𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞
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Days, weeks, even months of Suffering
The night of Maria’s beating was not an isolated incident; it was merely the crescendo of a symphony of suffering, a prelude to the weeks that followed, a slow, suffocating descent into despair. The violence that had erupted that night became a constant, gnawing presence, a shadow that clung to every corner of their small cottage.
The bruises on Maria’s body, once vibrant and angry, darkened and deepened, transforming into a tapestry of purple and black, a grotesque testament to Luke’s cruelty. They never had the chance to heal, always replaced by fresh wounds, new marks of his rage. Her once soft and warm face, a beacon of gentle strength, grew gaunt, the skin stretched taut over her cheekbones, her eyes, once sparkling with life and warmth, now dulled with exhaustion and pain, reflecting the weight of her unbearable burden.
The house, once filled with the soft hum of her humming, the gentle rhythm of her hands kneading dough, the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread, was now suffocatingly silent, a tomb of unspoken horrors. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of unshed tears and unspoken fears. The silence was a living thing, a constant reminder of the violence that had become their daily bread.
Liahona saw it all. She saw the way her mother flinched at every movement, the way she kept her head down in Luke’s presence, her body language screaming submission, her spirit broken. She saw the way she quietly sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent grief, when she thought her daughters were asleep, her tears a desperate plea for a reprieve that would never come. And she saw the way Luke changed, too. He drank more, his moods swinging like a pendulum between sickly sweet affection and thunderous rage, a terrifying unpredictability that kept them all on edge.
Some days, he would stroke Maria’s hair, his touch almost tender, whispering apologies that meant nothing, empty words that offered no solace. Other days, he would grip her wrist too tightly, his sharp nails digging into her skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks that mirrored the bruises on her soul, his voice slurring insults that were sharper than any blade, cutting deeper than any physical wound.
Luna, too young to fully understand the depths of their suffering, had become more withdrawn, her bright spirit dimmed, her laughter silenced. The once bubbly child who played with paper birds, who danced under the moonlight, her feet barely touching the ground, now clung to her sister’s side, sensing the shift in the air, the wrongness that lingered in the corners of their home, the darkness that had seeped into their lives. But she was blissfully ignorant of the full extent of their suffering, shielded from the harshest realities by her mother and sister, who desperately tried to preserve her innocence. Maria and Liahona made sure of that, their love a fragile shield against the encroaching darkness.
Until the night Luke’s rage turned to Liahona...
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It's already winter, snowflakes fall quietly from the sky as it create a thick snow around the Caeles house.
It had been an unusually cold evening, not the kind of from the winter's breeze—no, the kind that crept into one’s bones and refused to leave—a biting chill that mirrored the coldness in Luke’s heart.
Maria had spent the entire day tending to Luna, her small body burning with fever, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her frail arms clung to Maria, needing comfort, safety—things she could no longer provide. Maria had barely eaten, barely rested. Her hands trembled as she wrung out a damp cloth, pressing it against Luna’s forehead, praying for the heat to break.
Liahona had taken over preparing dinner, her hands shaking as she sliced the stale bread, knowing any mistake, any delay, could set Luke off, could ignite the inferno waiting behind his cold blue eyes.
But it didn’t matter.
He had already decided tonight was the night.
His mind was clouded with alcohol and rage, his heart filled with a dark, twisted need to inflict pain—to remind them that they were his.
The wind howled outside, rattling the loose shutters, whispering secrets of storms yet to come. And then, like a violent gust breaking through, the door slammed open.
Luke stepped inside, and with him came the scent of ale, sweat, and something fouler—something that clung to him like a curse. His once-handsome features were twisted with something monstrous, his lips curled into a snarl, his blue eyes burning with a cruel, terrible hunger.
Maria barely had time to stand before his hand shot out, gripping her by the arm, yanking her to her feet with such force that the bowl she had been holding crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering pottery rang out, sharp as a gunshot.
Luna whimpered from her spot by the fireplace, curling into herself, her fevered body trembling. Liahona did not hesitate. She stepped in front of her sister, shielding her with her small frame, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might burst.
Luke’s grip tightened around Maria’s arm, his fingers digging into the bruises that had barely begun to heal.
“What did I say about leaving the house?” he hissed.
Maria’s voice wavered. “I—I only went to fetch water—”
The slap was so fast she barely saw it coming.
Her head snapped to the side, her lip splitting open. Blood trickled down her chin, a crimson river against pale skin.
Liahona burned.
Luke tilted his head, studying the thin line of blood staining Maria’s mouth. His lips curled into something resembling a smirk.
“That’s a lie,” he murmured. His gaze shifted to Liahona, pinning her in place. “Isn’t it, girl?”
Liahona met his gaze, unflinching. A fire burned behind her eyes, hotter than her mother’s blood on the floor.
“She was only getting water,” she said, her voice steady.
A challenge.
Luke’s eyes darkened.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
Maria’s voice wavered with desperation. “Please, Luke, she’s just a chil—”
Another slap. Harder this time.
Maria crumpled onto her hands and knees.
And something inside Liahona snapped.
“STOP IT!” she screamed. “You coward! You—”
She didn’t see his hand move, but she felt it.
His knuckles struck her across the face, sending her sprawling onto the floor beside her mother. The pain exploded through her cheek, ringing in her ears. The metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth.
Luke crouched beside Liahona, his fingers gripping her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him. His breath reeked of liquor.
“What do you think, girl? Think you’re grown enough to talk back to me?”
Liahona didn’t answer. She only stared at him, her blue eyes filled with cold fury.
Luke’s fingers tightened. “Say something.”
Maria sobbed, her voice breaking. “Luke, please—”
Liahona clenched her jaw. Her mind screamed at her to fight, to hurt him. But she knew better.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Luke smirked, satisfied. He shoved her away and turned back to Maria.
And Liahona knew, with unshakable certainty, that they had to leave.
They had to leave tonight.
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That night, after Luke had succumbed to the heavy stupor of his drunken slumber, his snores a guttural, unsettling rhythm that echoed through the small cottage, Maria, Liahona, and Luna made their desperate escape. The house, once a haven, now felt like a suffocating cage, its walls stained with the invisible marks of violence. The air hung thick with the residue of his rage, a suffocating tension that choked their breaths.
They took nothing but a single satchel, hastily packed with stale bread, a flask of lukewarm water, and a small silver pendant, a delicate piece of jewelry that had once belonged to Maria’s mother, a precious heirloom that whispered of a life before the darkness. The forest surrounding their village, a labyrinth of ancient trees and gnarled roots, was thick and dark, the bare branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, grasping at them, threatening to ensnare them. But to Liahona, it was salvation, a path to freedom, a refuge from the monster they were leaving behind.
They moved with a hushed urgency, their breaths visible in the frigid night air, wisps of white against the inky blackness. Their footsteps were muffled by the soft, damp earth, a silent procession through the sleeping woods. Maria held Luna close, her small body trembling against her, whispering reassurances into her ear, soft words of comfort that were meant to soothe both her daughter and herself. Liahona led the way, her eyes scanning the darkness, her heart pounding with every rustling leaf, every distant howl of wolves, every snap of a twig beneath their feet. She knew they had little time. If Luke woke and found them gone, his rage would be a tempest, a force of nature that would hunt them down without mercy. And if he found them—
She didn’t let herself finish the thought. The image of his contorted face, his eyes blazing with fury, was enough to fuel her desperate flight.
They walked for hours, their bodies aching, their limbs heavy with exhaustion. The cold seeped into their bones, a biting chill that nipped at their skin, turning their fingers and toes numb. But they could not stop. They pushed on, driven by fear and the desperate hope of a future free from violence.
Not until they were far away, lost in the vast expanse of the wilderness, beyond the reach of his cruel hand.
But fate, as it often did, proved to be cruel. Just as the first hints of dawn began to break, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold, a sound shattered the fragile hope that had begun to bloom in Liahona’s chest.
The distant sound of hooves, a rhythmic pounding that echoed through the silent forest, growing louder with each passing moment.
Luke was coming.
Maria’s grip on Luna tightened, her knuckles white, her body rigid with terror. “Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a breath against the wind.
Liahona hesitated, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Ma—”
Maria turned to her, her eyes fierce, her voice a low, urgent command. “RUN!”
Liahona took Luna in her arm, her small body hot due to her fever yet trembling. Liahona's feet pounding against the frozen ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
She didn’t look back.
Not even when she heard her mother scream, a raw, primal sound of pain and terror that tore through the silence of the dawn.
Not even when she heard the sickening sound of a blade piercing flesh, a wet, tearing sound that sent shivers down her spine, a sound that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her days.
Not even when the birds scattered from the trees, their cries mixing with the wind, a cacophony of fear that echoed her own terror.
She ran until her legs gave out, until her lungs burned, until her body shake with fear and grief.
Only then, when she could run no more, did she dare to look back.
And Maria was gone.
Only a crimson stain in the snow remained, a dark, spreading blot that marked the spot where her mother had fallen, a stark reminder of the violence they had left behind.
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Liahona run,
She held Luna tighter, her arms a desperate shield against the cold, against the pain, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead, a silent promise of protection.
And then, with the sun rising behind them, casting long, ominous shadows across the snow-covered ground, she took her sister’s hand and walked forward.
Never looking back, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, her heart a cold, hard stone.
Never stopping, she forced her feet to move with a relentless determination, driven by the instinct to survive.
Never allowing herself to break, her spirit forged in the fires of grief and rage, her resolve as unyielding as the ancient trees that surrounded them.
Because there was only one thing left to do.
Survive....
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Liahona did not see her mother fall.
But Luna did.
Her fevered mind had been clouded, hazy, but she had seen it.
The way Maria had turned, arms outstretched, trying to shield them.
The way Luke’s knife had slid into her ribs as if her body had been made to be torn apart.
The way her mother’s blood had painted the snow in a dark, spreading stain.
And the way she fell—
Eyes wide.
Mouth open in a silent plea.
The world went quiet.
Liahona didn’t realize Luna had seen. She just ran, clutching her sister, pushing forward through the endless dark.
But Luna had seen.
And she did not cry.
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