walks him over to the mounting block. She moves up the four steps and places her left foot into the stirrup then swings her right leg over the saddle, sitting down on the horse’s back as if the saddle was made of glass. She looks over her shoulder at the boy once more before squeezing her mount forward—he’s still staring. Sitting the trot for a few steps, she picks up a canter and moves gracefully down the long dirt driveway and away from the estate. Nothing in sight but a tree tunneled road and path leading her to an alternate ending.
An arranged marriage would never satisfy her soul—passionate, wild, and free—like her horse, she cannot be tamed, or traded for prize. She’s a free soul, but freedom comes at a price—she’s running away from security, certainty, and everything she’s ever known.
She rides into the night, taking refuge in a meadow beneath a blanket of stars—warm summer air wisps across her skin causing a shiver. Alone except for her horse, grazing comfortably beside her. A star falls across the sky.
“Wishes may, wishing might—I just want a moment to feel right.”
Her horse shakes his head reflexively as she watches him. The poor groom back at the stable has no clue that he just helped her escape—she worries for his fate more than her own, and yet, she wonders why she has this profound concern for a complete stranger. Why should she care? It doesn’t make sense but she also knows that if she doesn’t go back, they’ll surely jail him for life—or worse. She can’t bear the thought of an innocent man suffering for her consequences. That isn’t fair—to anyone—doesn’t matter that she’ll never choose anything for herself in her whole life except for this moment—she could choose to stay or leave; no one could tell her what to do. She looks at her horse again—he’s worth staying for, but she could just take him too. Is a life of unhappiness worth staying for if it grants someone else’s freedom? She returns to the stable—but she doesn’t love the groom or her fiancé. She doesn’t love anybody. She doesn’t know how.
***
First eyes meet. Heat blares down on the backs of skin scarred and black; a field of cotton and green divides their gaze. She looks up from the bush pretending to pluck cotton from the stem, so as not to draw unwanted attention to herself or her incessant curiosity—eyes focused on each other; she wants to stay fixated in his trance—crack. The man is jarred to reality as his skin is split sore. Branding marks vandalized flesh of scar tissue now unrecognizable from repetitive abuse; arms, legs, hips; he bore seals of past ownership. Beaten into submission, he became sheep among lions. His hands stop moving for a moment again to look at the girl—an enforcer notices and extracts him from the field. They never see each other again.
He’s kicked to the ground—then kicked towards a tree. Two others bind him to the trunk; the whip blares down, ripping flesh from bone and mangling skin. The girl watches in horror but makes no moves to assist, nor does she show distress. Calm, cold, collected—their way to survive is to remain passive. Every bone in her body shouts and screams with each crack of the whip—her heart struggles through