The Race to Freedom

Pitter. Patter. BOOM!!! CRASH!!! A bead of sweat traced its path down my forehead as I gazed at the window, rain battering against it like endless tears. Outside, the view blurred into a mixture of sky, grass, and trees. The steady fall of rain, unexpected bursts of thunder, and blinding lights of lightning created a stormy, cold atmosphere. The "race" loomed just twenty minutes away.

I desperately hoped the rain would clear, but my optimism clashed with the day-long storm predicted in the forecast. Nervously, I fiddled with the metal clips securing my "bib," my hands cold and clammy. An endless pit of restless butterflies churned in my stomach. Today marked the day when prisoners like me would be marched outside, disguised as runners for a marathon. In reality, it was still a race, just with a different purpose…to escape from the cruel chiefs, jailbreakers, and King.

I still remember the day King told us about this race. It was etched into my memory as a sinister event, a cruel promise of freedom drenched in deception. King, smiling as if he were our benevolent savior, announced, “We are going to play a little game…” His wide beam betrayed a darkness lurking beneath. "A game for your chance to get to leave our home if you would like…"

His feigned concern for our feelings about "home" hit a nerve. He pouted, as if our dissatisfaction genuinely hurt him. The reality was far from his theatrics—we lived in constant fear, where any injury, sickness, or sign of weakness led to death. We toiled for 18 hours a day, with a meager 6 hours of sleep, engaged in menial tasks: cleaning the building, cutting wood, and enduring the indignity of being King’s entertainment. Crusts of bread and a glass of water a day were our ammunition, with the occasional luck of King’s leftovers. Only the toughest of the toughest survived. Doubts lingered about the sincerity of King’s words, but defiance could mean death. We had to stand straight, maintain silence, and feign interest in King's every word, or the chiefs took aim.

"In two weeks, all you prisoners are going to be walking outside. You are going to stand in a straight line and be dressed as runners," King continued, his words a cruel prelude to the impending race. “I have also been kind enough to give you a 15 minute head start”, he smiled. "After that grace period, the chiefs and jailbreakers will be unleashed in pursuit, armed with deadly intent," King declared, his tone dripping with excitement. “It’s going to be like a game of cat and mouse. This is going to be so much fun to watch!!!" King's cruel laughter echoed, a haunting melody of sadistic enjoyment. In the audience, a whimper slipped out, met with a gunshot and a sickening thud as the body hit the ground. "You may go now," King declared, as if one life hadn’t just ended. We walked out, faces expressionless, with the grim realization that this "game" was just another form of entertainment for King.

And yet I, a 15-year-old who had spent nine years toiling as a slave, felt a stirring in my chest—a rare emotion called hope. I was convinced I could escape. However, my one fear remained—storms. On race day, my dread materialized as the rain pounded down, and the thunder roared louder than ever.

I was born in an area where there was only drought the full year. I think that living in harsh conditions where I was born was the only thing that made me strong enough to survive this prison since I was six. And yet, every time it rained, I marveled at the miracle that a chief hadn't shot me for my perceived lack of effort.

Suddenly, the door of the room I was in opened. "It's time," the jailbreaker declared. He grabbed my shoulder and marched me into the storm. My stomach churned as I walked through the halls, about to face the outside. When the door opened, I hesitated. "Move!" the guard snapped, shoving me out. I stumbled into the rain, each droplet feeling like a bullet. Thunder roared, and I gasped in agony as they pushed me towards the line of prisoners. "Shut up!" the guard barked. 

Amidst the prisoners, all seemingly unfazed by the rain, anticipation hung thick. Most would fail, get caught or killed without mercy. But a few, including me, sought a new life beyond this ordeal. There was a chance to escape.

King, in his carriage untouched by rain, greeted us with guarded cruelty. "Hello, everyone," he smirked. "Just a few of my special words of wisdom before we start”. As you can see, there's the fence. Normally it is closed and electrified, but for this occasion, it's open and electrified. Oh, and don’t worry, it's completely waterproofed, so it will still electrify anyone who touches it". He chuckled to himself, possibly yearning to see one of us get electrified. "As soon as you get past the fence, you bid farewell to our humble home and find yourself in the vast forest. There won't be another community for miles around." “The jailbreakers and guards will chase after you and try to capture as much as you as they can”. I could feel the hungry stares of the jailbreakers and guards on the back of my neck. They were almost as excited as King was. “I of course will be coming too and try to catch you with my gun from inside this wonderful carriage”, King continued. Suddenly his voice changed to carry a dark undertone. "My advice," he continued, a malicious glint in his eye, "Just run. It’s your best shot at escaping the clutches of this race. Now, are you ready?" His cackle echoed through the tense air. "On your marks…get set…go!!!"

“On your marks... Get set... go,” these words seemed to unfold in slow motion before me. As soon as the king uttered the phrase, "On your marks," the memory I had long tried to suppress rushed back to me as vivid as ever. This time though, I couldn’t push it away, perhaps because of the rain.

The recollection took me back nine years ago, to the moment I found myself in this prison. I hailed from a community accustomed to surviving drought, facing the hardships of life with resilience. Over generations, we adapted to thrive with the barest minimum of water. Weekly, the men of the community supplied water to the children and the elderly. Few knew of our existence; we resided in a desert seldom visited due to its scorching heat. The rare few who ventured so far had to leave quickly, risking death from the intense temperatures. They lacked our unique adaptations. We dwelled in houses crafted by women from cacti, agave, and Joshua trees, and our diet was uniform. This was the best home I had ever had. I was born an orphan there and yet I still had a family who would do anything for me. And I would do anything for them.

When I was around five years old, peculiar events unfolded. Initially subtle, the changes went unnoticed. But with each passing month, the temperature dropped, the air thickened, and moisture increased. Then, one day, it happened – the storm, the first in my lifetime, the first in over a century, and even surpassing the memories of the elderly. It began with distant thunder, followed by raindrops and eventually a deluge. Panic gripped the entire camp. Thunder roared louder than anything we'd heard before, and rain fell uncomfortably on our faces. Lightning crackled, and stormy clouds cast darkness over everything. I became separated from my family, lost in the chaos. It was the most frightened I had ever been.

At one point, exhausted from running, I pleaded for the storm to cease. And then I collapsed. The next thing I knew, I woke up in a dim gray room on a pile of hay, with two unfamiliar men standing before me. They weren't from my tribe. One left discreetly, while the other glared threateningly. Too fatigued to respond, I watched as the door opened again, and in walked the King.

Back then, I didn't comprehend the extent of his malevolence. "Hello!" he greeted, his smile wide. I was too drained to respond. "It is polite to respond to a greeting," he chided, his smile widening. "You can talk, right? I would hate to think we rescued you for no reason." Though I could speak English, inherited from our ancestors, fear silenced me. I missed the opportunity to inquire about my tribe or my whereabouts. All I managed to do was croak, "You rescued me?"

"Yes, I am the reason you're sitting here in front of me, rather than perishing in that desert or what's left of it after that unexpected flood," he claimed. "Now that I've extended a favor, you must return it. You will work for me, starting now that you've finally awakened. Chop-chop… chief," he gestured to the guard, "will explain your duties. And dear, try not to slack. I would hate to kill you so soon." King didn't allow me to utter a word, and from that moment, silence became my shield, as speaking meant death.

"Go!" Suddenly, I snapped back to the present. King fired his gun with a cackling boom, and a swarm of people began running. I sprinted as fast as I could, maneuvering between heads to reach the front. And there it was, right in front of me—the dreaded fence that locked away our chance of escaping. Once again, I found myself engulfed in a memory I had desperately tried to ignore.

This time, I was 10 years old. I had been working for four years, understanding the motto: work, don't talk to anyone, and listen to King. Adhering to these three rules provided the best chance of survival. Working under King's leadership, I grasped more about him from his assemblies and my enhanced people-reading skills developed over years of silence.

King, born an orphan in a wealthy family within this building, had evolved into a cruel figure, gathering a group of "friends" (more like servants). They scoured the land, exploiting people who had lost everything, appearing as saviors. Perhaps they did save them, but the cost of what we had to do in return was too high.

One day, a newcomer joined us, and while hundreds worked together for King, none were friends. Talking was too risky. A captured man, initially weakened, grew stronger and defied King's cruelty. He spoke to all of us, attempting to find ways to escape. Many, including me, ignored him, aware of the dangers under King's rule.

The newcomer made the fatal mistake of speaking during King’s assembly. King halted, beaming, “Oh, look what we have here! Our newest family member has decided to speak up.” Terror surged within me, but I maintained a neutral expression. “Guards, show us what we do with people who disrespect me.”

“I wasn’t disrespecting you…” the man began, futilely. “Don’t you learn,” King said, “I speak, you listen. Guards, the fence.” “Stop!!! Please!!!” the man screamed as they pulled him toward the electrical fence. My heart hammered; I had witnessed guards shooting people, but never something as gruesome as this. The guards threw him onto the electrified fence, his screams echoing, and he fell to the ground, his body shriveled up and burnt.

Silence gripped everyone. They knew speaking would make them the next victim. Internally, I shook like crazy, as scared as the first time it had rained. Yet, years of living here had toughened me, allowing me to keep my feelings under control. But after this, the fence became almost as terrifying to me as the rain.

CRACKLE! Despite the fence being waterproof, the rain still seemed to be doing something to its electrical power. As I was running, just 100 feet in front of it, I quickly glanced behind me. I was nearly the first person among the swarms of people. I felt my heart sinking at the thought of those who might not make it through the narrow opening in the fence. It seemed intentionally designed that way, courtesy of King. The impending chaos loomed as people would inevitably push and jostle, risking electrocution in their desperate bid to escape. My pulse raced as I approached. The gravity of the situation hit me, the weight of the casualties and sorrow this fence caused heavy on my mind. Then without breaking a stride, I took a deep breath and forged ahead, pushing past the fence. I had finally broken free from my prison. I was now in the forest.

Barely a few moments after I had finally gotten past the fence, a sharp CRACK pierced the air, signaling the end of our 15-minute head start. The urgency intensified. A distant scream followed, accompanied by a sound similar to a whip cracking. I involuntarily flinched. In normal circumstances, silence prevailed among people like me, who sought to avoid death at all costs. However, on the brink of demise, it seemed that individuals unleashed every suppressed scream, as if attempting to voice their entire existence before their inevitable end. 

Another vivid memory suddenly came to my mind, the most recent one that had slipped from my thoughts until now—the day I almost lost my life. This recollection was still fresh, just a few weeks old. I found myself immersed in the act of cutting wood, fueled by months of pent-up anger and frustration. It was a day when I questioned the purpose of my relentless struggle to survive in this nine-year-long confinement. Acceptance of my fate settled in; there was no escape.

With fervor, I attacked the wood, channeling my sadness, frustration, and anger towards my prison, the authorities, and particularly King. As I swung the ax wildly, I screamed, reaching a point where I no longer cared. Unluckily, instead of a guard approaching, it was King himself. In a calm yet feigned concern, he asked, "What are you doing, dear? You seem upset." My response was a sharp retort, "Well, are you going to kill me? Because I don't care anymore. Do whatever you want."

At that moment, an eavesdropping eager guard intervened, offering, "Do you want me to end her for speaking to you that way? Because I will." Without waiting for a reply, he took out his gun and aimed to pull the trigger right at me. Nonchalantly, I spread my hands wide and challenged him, "Do it." Before he could do anything though. King said in a dangerous voice, “Did I tell you to shoot her?”. And before the guard could even realize what was about to happen, King took the gun in the guard's hand, spun it around to his face and shot him all in one smooth motion. The act, though gruesome, failed to faze me, given the worse fate I had witnessed befall more innocent souls.

"Why did you do that?" I asked emotionlessly. "I can't let you die," King responded, sounding almost hurt, as if we were close friends. "I have known you since you were like a toddler, and now look how grown up you are," he sighed wistfully. Disenchanted, I muttered, "There's no point in living here. I'd rather die than work for you. After nine years, you say that?" King inquired casually. "I used to have hope. Now I know it's wasted. I'm going to be here until I die, anyway”, I said.

"Who says you can't leave?" King proposed. "What a coincidence... I was just planning a race, offering all of you a chance to escape. Wait a couple of weeks, and I'll announce it." Skeptical, I said, “Why should I believe you?”. He shrugs, “Try me”, he said. He handed me the ax, “You can kill yourself right now and I won’t care at all. But you have been part of my family so long that I at least want to give you a warning”. He walked away, leaving me alone and hesitant.

Alone with my thoughts, I pondered his words. My brain said not to believe him. That this was just another one of his tricks. And yet, the hope I thought long extinguished began to flicker again, the same hope that once fueled my determination to escape. Setting down the ax, I started to walk back to the building, determined to see what would unfold.

Suddenly, a thunderous boom echoed through the forest, bringing me back to my surroundings for the third time. Unlike before, though, the sound didn't strike fear into my heart…Because I was running. I was running away from my prison. I was running away from the electric fence. I was running away from the horrible chiefs and jailbreakers. I was running away from King. And I was running away from these memories that threatened to haunt me forever.  Running through my greatest fear—storms—I began to embrace it. 

As the rain fell, it felt like a cleansing, washing away those horrible parts of 9 years of my life and emphasizing the one feeling that had let me survive- hope. Maybe the guards would still catch me. Or maybe King would. But right now when I was running I was going to accept this feeling of hope. The feeling that I was going to escape. The feeling that I was going to find a new home. And the feeling that I would run to freedom.