Soul Salvation

This story contains themes of physical abuse as well as implied sexual and physical violence. Though it is not explicit, I do advise readers to take caution.

February 12, 1818 - New Mexico

She doesn’t know how long she’s been riding, she can only guess by the way the full moon now sits at its highest point in the inky blue sky. The luminous sphere is partially covered by deep gray clouds, limiting the only light source in the quiet desert unfurling around the neophyte outlaw. As she comes to a slow stop on her steed, she allows herself to close her eyes and listen for the comforting music of the desolate landscape, but finds that the only sounds are of the rumbling thunder in the distance, a sole owl, and her own lonely heartbeat. The ache that the melancholy tune forges into her soul only mirrors the ones that have long overcome her fatigued body. 

She wants to cry, but she knows she cannot afford the risk it would ensue to let her guard down. Holding back her sorrows, she feels the first drop of a storm land high up on her cheekbone. The slow course it makes down her freshly bruised and battered skin gifts her a satisfaction similar to that of weeping. Instead of shedding her delinquent tears, however, she swallows the protrusion in her throat and lifts her worn stetson from her head, permitting the water from the weeping atmosphere to dampen the blood-streaked hair that had been hidden beneath the cracked leather. The resulting streams turn to a slightly translucent crimson as they migrate down her tattered blouse. 

Never, the young woman thinks as she listens to the steady pitter-patter of the rainfall beating against the desert sand, has she ever felt so astray, in both the physical and mental sense. A girl barely out of her teens, forced to become a woman for a man whom she had never met; her life given away before she ever had the chance to live it for herself. She was never given a choice in the matter—sold like cattle before she could speak. For as long as she can remember,  the girl was promised she would marry to be protected from the evil ways of men; not once was she informed that she would be wed to the very immorality she was sworn to be concealed from. 

Never did anyone tell her that she would be seen no longer as a human being, but instead as an object manipulated to suit the wants of a man, a tool used as nothing more than to bear children—children who would no doubt be destined to the same immoral fate. She can't imagine being a mother in such a situation; to have to watch her babies be assaulted and berated whilst she stands cast to the side, useless and ashamed. A rogue tear finally slips from her tired eyes at the thought of being forced to watch as innocence is stolen from such a juvenile life. Her jaw trembles as she thinks that nobody, least of all a child, should ever have to undergo the same misfortune she’s endured. 

She feels a shiver rack her spine as she recalls the unanticipated sting of her affianced's large palm coming into contact with her skin for the first time, the unpleasant memory of tears blurring her vision and warm blood dribbling from her split lip creeps into her inhospitable mind. She feels her own hand lift in an absent minded gesture to allow her fingers to shakily run across the raw and tender flesh. 

Once again, she closes her eyes and feels the exhaustion seeping deep into her bones, threatening instantaneously to sweep her away. It must be nearing twenty-four hours since she stumbled out of her god forsaken fiance’s unfamiliar cabin and clambered onto her horse, riding off before the degenerate man had an opportunity to trap her in his eager grasp once again. She had been smart, waiting until he had succumbed to sleep before slipping away, exploited and abashed despite her pleas, efforts, and tears she exerted in a futile attempt to ward her offender off. 

The faithful stallion underneath her whinnies, stirring the woman away from her spiraling thoughts, and she shushes it before assuring the beast that she will find rest for the both of them soon. She says it in a manner that one would use as if to soothe a perturbed child; a lie that is spoken to put another at ease, a falsehood she wishes she could believe herself. She knows that her betrothed will stop at nothing to find her, to reclaim the unjustified prize that never should have fallen into his greedy hands to begin with. 

She is fully aware that she will not truly have a moment to rest without the likely prospect of being rediscovered and captured—this time likely without any means of escape. The woman sets her hat back to its rightful place and nudges her horse with her booted heel, sending them both parading into the unforgiving night once again. An undeserved outlaw, guilty of nothing more than the unwillingness to be downtrodden by a stranger, accompanied only by her faithful companion beneath her.

***

She rides until the exhaustion overtakes her completely, and then further, still. A deep fatigue burrows itself further into her body, threatening to toss her from her horse and leave her to be drowned in the merciless wilderness. The rain has grown heavier since it began; the water manipulates the path beneath her, leaving a clear trail available to whomever may decide to follow. The girl can feel the way she sinks down into the sodden ground with each drowsy step her stallion takes. 

Glancing up at the sky, she shields her eyes from the sharp raindrops by cupping a shaky hand over her brows as she searches for the moon. As far as she can tell, it’s barely moved since she last checked its position. Unsure if it’s tears or rainwater that sting in her eyes, she drops her arm and looks back to the unpredictable path ahead of her. She quickly forgets the subtle burn; however, once she spots a shape in the distance. 

She barely registers the object through the thick sheets of rain hailing down combined with her own weary eyesight, weakened by exhaustion. The pitiful kick her boot delivers to her horse’s side sends him into a slightly quicker trot. The boxy shape begins to grow as she slowly creeps closer to it. Something like relief finds an open spot in her chest, but she promptly chases it out. There is no hope for her, she has to know this. Hope will blind her, debilitate her determination, her chance for survival.  

Step by agonizing step, the young woman and her equine creep closer to the shack beginning to take shape in front of her. As she gets closer, she can hear heavy raindrops splattering against the rusted tin roof. The deafening sound it makes would scare her if she had enough vivocity to consider feeling such an emotion. 

She senses the way her horse falters beneath her as they approach the sagging porch that clings to the front of the oversized shed. It takes what’s left of her strength to slide off of her drenched saddle, tie her companion to an unstable post, and use the entirety of her feeble body weight to relieve the rotted door from its crying hinges.

 Her hips ache terribly from riding horseback for such a lengthy duration, but she ignores the feeling as she sinks down into a heap of skin and bones on the dampened floor. Lightning strikes as her eyelids flutter shut. The bright blast illuminates the blackened interior of the shack. The woman is asleep before the fulmination fades and the darkness returns to envelope her within the walls of the neglected cabin.  

***

A sudden weight planted onto her frail torso frightens the woman into consciousness. Her first instinct is to scream for help, but a rough hand is slapped over her mouth before she has the chance. Blinded in the darkness and unable to plead for her life, the tears that she had tried so hard to keep at bay finally slip free. They trickle down her reddened cheeks and fall over her captor’s hand before soaking into her messed hairline. 

“Really thought you could fuckin’ do it, didn’ you?” 

 A gruff and horrifyingly familiar voice spoken against her ear sends the woman into a fit of muffled sobs. The severity in which her body begins to shake rattles the man above her and is only amplified by the dark chuckle he lets out. The hand over her trembling lips–the same hand that had maimed her so recently before–is suddenly taken away. With nothing to hold them back, the woman’s cries are unleashed into the stale air of the shack.

“Please!”

Her voice cracks through a wail as she makes the pointless attempt to sway her assailant, although she is not sure what she truly begs for. It could be a plea for merciful abandonment just as much as it could be a request for a swift death. Perhaps she wishes for both as she thrashes against the bulk pinning her to the putrid floorboards.

In a single abrupt movement, her head is whipped to the side by a rough slap delivered to her cheek. She is confused by the sudden shift only until she processes the sharp sting that graces the rapidly swelling flesh tainting the left side of her face. She faintly registers the coppery taste of blood on her tongue, but she pays no mind, instead choosing to focus on the pinching twinge in her neck as she eases her head back up to look at the ceiling.

She will not let him see her give up. Though she is weak and fragile from her journey, her resolve remains as strong as ever. She wants her fiance to look her in the eye as he defiles her, to see the way she refuses to break within his clutch. She wants him to watch the flames that smolder in her gaze and reach out to burn his rotten spirit. 

As she moves, a flash of lightning illuminates the cabin, revealing a flash of steel peeking out from beneath the man’s untucked shirt. This time, when the woman feels a hopeful tug in her chest, she embraces it. She has her way out. She will have her freedom. She knows now that it must be her own actions that will rescue her from such a twisted fate.

Aware that she cannot rely on her physical strength any longer, the woman uses what pitiful amount of moral determination she has left to blindly grasp for the revolver. Knowing she has limited time, she sends a prayer begging for forgiveness from whoever may be listening. With the second reach, she tugs the gun loose from its refinements. 

A breath of relief breezes through her tear-stained lips as she feels the weight of the weapon wrapped within her small hand. She gazes up at her attacker and for a brief moment, she is granted with seeing a look of uncertainty within his own as he realizes her intention—though he knows he is too late to stop it. She pulls back on the hammer, waits until she feels the resistance of the muzzle hitting flesh, and closes her eyes before pulling the trigger.