An Illustrated Story: Abused War Captive

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Silence deepened. The rats crept back, bolder now. One climbed up the rough wood and gingerly made its way over her hip, its whiskers brushing her vaginal lips. Her skin, pale from years of indoor bondage, became dotted with small dark biologics: ants, spiders, hornets, all intent on carrying a tiny bit of her flesh back to the nest. Ravens roosted on the beams of the cross. They hopped the length of her thin arms, penetrating their needle-like beaks just deep enough below her epidermis to taste the warm fluid within. Camryn closed her eyes. *Let them come. Let it end.* She knew that it would be several days of torment before death would reprieve her, a slow death by a thousand bites, stings and pecks. With her eyes shut she heard the sound of more movement in the dense underburush as more creatures approached her helpless body.

to be continued ...

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Then, a different sound. A soft, choked sob. Not a rat. Not a bird. Footsteps, light and hesitant, crushing the moss. Camryn forced her eyes open. Through the haze of pain and the curtain of her own matted hair, she saw her. Moana. Not the child she remembered, but a young woman, taller, leaner, her face hardened by sun and survival. Tears streamed down Moana’s cheeks as she took in the horror before her – the blood, the spikes, the swarming creatures. Her breath hitched in a ragged gasp. "Miss Camryn?" she whispered, the voice trembling but achingly familiar.

Moana didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry of rage and grief, she lunged at the rats near Camryn’s feet, kicking and stomping, scattering them. She grabbed a heavy, fallen branch nearby, thick as her arm. Ignoring Camryn’s weak groan of protest, Moana jammed the branch under the iron stake pinning Camryn’s right ankle to the cross base. She threw her weight down. The wood creaked. The stake, driven deep into the dense wood, resisted. Moana strained, her muscles trembling, her face contorted with effort. With a sickening, wet *pop*, the stake tore free. Camryn screamed, a raw, animal sound, as blood gushed from the ruined arch of her foot. Moana flinched but didn’t stop, immediately moving to the left ankle. Leverage. Strain. Another agonizing *pop*. Camryn sagged, held only by her spiked hands, her breath coming in shallow, tortured gasps.

Moana scrambled to her feet, grabbing the branch again. She positioned it under Camryn’s right wrist, where the spike pinned the palm to the vertical beam. "Hold on, Miss Camryn," Moana pleaded, her voice thick with tears. "Just a little more." She pushed down with all her strength. The branch groaned. The rusted spike shifted minutely in the dense wood. Camryn whimpered, her body convulsing weakly. Moana shifted her grip, braced her foot against the cross, and *heaved*. The spike ripped free with a spray of dark blood and splinters. Camryn’s arm flopped limply. Moana repeated the brutal process on the left hand. The final spike tore loose, and Camryn collapsed forward like a broken doll. Moana caught her before she hit the moss, staggering under the sudden weight.

Lowering Camryn gently to the blood-soaked ground, Moana worked fast. She tore strips from her own tattered tunic, ignoring the insects still swarming. Binding the jagged wounds on Camryn’s hands and feet with practiced movements, she applied pressure to stem the worst bleeding. "You’re safe now," she murmured, her voice trembling but steady. "They’re gone. The soldiers… the ships… they left." She tilted a small, carved gourd to Camryn’s cracked lips. Cool water trickled in. Camryn swallowed weakly, her eyes fluttering open, filled with disbelief and agony. "Moana?" she rasped, the name a raw scrape of sound. "How…?"

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Moana wiped tears away with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt and blood. "When the soldiers came that first day," she whispered, crouching low beside her teacher, "I ran deep into the forest. I knew the hidden places – the caves Brother Thomas showed us, the valleys only the birds see." She gestured towards the dense jungle canopy. "I lived there. Foraged roots, caught fish in the streams. Watched the soldiers from the high rocks." Her voice grew stronger. "Two years ago, men came in a small boat at night. Silent. They were coast watchers. Allies. I saw them land near Turtle Cove." A fierce pride flickered in her eyes. "I found them. Showed them paths through the mountains, hidden springs, places to watch the enemy camp. I was their guide." She touched Camryn’s matted hair. "The war… it ended weeks ago. The soldiers knew they lost. That’s why they ran like scared dogs."

Camryn’s recovery was slow, carved in agony. Moana carried her deeper into the island’s heart, to a high cave veiled by waterfalls. Here, safe from the abandoned enemy camp, Moana tended her with ancient knowledge – poultices of crushed fern leaves to draw infection, bitter bark teas for fever, clean water from the mountain springs. Camryn’s body healed, the deep wounds on her hands and feet scarring over into thick, ropy tissue that ached in the damp. Her spirit took longer. The nightmares were relentless – the scrape of the padlock, the gleam of the belt buckle, the crunch of the spike. Moana was her anchor, speaking softly of the island’s rhythms, the return of the birds, the paths she’d shown the allies. Slowly, the hollow terror in Camryn’s eyes began to recede, replaced by a fragile, hard-won calm.




Five years later, Camryn stood before a chalkboard in a sunlit classroom on the rebuilt mission grounds. Her blonde hair was neatly tied back, her hands, though scarred, held the chalk with steady purpose. She wore a simple white dress, a world away from the tattered shifts and the nudity of the bondage years. Before her sat bright-eyed island children, their laughter a balm. She finished her teaching degree through correspondence, the textbooks spread across her lap in the cave by lantern light, Moana quizzing her. Returning felt like breathing again. The hut with the red symbol was ash now, scattered by the wind. She taught history, yes, but also resilience. Her gaze often drifted to the open window, where the jungle whispered its secrets.

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Moana, now twenty, sat at the teacher’s desk grading papers with fierce concentration. Her dark hair was braided neatly, her posture radiating quiet confidence. She was Camryn’s official teaching intern, having earned her own teaching certificate through the same rigorous correspondence program. The irony wasn’t lost on Camryn – the student guiding the teacher back to life, now learning the craft from her. Moana moved among the children with natural grace, explaining a math problem, her voice calm and clear. She understood their world, their rhythms, in a way Camryn always admired. "Miss Moana," a small boy piped up, pointing to a diagram, "like the fish traps?" Moana smiled, a genuine warmth that reached her eyes. "Exactly, Kano. Balance. Just like the traps."

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After school, they walked the jungle path towards the coast, the air thick with the scent of frangipani and salt. The trail passed the overgrown entrance to the grotto. Neither looked at it. Their steps slowed near a cliff edge overlooking Turtle Cove. Below, the turquoise water shimmered, waves crashing against volcanic rock. This was where Moana had first seen the coast watchers’ dinghy cutting silently through the moonlit surf. Camryn paused, breathing deeply. The sea breeze tangled in her hair. "They’re sending a supply boat next week," Moana said, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "I told them we need more chalk. And pencils. Always the pencils vanish." She grinned, a flash of the fierce girl who’d levered iron stakes from flesh. Camryn nodded, watching a frigate bird soar. "Tell them… tell them we need seeds too. For the school garden." The scars on her palms throbbed faintly, a familiar echo, not a scream. The war was a chapter, closed but not forgotten, its shadow receding with each lesson taught, each seed planted, each wave that washed the shore clean. Life, stubborn and resilient, had taken root again, nurtured by hands that knew both cruelty and care.

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Stephanie's recorder clicked off—she hadn't realized she'd pressed stop. The silence felt like a held breath. The recorder in Stephanie's lap weighed nothing and everything. She clicked the case shut, the sound final as a tomb sealing. Custard seeped through her skirt, cold now against her thighs. Outside, the storm's leftover raindrops tapped Morse code on the window ledge. The grandmother exhaled through pursed lips—a sound like wind through bombed-out ruins. "You'll write it, won't you?" Not a question.

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