On Dangerous Borders

The days went on, and I was unable to get any information from Esita. The more I tried to speak, the angrier she became. My days consisted of the same few things: I cooked, I cleaned, and I tended to her sexual needs whenever she commanded. When it came time for her to return to work, I was handcuffed to a chain that extended between the bathroom and the bedroom—not close enough to any windows, and certainly nowhere near the front or side door. With sickening dread, I realized I could either remain her slave until she decided to kill me or find a way to end my life and spare myself further suffering while denying her the use of my body and services. Escaping wasn’t an option, and I could find no weapon capable of guaranteeing a swift death. My thoughts narrowed to two horrible possibilities: I could either become a willing slave until something—or someone—killed me, or I could try to make her kill me, since anything I could attempt myself was too risky. It was simply a matter of timing. Did I want to be a sex toy a little longer, or did I want to get it over with and die sooner, knowing there was no other way out? I chose the fastest reprieve. When Esita came home from work, I waited patiently for her to release me from the handcuffs, then punched her in the face as hard and as fast as I could. To my utter surprise, instead of killing me in anger, the unexpected blow startled her and threw her off balance. She fell, hitting her head hard on the edge of the tub. I knew immediately she was out cold. Despite the slim chance of getting far, and the possibility of a worse fate beyond the house, I couldn’t just sit there—I had to try to escape. I wasted no time dressing in one of Esita’s outfits, improvising because I was several inches shorter. Rolling up the pant legs seemed riskier than tucking them, so I did just that. A blood-red hijab covered my blonde hair, which would otherwise have stood out. I ran for the door—but it was locked. No knob, no easy way to open it. I needed a key. Dammit! The thought of returning to the bathroom terrified me. I almost considered diving out the front window headfirst, but not wanting to get badly cut, I decided the lesser risk was searching for a key. Unless… I ran to the kitchen and tried the side door. I ran as fast as I could. The door opened! I stepped into the intense heat and sunlight, wondering how far I might get before succumbing to heatstroke. The tiny backyard was surrounded by a block wall too high to see over. Deciding it didn’t matter, I walked toward the front of the house, cautiously glancing at the front door, fearing Esita would burst out at any moment. I followed the short walkway toward the beat-up road. Most of the houses looked tiny, old, and unkempt. I briefly considered knocking on a door for help, but quickly dismissed the idea—Esita was law enforcement, and surely no one would help a foreign stranger. I had to get as far from the street as possible. Choosing a direction at random, I ran from one street full of houses to another. I walked what felt like miles, yet never saw a business or a single vehicle. Not a person appeared outside either, which I attributed to the heat. Exhausted and thirsty, I knew I couldn’t stay out forever. Based on the sun’s position, I estimated a few hours until sunset. Taking a chance, I knocked on a corner house where laundry hung to dry, including small children’s clothes—perhaps a family with children would be less likely to turn me away. A woman answered, eyeing me curiously. “Hello. Do you speak English?” She nodded, and I explained my situation. Just when I feared she wouldn’t let me in, she opened the door wider and gestured for me to enter. I thanked her, never more grateful to be out of the scorching sun. She offered me a glass of water, which I accepted gratefully. “My husband will be home soon,” she said. “He might be able to help you.” “That would be wonderful. You’re my only real hope. I feared my situation was hopeless.” “He works near the border. I think he can help you get back into India, since he drives that way anyway. From there, you can find your way home.” “Thank you so much. I cannot express how grateful I am.” A baby began crying in another room. The woman, who hadn’t introduced herself or asked my name, rose and said, “One moment, please.” “Sure,” I said with a reassuring smile. She returned a few minutes later with a quiet baby, now seemingly changed and wearing a pink onesie, eyeing me with curiosity and suspicion. I sat in a chair as she held the sleeping baby on her lap, watching TV for the next two hours. I worried constantly about being discovered by Esita, but this was far better than being trapped with her. Eventually, the husband came home. She repeated my story in Urdu. He seemed neither threatening nor particularly sympathetic. It was agreed that I would stay on their living room couch for the night until he could drive me to the border the next morning. Sleeping was nearly impossible on the uncomfortable couch. I feared falling into another trap, wondering if I would ever see my homeland again. Morning came, and I shared breakfast with the family. Grateful yet feeling guilty for imposing, I tried not to show my nerves when it was time to leave. I thanked the woman, and she wished me luck. The husband instructed me to keep my head down during the drive, which I did. Luckily, the border was only half an hour away. Beyond that, I had no idea how I would get home, all my possessions gone, no money, but I was alive—and that was enough. He kept his word, and I finally crossed into India after a long walk down a farm service road, relieved to see signs of life again at the outdoor market Esita had mentioned. I never learned the names of the people who helped me. My first step was to seek police help. The old, warm police station housed a dark-skinned officer who took my statement mechanically. When I mentioned being used as a sex slave by Esita, I thought I detected a slight smirk on his round face. I signed some papers and was taken to a hotel paid for by the police, given a small amount of money for food, and instructed to wait for an officer to take me to the airport. That night, the dumpy hotel felt heavenly. The bath in the dingy tub was the most luxurious I had ever taken; the bland food, the tastiest; the sagging bed, the most comfortable. I awoke early the next morning, dressed in clothes I had stolen from Esita, when there was a knock on the door. My pulse spiked. Not even 7 a.m. “Who is it?” “Room service,” replied a male voice. I hadn’t ordered anything. “I think you might have the wrong room. I didn’t order room service.” “I am aware of that, Miss Warner. It is compliments of the police.” Relieved, I opened the door to find a smiling man with a tray of food under a silver dome. “Good thing I just got up,” I said. The man placed it on the table, smiled, and said, “Enjoy,” before leaving. I lifted the dome—and the plate was empty. Panic surged as I spun around, only to find Esita standing in front of me. “Going somewhere, Miss Teri?” she asked, smiling evilly. I attempted to run, but she grabbed me—and three policemen stormed in, declaring I was under arrest for supposedly murdering the couple who had rescued me, and their 18-month-old daughter. I fainted in sheer disbelief.