That night, a torrential rain poured down, drenching everything in its path.
I curled up in a corner, hugging my knees, and my tears nearly dried up.
When I was five, I had felt this kind of helplessness before.
I had wandered off and found myself lost, calling out for my mother in the street.
That was when a kind-looking middle-aged woman approached me, promising to help me find my family.
Trusting her, I followed, only to be trafficked to a desolate mountain village.
The couple who took me in were elderly and desperately poor.
The food I consumed was nothing more than pig feed, and I slept on a bed harder than stone, wrapped in tattered clothes full of patches.
Each day began before dawn, with my tasks including collecting firewood, herding cows, feeding pigs, washing clothes, and cooking.
Any hint of laziness would result in a beating; their cruelty knew no bounds, often leaving me battered and bruised.
When I turned seventeen, the couple brought me to the village chief’s home.
Delighted by my presence, the chief declared that I would marry his mentally challenged son when I came of age.
I vehemently refused, but my defiance only resulted in a brutal beating.