The Other Side

THE OTHER SIDE

Decapitation is not something Morgan has ever wished for or ever will. Of course; no one wishes such, but in her circumstances, it is something to be afraid of. If caught in the midst of her escape or even found considering such, she will likely face death. That was how she had once thought, but now, she knows that it won’t probably end up in something of the sort: it will. Years ago, huddled up in the corner of her damp cell, Morgan had learned just how cruel the world could be. She thought she had known this before, when both her parents had died but never had she considered how far people would go to ensure such to a mere child. All she had known was a place where it was more convenient to jail a child than house and feed her.

No older than thirteen, Morgan is constantly reminded what it is to feel the cold claws of death rake your throat. It’s only by sheer luck, if there even is such a thing in the life of a street girl, that she is still alive. But it won’t take much to pull her from that category. She looks like no more than what she is. A street girl. Years ago, she had found a slim chance of escape. But should she take it? Should she insist on clawing her way back to her old life, however, far that might be? Some nights, Morgan would lay on the cold dirt floor, wondering if it really was worth it to keep on trying.

The humidity clings to Morgan's skin. It slips down her throat and into her lungs, leaving her heaving for breath. How could everything end like this, in a cell, dying on air. Morgan has never thought she would die choking while breathing all the while. The stuffy air surrounds her, intertwining in her clothes and hair. Do I really want to do this? she asks herself, Sitting up here with all the air in the world, I am still short of breath. Do I really want to jam myself into the slimmest brink of hope? Where all I could ever breathe would be dirt and dust? But she knows she has to. It's only a matter of time before she dies. Either dying in a cell or dying, trying to army-crawl my way back to life, however small the chances might be.

With a moment's hesitation, she heaves a large, heavy stone far enough to show a part of a small tunnel, hardly big enough for her small, bony frame to fit through. She pushes herself through, ignoring the thick, heavy air. It seems to revolt to her swallowing it. Army crawling, Morgan pushes herself through the slim opening, determined not to return. She can feel her fingernails ripping as she claws the dirt, desperately trying to crawl towards freedom. But the farther she makes it through the tunnel, the less air she seems to be able to jam down her lungs. 

***

Sweat dripped down her back. She could hear the rushing footsteps echoing through narrow alleys. Her heartbeat seemed excessively loud. Morgan sat perfectly still. The sound of rushing footsteps got louder. She could see through a hole in the crate the shape of two armed guards rushing past. Morgan had never been to prison. Well, at least, not yet. At eight years, she was struggling to keep herself alive. When she was younger, people would pity the big curious-eyed girl. If lucky, a cook would perhaps let her have scraps. Not anymore. Her vision was blurred by a long strand of reddish-brown hair. Not daring to remove it, Morgan stayed crouched inside the crate until her limbs cramped. Whether it had been hours or mere minutes before she crawled out, Morgan couldn’t tell. Fresh air rushed to her lungs as she scrambled out of the crate into the empty night. She was free. For now.

***

Morgan is clawing at the dirt as the tunnel grows smaller and smaller. Five years she has spent locked up in prison; five years of torture; five years of nothing to live for but digging a tunnel to what she hopes to be freedom. With nothing to dig with but her spoon, progress has been slow, but now the tunnel is, or she hopes is, inches from the surface. All she has to do is dig to the surface. The faint light from the tunnel’s entrance is long gone, leaving the thirteen-year-old in pitch darkness. 

***

Earnestly, Morgan had eyed the baguette in the baker’s booth. The appetizing smell wafted down the street. Morgan tried to walk away, but the gnawing in her stomach was unbearable. Morgan didn’t want to. She never did, but sometimes, to keep alive, she needed to. The young girl burst down the street, snatching a baguette on her way. Chaos reigned in her wake as she sped down in an alley. A dark shape loomed over her. She stopped, feet skidding. The baker tore the bread from Morgan’s hands, giving her a hard shake. His low voice boomed as he growled about how the guards would like to meet a street girl robbing merchants. Morgan looked up innocently before tearing away from the unexpecting baker’s grip. She ran as fast as she could away from him. She ran from alley to alley before stopping, tears trickling down her face. She wasn’t sure she could muster enough strength for a second raid. Her stomach growled. The pain seemed nearly unbearable. Morgan crawled into a ball, hugging her stomach. When she opened her eyes again, the bare feet of someone dark-skinned. She looked up to see the hooded figure. Underneath was the leathery chocolate face of an elderly woman. In her outstretched hand was a plum, gleaming in the few rays of the setting sun. Morgan hesitated before taking it. The dark-skinned figure retreated back and Morgan was left in awe. Never had anyone other than her mother and father showed kindness in the least. Could maybe, just maybe, the world have some good people in it? It left Morgan thinking about something she had never considered before. Something she could have never imagined. Was it possible?

***

Morgan does her best not to hit her head on the hard-packed ground above. It’s more difficult than in the beginning since the only way for her to jam herself through is to completely flatten herself against the ground. Claustrophobia begins to kick in as the space grows tighter around Morgan. To her, the air doesn’t seem to circulate properly. With every inch she army crawls, the effort to take a breath, a strain. Morgan gradually begins to get light-headed but is determined not to go back. Dying here is better than being beaten to death, or worse, being beheaded. If she goes back, she knows there is no avoiding her fate. She doesn't know how she has managed to dig it so far into the ground, but with five years to spare, she has needed to do something. Morgan forces her saliva down her parched throat as she pushes forward despite the struggle. She can feel her fingernail slowly tear itself off as she heaves herself forward. Morgan can feel the warm blood trickle down her hand, but she continues, sucking in another breath, no matter the pain.

***

Bunny was no longer anything but a half-stuffed rabbit. One of Bunny’s ears had a patch from when it had gotten caught on a metal rod. A button eye hung loosely from its face. Bunny had once been made of a soft pink material, but with the years, it became dirty. Bunny was nothing special. It was worn, ripped in places and — her absolute favourite thing in the world. It had followed Morgan everywhere. It had been there when she was nothing but a toddler when she had learned of her parents' death, her first night living on the streets. She was determined not to run off without it. She could see it a few paces off, laying in the dirt. She quickly snatched it, cornering herself. Tears ran one after another down the five-year-old’s face as a trickle of blood ran from her lip. Morgan pressed her bunny against her heart as she faced the man, awaiting his second blow from his clenched fist.

***

The further Morgan crawls, the less hope she has to find the end. Unable to distinguish anything in front of her, she wedges herself through the slit. More than once, she wonders how in the world she got back to her cell after digging. Her head bumps against hard dirt in front of her. Dead end. Her heart begins racing. She’s found the end. With difficulty, she turns herself onto her back to face the dirt above. Taking her metal spoon from between her teeth, Morgan begins busily scraping the dirt above her, ignoring the clumps falling in her face. Hope begins to fill her chest as the dirt slowly scrapes away, spilling around her. The minutes run by like seconds. Morgan’s heart nearly jumps into her mouth as a ray of bluish light pierces through the dry dirt. 

***

The sweet face of her mother was perched over her. Anxiety gave way to joy. Laughter echoed in her eyes as she picked up her plump toddler. She hugged her baby against her chest. She pushed a strand of hair from Morgan’s face.

“I love you, Morgan, you know that? The rest of the world may ignore you, but they have no idea what they’re overlooking. From now on, you don’t run off, okay?”

Morgan’s kind-faced mother wiped a tear running down the three-year-old’s plump cheeks. Morgan felt loved like never before. She felt special. Pulling a plump, slobbered hand out of her mouth, she placed it on her mother’s cheek gazing into her loving blue eyes. At the time, little Morgan didn’t realize what it meant to be loved, but she knew that it was something special. Later, she realized not everyone knew what it felt like. That had got her through a lot. She knew how it felt to be loved. 

***

The small hole slowly grows larger until it is large enough for Morgan to squeeze through. She lays on the damp grass for a long moment, gulping as much air as her lungs let her. She had found hope, just like when she had found it years ago in a plum. The dark night sky lies high above. Stars sprinkle its dark surface. She is— free. Morgan is free.