SHE WAS TOO YOUNG, too innocent to have suffered so much. Yet the world seemed to take no pity—I remember that day, it was her terrible pitch-high screams that echoed through the large room, passing from wall to wall reflexively. Put together, it was quite overwhelming.
"Don’t... you... dare—!” The words were ripped out of her throat in a flurry of outrage. Fury burned in her eyes, raged in her soul. Her eyes shone, beacons brimming with ire in the dim light. “No, don’t touch him!”
I watched as her desperation rose, and she stared straight into their soulless eyes, hatred mounting in her stomach, twisting and turning into a knot of absolute loathing. She focused on their pristine, bleach-white uniforms, adorned with those ridiculous polished golden buttons.
Of course, these came from her thoughts, which I sensed among a cloud of fear and deep, dark hatred—I was not supposed to feel.
Tensing her legs, the young girl—barely a woman yet—kicked.
Her leg caught one of them in the chest, only to be held back; in her arms and barely clinging on, the child began to cry.
For a moment, my heart nearly betrayed me and dared to love, to have pity on this poor child.
Then I remembered. And I narrowed my eyes. Clenched my fists.
Next, she tried to lift her wrists, but the straps were too tight, binding her to the wall. The icy cold wall of the chamber seemed to harden behind her back; the misty air started to suffocate her. Hopeless, her throat tightened and the screams bubbling up to the surface drowned. Instead, she whispered a single word, a horse little, ”please.”
They did not hear her.
I watched the young woman’s eyes. They focused on her child and her child only as she hung from her wrists, tied to the wall and deprived of hope as they took him away: her baby, born for their purposes.
Gone—forever. The only jewel that God had gifted her… the only thing that made her happy.
It didn’t matter now. Her baby was gone.
Her eyes were like shattered, stained glass as she slowly turned her head to look at me. Me, standing silently in the corner.
Our eyes locked—she tilted her chin up despite the tear streaming down her ashy cheek, leaving a trail of heartbreak behind it.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally, a weak attempt to give her closure; the girl closed her pained eyes. There was a grief-struck, bitter smile playing on her lips.
She did not answer.
I did not expect her to; it was with quiet feet that I left her behind.