What happened next divided my life into two parts: the young woman who walked into that field, and the woman who left it carrying the weight of what had been done to her.
I won’t describe every detail. Some acts of cruelty are already horrifying enough without covering them in blood. I remember falling. I remember the earth against my dress. I remember looking at my husband, hoping to see remorse appear on his face.
It never did.
And in the middle of that horror, I raised my other hand toward him and spoke the words people would repeat for years:
“If you’re going to leave me like this, take this one too. What am I supposed to do in this world with only one hand?”
For a moment, I thought he would stop.
He didn’t.
When they found me, I was barely alive. The women screamed. Someone ran to get help. Someone kept repeating my name over and over, as if calling me back could keep me alive.
