Snatches of my previous life sometimes came to me, usually when I lay on my sleeping mat. The visions drifted in unbidden, like fragments of a dream I couldn’t piece together. Me as a little girl on our family’s farm and my father and mother, happy. The wind through the grasses. The golden fields, beneath the vast endless sky. The smell of freshly turned earth, and for a fleeting moment, I could feel happy. It all seemed like a dream. It was a dream.
Our farm was less than a day’s walk from Pelargir. My father took the goods that our small farm produced to sell to the merchants, who in turn, sold it at their booths. I remember when my nightmare began. When the happy people that were my parents turned sour. As I got older, my father would remind me that I was not a son. I would not carry on his family name, and I would not receive the farm. He reminded me he never wanted a girl.
How I wished that I could be different; how my life could be different. I tried to help my father, but my mother also needed my help. Soon, she couldn’t hide it anymore, she was very sick. My father blamed me. That if I were a boy, my mother would not be sick, she wouldn’t be dying. It was my fault for being born. I couldn’t bring myself to go out to the village near our homestead. I was afraid that they wouldn’t want me either. I often thought of running away, finding a new family, a new home, but…I never did. I could never find the courage to take the few things I owned and get away.
The night before my mother’s death, she wept weakly, lamenting her lack of more children. I sat by her side, dabbing her face with a washcloth. I cried, I told her that I loved her, that I didn’t want her to die. I couldn’t tell if she was listening to me or not, she didn’t respond. She just kept weeping, tears sliding down her fever reddened cheeks. She died without ever telling me that she cared for me…or loved me.
After my father buried my mother, I tried to be useful. I tried to be the boy he wanted, but it wasn’t good enough. It was only a few weeks later that he handed me a few things in my little blanket and told me that a woman would be meeting us at the local common house and that she would be taking me away.
I cried, harder than I had since my mother had died, and begged him to let me stay; I told him that I would always be good. He turned away from me and told me that we had to leave at that moment. I didn’t even have time to make sure that he packed everything I owned; I didn’t even get to take the little doll from my bed that I found while out exploring one day. I left behind the only thing that I felt loved me in this life.
It didn’t take us long to get there. By the time we got to the common house, both my knees were scraped and bruised from how often I fell due to my father’s quick pace. He would often turn around and drag me to my feet and berate me for being slow, or making noise, or even crying. I sniffled instead, limping along behind him, going to my doom.
The woman was older. Her large portly size was dressed in old rags and when she smiled, she scared me. I hid behind my father, but he shoved me forward at her, causing me to nearly fall again, “Here she is. I hope she is more useful to you.”
Her clawed hand reached for me and gripped my small arm with an inhuman strength. “Aye, she’ll be g’nough help.” Her mouth lacked several teeth, and what remained was yellow and cracked. Her rancid breath hitting me full in the face, causing me to reel back.
I cried and reached out for my father, calling to him, but he turned and walked away. Leaving me in the clutches of her vile stench. The woman gave me a shake so violently that I fell back down to my knees in dirt, scraping up my knees more. “Get up, girl!” She shook me again, but this time dragging my arm upwards. I cried out, but she released me when I found my footing.
We walked onward towards the city. I stopped crying after the second time she turned and slapped me. After that, I made no more noise. It was late in the evening when we made it back to the city. I gaped in wonder at the walls and the buildings. There were more people here than I had ever seen in my life. But we didn’t slow down enough for me to take in the sights of the city. I kept my eyes low, avoiding her glare, but I couldn’t help glancing at the towering buildings we passed, their grandeur turning into peeling walls and cracked stone the deeper we went. I got hopelessly lost with how many streets we turned down. The more we walked, the buildings became shabbier and the streets less clean. Every corner seemed to cast longer shadows, hiding faces that peered out with hollow eyes. My scraped knees stung, and my stomach twisted, the suffocating feeling of the walls closing in making me feel dizzy.
We passed doorways with wood frames sagging under the weight of age, windows barely held onto broken shutters. Some windows, shadows danced against shutters from the candle light within, the demonic shapes seemingly dancing out of spite with my situation. The clamor of the busy market faded behind us, replaced by the murmurs of low voices and occasionally a slam of a door, or the cry of a child.
It seemed as if we walked forever, my captor’s intentions to keep me confused with the direction. At last, we stopped in front of a building that looked like it could barely stand. The door was crooked, splintered at the edges, and the windows were nothing more than holes stuffed with old cloth. The woman shoved me inside without a word, and I stumbled into the dim room, catching myself on a rough wooden table. The scent of mildew and sour ale filled my nose.
“Sit,” she barked, pushing me into a rickety chair. My legs felt weak as I obeyed, sinking down without protest. For the first time, I dared to look up at her face—puffy, blotched, with eyes as sharp as glass. There was no kindness there, only a cold scrutiny that made me shiver. She turned away, locking the door with a loud click that echoed through the silence.
I glanced around the room, taking in the cracked walls and sagging ceiling. My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Whatever was to come, I knew I was at her mercy.
The woman crossed the room with deliberate steps, reaching for a chipped basin on a shelf. She dipped a rag into murky water and wrung it out, droplets splattering onto the floor. I flinched as she turned back to me, eyes narrowed. Without warning, she pressed the damp cloth to my face, scrubbing away the dirt with harsh strokes. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, the rough fabric scratching my already raw skin.
“You’re a mess,” she muttered, tossing the rag aside. Her eyes scanned me, taking in the torn hem of my dress and the blood dried on my knees. She sighed, a sound not of sympathy but of frustration. “Can’t ‘ave you lookin’ like a street rat,” she added, more to herself than to me. “You’re worth more than that.”
My breath caught in my throat. Worth more? The words churned in my mind, mixing with confusion and a growing sense of dread. I forced myself to sit still, though my fingers twitched with the urge to reach for the door behind her. My eyes darted to the boarded window, noting how the light slipped through the cracks, casting thin lines of gold across the floor. It was the only warmth in the room.
The woman moved again, rummaging through a trunk in the corner. The sound of rustling fabric and the clinking of metal filled the air. She pulled out a bundle and turned to face me. “Change, now,” she ordered, throwing the clothes into my lap. I stared at them—an old tunic, frayed at the edges, and a belt with a worn brass buckle. They smelled faintly of dust and something bitter, like herbs left too long in the sun.
I hesitated, fingers tracing the rough weave of the tunic. She watched me, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. The silence stretched between us, heavy and sharp.
“I’s won’t tells ya ‘gain,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. I swallowed hard and nodded, turning away as I fumbled to change, the cold air biting at my skin. Behind me, I could hear her pacing, each step tapping out a rhythm that only deepened my anxiety.
When I finally turned back to face her, the old dress clutched in my trembling hands, she gave a curt nod. “Good,” she said, her tone harsh but no less commanding. “Now we begin.”
And this is where the work never ended. I scrubbed floors, I carried, I served…every day the same. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and then the years went by. When the rare occasion came when I was not working, I was kept out of sight.
Whenever I was fed, she would complain about the cost of feeding me, but then mutter under her breath that I would be worth something someday, and I could not fathom what she could have meant. My inexperienced brain could not process how I was worthless to her now. She paid me nothing, and she did less work because I was doing it all.
Occasionally, someone kind would notice me—someone who might sneak me an extra piece of bread or offer a few kind words. But what I cherished most were the scraps of paper left behind, or better yet, a book. I would slip them into my apron pocket and devour their contents by the dim light of night or in the soft glow of dawn, before the inn stirred to life. From the fireplace, I stole bits of charcoal, using them to practice writing on any surface I could scrub clean, always careful to erase the evidence of my learning. The rare times the hag caught me as a child, she’d lash my back with a switch. I quickly learned to avoid getting caught; the pain of working through fresh wounds was not something I wished to endure again.
Even in those early days, I could not have known what was to come, I didn’t know how this place was making me so sick. I couldn’t see a way out. The years that I worked in this place, I was splintering, festering…being infected, the poison seeping into my system. The more vile of patrons, I was able to avoid. I wasn’t a stupid girl. I knew what men got to with women. I knew what they were about. I could hear them talking about me…about my body. But I managed to keep away. I always managed to stay one step ahead.
One evening, we had a special guest at our bar. A noble, by the way he looked and dressed. I stared at him openly; the man seemed to be oozing richness. It was not until I was smacked on the back of the head with a serving spoon, that my attention was brought back to me and I turned. I resisted glaring at the hag as she waved the spoon near my face.
“Hike up yer skirts, gurl, and bring him some food!” the hag whispered as she gave the strings on my bodice a tug. Fuming, I turned and grabbed a trencher full of stale bread, greasy stew, and stale ale, making my way through the crowded room, the air thick with the stench of spilled ale and unwashed bodies. Why someone like him would come in here was beyond me, but I did my job, whether it mattered to me or not. I had nowhere else to go. I had a moment to look him over as I walked to where he waited. He didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. His coat was too fine, boots too polished and clean, and the fabric of his leggings unmarred.
“A trencher for you, ser?” I spoke slowly so as to not sound completely like the backwater scum that frequented here. I wondered to myself why he had come to this place. I waited patiently for a response.
The man slowly turned and looked me over, to my chagrin, and took the trencher without a word, being careful to avoid touching me. He removed the bowl of stew aside, his nose wrinkling slightly, and focused instead on the sale bread and ale. Once the bowl was far enough away, he reached into his pouch and pulled out three gold coins. The clink of the coins in his hand caught the room’s attention, and an audible gasp could be heard from the hag behind the counter, as he placed them deliberately, one by one, into my palm. Then with a faint air of distaste, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his hands. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I bit back a smart retort. I was not filthy. Why was he here then? What was his reasoning for coming into this hovel of a tavern, if he were thinking himself too fine.
I balled my hand that held the gold into a fist and turned to walk back to where the hag was eagerly waiting. Anger bubbled in my chest, hot and unrelenting. The sting of humiliation and the bitter unfairness of it all made my face burn and my eyes sting. I didn’t get a choice for this life, this prison, and yet, I was expected to endure it. Accept the scraps I was thrown and be grateful I had a roof over my head. The hag crooned over the three gold pieces as I placed them into her hands. I tried to not let my resentment show on my face as she pocketed them but something inside me shifted. I hated, hated, all of them, this life, and most of all the hopelessness that came with it.
I was still seething as I moved around the bar, cleaning tables and wiping them down with a rag that was as filthy as the rest of this place. My normal, and careful, perception was clouded. That anger removed my focus. I should have paid attention to what was around me. I should have… well; I should have done a lot of things. It was at this point where my life took a wrenching turn away from the life I wanted, the life that I was thrust into, and that mistake would cost me dearly.
I should have felt the leering look I was getting. It was not until I felt a hand slither up my skirts, that I brought my attention to focus and attempted to turn to face the one that began to grab at me. But his hand was a distraction because his arm was already snaked around my waist. I gave a shout of alarm. I struggled, but it was in vain, for he was stronger and his arm that was around my waist then moved and captured both of my arms. He removed his hand from under my skirts and grabbed my chin and pulled my face towards his. The smell of tobacco and alcohol was enough to almost make me retch. I continued to struggle and kick, but he had maneuvered me in such a way that I was sitting upon his lap. His two legs trapped the two of mine and he continued to press his face into mine. I whipped my head around and screamed when I was able to get my mouth free.
Over my shouts, I heard the hag say, “Oiy, it’ll be two gold pieces for that one, ser.” and the man grunted in agreement as he stood, carrying me towards the back room.
This was at this point where my rage and hate boiled over. The noble turned and met my eyes and I begged him…begged him to save me, to help me, to stand up and defend me… but he turned away, annoyed with the noise.
Sobbing, my resistance faltered slightly, and I was pulled into the filthy backroom that was the hag’s living quarters. It was not until he started groping at me again that I took up my fight and attempted to kick and grab onto anything. How could a man be this impossibly strong? He eventually made it to the back room. I kicked and struggled more; I could feel my time was short. I was going to end up losing this fight. Everything was moving too quickly. His hand clawed at my bodice, and the fabric ripped. He groped at my bare chest and I screamed, attempting to bite, snap at his hand. His attention changed and I could feel him pulling at my skirts, trying to figure out how to untangle the fabric in his drunken state, his clumsy hands only making him more frustrated. I attempted to lash out again, screaming in frustration myself, trying to get away. I was able to get an arm free of his other hand and I took a wild swing at his face, anything to deter him from his end goal. I hopelessly missed and my hand came in contact with the polished mirror that the hag kept by the mattress. It shattered, I could tell from the sound and from the searing pain coming from my hand. He captured my hand again, but I continued to struggle, although I was getting weaker, and he was not losing any strength.
What was I doing? Was I going to let this rutting pig attempt to take me? Through my sobs, I worked up a gob of spit in the back of my throat. He howled when it hit him right in the eye. With my hand, free again, I grabbed blindly behind me, trying to find something that would help me defend myself. My fingers encountered the broken pieces of glass… He began to lean over me, his battle with my skirts almost over. I could feel his hot breath on my face again, his body heavy over mine. In a final panic, my fingers kept searching, something…anything… my fingers encountered a small knife, barely sharp enough to cut anything with but I wrapped my damaged hand painfully around it, and brought it up and rammed it in the side of his neck.
Again, and again, I stabbed him. I was blinded by my pain and anger… He howled in pain this time, not in rage, and when my senses finally came to me, I watched the life leech from him as his heart drained him of his own blood, pump after pump. It felt like an eternity, him struggling over me, thrashing about, clawing at his own perforated neck. He tried to make more noise, but every breath he took, there was only a horrible gurgling sound. Eventually the fight left his body, and the dead weight of him crushing me. I screamed and screamed until I was hoarse. I no longer felt anything, the pain in my hand that gripped the dagger, my fear, my frustration… I felt nothing. Sobs racked my body and tremors shook me to my core, but I felt nothing. As suddenly as feeling left me, hot boiling rage blossomed within my chest, it consumed me. I hated this man; I hated every man in that room that let this happen; I hated the hag for trying to sell me. They all deserved death as this pig did. They all deserved to die.
As I lay in his blood, warm and viscous, the world slowly came back to me in fragments—the heavy weight of his body pinning me down, the metallic tang of blood filling the air, and the searing pain in my hand. His lifeless form still lay over me, trapping my legs. I tried to slide out from under him, but the pain in my hand was nearly unbearable. But I did not want to let go, I couldn’t lose the only piece of protection that I had, the little dagger.
I glanced around, desperate for something to anchor my gaze on, but everything was blurred, my eyes unable to focus. I could no longer tell which blood was mine and which was his, as my hand was now bleeding freely. I needed help, I needed… I did not know what I needed. I struggled more to get out from beneath him. He was impossibly heavy. With a gasp and shaking arms, I finally was able to roll his body off of mine, the sound of wet fabric and the ‘thud’ of flesh breaking the silence in the room. I struggled to stand, on hands and knees, before I was able to finally get my legs under me. Attempting to straighten my dress from where it was tangled and raised around my waist, made me choke out a laugh. My dress was in tatters, covered in blood, his and mine. My bare chest was covered in it as well. It was a mess—a horrifying, unrecognizable mess. I shakily walked towards the door, grabbing at anything that might cover my nakedness before I stepped out. But I need not wait.
The hag opened the door just as I clutched to myself a thin blanket. She stood there, her sharp eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before dropping to the floor—to the corpse sprawled in its pool of blood. It felt like the world slowed as she opened her mouth, and screamed, a sound I had never heard before. A blood-curdling shriek that sent a fresh wave of panic over me and through me. She turned and bolted out the door.
My heart thundered in my chest as I scrambled to follow, though I had no idea what I intended to do. Stop her? Beg her to help me? My thoughts raced, jumbled, incoherent, as I stumbled barely through the doorframe into the hallway. But she was already there, rushing back towards me, a trencher held high above her head. Her face was twisted in fury, her screams nearly drowning out my own. It came swinging down, and I barely avoided the first swing, but the second swing was too fast for me to avoid, and pain exploded along the left side of my head.
The pain was blinding, and sharp. Black spots danced all around my vision and I struggled to stay upright. My knees buckled, and I staggered, dropping the blanket and reaching for the wall, trying to stay upright. The world seemed mute around me but her expression showed that she was still screaming. The final blow is what sent me sprawling.
This time, blackness consumed my vision entirely. My body hit the floor with a dull thud, and I knew no more.