Darla was only thirteen when her parents gave her away.

They didn’t see her tears, or maybe they did and didn’t care. In the village, girls were nothing more than bargaining pieces, traded for cattle, goats, and the promise of wealth. Her parents loved money more than they ever loved her.

The man she was given to was Keith—sixty years old, the leader of the village. He had dozens of wives, women scattered in huts around the homestead. His main wife, Mariam, held power like a whip, and she used it without mercy.

On the day Darla entered his compound, she was led past the rows of huts where discarded wives lived, their youth spent, their eyes hollow. Keith never kept them past twenty. If a woman bore him a girl first, she was taken to the river. Everyone knew what that meant.

Darla’s stomach turned to stone as Mariam looked her up and down. “Another mouth,” she said coldly. “Another burden.”

And Darla knew, from that moment, her suffering had only begun.

Nights in Keith’s compound were never quiet. The main house echoed with Mariam’s orders, babies crying, wives fighting for scraps of attention. But Darla never found peace—because the son of another elder crept into her hut, again and again. He had wives. He had children. Still, he came for her, tearing away what little safety she had.

She learned not to sleep. She learned to keep her body tense, her eyes open, her soul elsewhere.

One evening, word spread: another elder wanted her. Keith had agreed. A trade, a price. She would be transported like cattle to his compound. Mariam smirked when she heard. “Maybe he’ll throw you in the river first.”

The carriage jolted forward with Darla inside, wrists bound, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. The road stretched ahead into darkness. She thought of the man waiting for her—the same elder whose son already stole her nights. She knew what awaited.

Her pulse screamed. Her chest ached. And then she leapt.

She hurled herself from the carriage, hitting the ground so hard the world spun. Pain shot up her arm, but she pushed herself up and ran. Bare feet cut open on gravel, lungs tearing, heart beating like it might explode. For the first time in years, she felt alive—not safe, not free, but alive.

And in her head, as though her soul itself was crying out, the words pulsed:

All day, every day, mother, maid,

Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant.

Just an appendage, live to attend him so that he never lifts a finger.

It’s not an act of love if you make her, you make me do too much labour…

Branches clawed her face. Her breaths came like knives.

She ran for her dear life, as though each step was her last chance to exist.

But they caught her.

Dragged her back. Beaten until the blood in her mouth tasted like rust.

And Mariam’s voice rang out, cold and triumphant:

“She’s a witch. I saw her rituals in the night. She must be punished.”

The next morning, Darla was sold. Not to someone new. Not to salvation.

But to the very elder she had fled from.

Her torment had only begun.

✨️✨Would you like me to make Chapter Two??✨️✨️