Getting away
1297 Words
MIA POV
“You have to wake up.”
I hear someone speaking to me, but the voice is so low and shaky, as though the person is afraid of being heard. The sound feels distant, like it is coming from underwater.
My head throbs painfully, as if it is about to burst open. I try to move, but my body feels unbearably heavy.
“I said, get up.”
The voice comes again, louder this time, more urgent than before. Slowly, I force my eyes open, squinting as bright light stabs into them. For a moment, everything is blurry, spinning in confusing shapes and shadows. I blink several times, trying to focus, trying to understand where I am.
Wait… where am I?
Panic floods my chest, and I push myself into a sitting position despite the pain shooting through my head.
My surroundings look unfamiliar—cold stone walls, a faint smell of dampness, and scattered crates stacked carelessly nearby. My heart begins to race.
Then I remember the voice.
I turn sharply, ignoring the dizziness, and my eyes land on an elderly woman standing a few feet away from me. Her gray hair is hidden beneath a faded scarf, and her face is lined with deep wrinkles, the kind carved by years of hardship.
What the hell is she doing here?
But before I can even form the question properly, another one presses harder in my mind.
Where am I?
“Where—” I begin, but I am cut short when the old woman moves quickly toward me. Her movements are surprisingly fast for her age. She presses a finger against my lips, her expression suddenly sharp and commanding.
“Shhh,” she whispers.
Her voice is so soft that if I weren’t paying close attention, I might not have heard her at all. She glances around nervously, as though someone might be watching us.
“You are at the back of the mission, if you are wondering,” she finally says, still barely above a whisper.
My heart pounds harder.
“How did I even get here?” I ask, lowering my voice as much as possible. Every instinct in me tells me to be careful, to stay quiet.
“There is no need to ask many questions here,” she replies, her tone firm but not unkind.
“The last thing I remember is fainting,” I say, confusion twisting painfully inside my chest. “Everything went black.”
She sighs softly, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away again.
“You will know everything,” she murmurs, “but not right now. That will be when you are out of here.”
Out of here.
That phrase echoes loudly in my head.
What does she mean by that? Does it mean I have already been sold? Have my uncle and his wife finally handed me over to whoever my new “owner” is supposed to be?
Fear coils tightly around my heart.
Before I can ask another question, the woman reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small cloth. I barely have time to react before she presses it over my nose. A sharp, unfamiliar smell fills my senses.
“No—wait—” I try to protest, but my words dissolve into darkness.
Once again, everything fades away.
Honestly, what is wrong with me and blacking out lately? It’s starting to feel like a personal habit.
I hear noises before I see anything.
Murmurs. Footsteps. Distant chatter.
My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as though they are glued shut. My head pounds relentlessly, a deep, pulsing pain that makes it hard to think. It feels like something tight has been wrapped around my skull.
“She is dead.”
“No, no… she might not be dead.”
“What is the problem with her?”
“Anyway, she is a beautiful girl.”
“So young… such a shame.”
The voices overlap, surrounding me. There are many people—too many. I can tell I am in a public place, somewhere busy. A market? A mall? A bar? The possibilities spin wildly through my mind.
“Let us call the police.”
That is the last thing I want to hear.
Adrenaline surges through me, and somehow, despite the pain, I manage to open my eyes. Gasps fill the air as I suddenly sit up, drawing the full attention of everyone around me.
“What the hell…?” I mutter.
I am lying on the grass.
A park.
People stare at me in shock and curiosity, some backing away as though I am a ghost that has come back to life. Slowly, one by one, they lose interest. Conversations resume. Feet move on. Until eventually, I am left alone.
Completely alone.
“Ouch,” I hiss as I stretch my legs. Pain shoots through my entire body, leaving me wincing. Every muscle aches as if I have been beaten. No wonder I kept blacking out.
But then another question hits me.
What am I doing here?
The last thing I remember clearly is the old woman… her whispering… her strange behavior.
Shaking my head, I try not to dwell on it too much. I need to focus on surviving, on figuring out my next move.
As I shift slightly, something catches my eye on the ground beside me.
An envelope.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick it up. The envelope is plain, slightly worn, with only two words written on it.
To you.
My heart skips.
I sit on a nearby swing and slowly open the envelope. Inside is a folded letter. It is addressed to me—or at least, that is how it feels.
I take a deep breath and begin to read.
Hello, young girl.
I am sorry that I was not able to learn your name. I am ashamed of that. But that is not the most important thing right now. Before you read further, you must understand this—trust no one. I mean no one.
I am Mrs. Pierce. The old lady you saw. When I saw you arrive with who I assumed were your family, my heart sank. I felt pity, and I knew you were heading toward something dangerous. I listened carefully, and I learned the truth. They sold you.
My hands begin to shake.
To die is far better than to be sold to those animals. They do nothing good with children. They sell them as s*x slaves. They harvest their organs. I could not allow that to happen to you.
Tears blur my vision.
Mr. Adkins took away my granddaughter—my only family. That is why I am here. That is why I do what I do. This is my revenge.
I would like to write more, but time is not on my side. That headache you are experiencing is from the risky drug I injected into you. It made you appear dead, so they disposed of you instead. The rest, as you can see, is history.
Use the little money I left you to rent a place and start a new life. No one will find you there.
Have a blessed life.
My chest feels heavy as I lower the letter into my lap.
That woman saved my life.
present day.
Six months later, as I stand in front of a mirror adjusting my clothes, I cannot help but think of Mrs. Pierce. Every step I take forward is because of her courage.
When my life finally settles, when I am strong enough, I promise myself that I will find her.
But for now, I have an interview to prepare for—and a future to claim as my own.
- Writer
