echoed through the indifferent day. She saw the man’s surprise and only realized a second later that she had punched him, freed her arm and stepped back.
The second man looked to the first, who still stood by the horses. The man shrugged his shoulders and said, “A scarecrow indeed.”
“I like it when they resist!” said the second. When he turned around, she was running already.
Her feet hurt so much, but she forced them to propel her forward over the stony ground. The sun had thawed the mud — she could run faster here, but it became more slippery as well. I can do this! she told herself.
The barking of the hounds was still behind her. She turned and saw the second man running after her, greed and lust in his eyes. He was so fast — so fast! His boots tore through the mud. He would get her. He will get me!
No! she screamed against the inevitability. She looked left. The woods! She started for them.
His body crashed into hers before she could even leave the road. She was launched forward, fell hard, turned around and saw the man coming at her again. She tried to get up, but her knees were so weak — so weak! He grabbed her old dress at the neckline and pulled her to him. The fabric tore under his violent handling and left her half naked as she fell back into the mud.
No! she screamed, now crawling. His boot pinned her calf to the ground. No! She felt how her dress was ripped entirely off her body. The cold of the winter went straight to her core.
He kicked her around and she was sure her ribs must have broken. They hadn’t, but it didn’t matter anymore. The second man pulled down his pants and trapped her arms in his hands. Her legs kicked against him. Like a lion she tried to fight him off, leaned forward and bit his face as hard as she could.
His yell and pain gave her a second to bring her legs back together and free a hand. She would kill him if she had to. She would …
The other man suddenly stood over her. He grabbed her arms and pulled them over her head. She felt so vulnerable — so vulnerable. The second man, hot with fury, grabbed her ankles and pulled her legs apart. Why fight? said a voice in her head. What is there left to live for?
No! She yanked and tried to pull herself out, but she was powerless. She only scratched her bare back over the road. The weight of the second man collapsed on her. There was no room anymore to fight, no ounce of strength left to resist.
Her eyes closed and darkness overtook her. She let it happen, tried to ignore the grunts of the man violating her already broken body, tried to ignore the pain, tried to ignore the shame, tried to ignore the warmth of his touch, the feel of him inside her.
She prayed for oblivion.
It didn’t come.
She begged for obliteration.
It didn’t come.
She prayed for it to end.
It did end.
And yet never did.
Her whole body was trembling when she felt the man finish off over her and rise. She hadn’t even realized that the first man had let go of her wrists.
As from a great distance, she heard the two laugh. “What an ugly scarecrow.” The sound of hoofbeats on the ground — fading.
The cold returned first. Then the pain. It flamed up on her whole body, a soreness like fire. She lay there, on the road’s shoulder, dying.
She felt as if someone had taken her soul and crushed it into a thousand pieces, broken — so broken! It had been grief that had clouded her mind before. Now it was this vast void of emptiness that swallowed her. The depths of worthlessness engulfed her as she felt the blood run over her body, steaming before it froze on the ground.
She shuddered and pulled her arms around her chest. A breathless gasp escaped her lips as she pulled her legs back together. She rolled to her side, unable to weep, unable to feel — fading.
She would never know how long she lay there, apathetic. The sun disappeared in a haze over the horizon and the world grew darker, colder.
She prayed for help.
None came.
She prayed for death.
It wouldn’t come.
She leaned what little weight was left of her onto her bruised wrists and pushed onto her scratched knees. It took every bit of her willpower to pull one knee up and push upwards. She stood, while the stars appeared. The moon wouldn’t give its light on the bleak scene that had unfolded on the world’s surface.
She found the remains of her dress, wrapped them around her the best she could and started walking — dead inside.
