Page 19 of Damian

“I don’t know,” he replies quietly. “I guess I needed to focus on getting here, on finding her.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “We’re supposed to be in this together, Peter. We’re brothers. Something most of our kind never experience. Never leave me in the dark again.”

He nods, his expression resolute. “I promise.”

Chapter 12

Damian

“Emjay’s stronger than I am.” ~ Damian

Emjay’s grip tightens around my hand when we step into the heart of the labyrinth. Her vision scans the desolate scene before us, a far cry from the paradise of my home.

My stomach churns from the sight in front of me. Emjay’s silence speaks volumes. Pain and determination are etched into her face.

I squeeze her hand, offering silent support as we move deeper into the labyrinth.

Emjay’s hand in mine is the most comfort she’s allowed me to give her since the night we met.

The center of any labyrinth should be a paradise, a haven bursting with life, trees, flowers, ponds, and bustling houses. Instead, Emjay leads us into a stark and desolate scene.

The smell of smoke and unwashed bodies fills the air.

The tents, some barely standing, appear patched with whatever scraps of fabric the women could find.

Fire pits outside the tents appear to serve as rudimentary kitchens, with plumes of smoke rising into the air. The women huddle around the crackle of small, weak flames while stirring something in battered pots.

Children with dirt-smudged faces and matted hair play listlessly nearby, their bare feet shuffling in the dust.

In the distance, a heifer carries buckets of water in her hands from a well. Cruelly positioned away from the camp, the well symbolizes their suffering.

Emjay’s face twists in anger and sadness as she takes it all in.

A partially constructed barndominium hovers over the poor excuses for shelter.

While I’m relieved to not see an adult male in sight, I am shocked to see boys among the children. All milling about wearing tattered, worn-out clothes. Bare feet move on a ground void of nature’s life. Matted and tangled hair adds to the reminder that these women have suffered under harsh living conditions void of proper hygiene.

Did their captors provide nothing for the women forced to serve them in all capacities?

Among the crowd, there is a young woman with a scar running down her chest, holding a baby in her arms. Her stare is wary but curious.

An older woman with gray streaks in her hair tends to a dying, small vegetable garden. Her hands move with practiced efficiency despite the harsh conditions.

Each woman carries a story of survival, etched into their faces and the way they move.

Busy with the bustle of preparing a community meal, they failed to notice our arrival until we were nearly upon them, telling me no one trained them to tune into their senses.

Confused faces look upon our small entourage.

Emjay’s gaze roams around as if searching for a familiar face.

The heifer tending the garden who looks to have lived close to fifty years steps forward. “Desdemona?”

Desdemona. Is that the name she left behind?

“Georgia?” Emjay lets go of my hand to cling to the woman who falls into her arms.

As Emjay reunites with Georgia, I see the struggle in her expression. I smell her joy at seeing an old friend, but it’s combined with the guilt of leaving her behind.

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