Page 2 of Marks of Rebellion

The irony of that blow was that I knew better. The men hold the same beliefs as my fiancé, Carlos Garcia.

He's not my fiancé because I want to marry him. He's my fiancé because I have no other choice.

Now that I'm with the guerrillas, that's one issue I don't have to worry about. Guess there is always a bright side to everything.

Until he finds me.

I shudder at the thought of going back to Carlos. My current reality of prison is much better than being under his thumb. With the guerrillas, at least it's clear to all that I am not free, even if it is only with the ruthless men who use me as a tool against Carlos.

Months have passed.Has it been a year or longer?

Is anyone besides Carlos looking for me? He surely is, but what about the others?

There are no more others. Carlos made sure that every person close to me was cast out of my life.

I blink away the tears of my reality and stare at my battered wrists.

In the first few weeks of my capture, my body ached from the pain of the chains and the rough conditions of the jungle. But after a while, my body grew used to the harsh conditions. The numbing pain where I'm shackled comes and goes now. Sometimes, I'm so used to wearing them I forget they are there.

I've learned how to move around in them out of necessity. When the guerrillas say we're moving to a new camp, we sometimes walk for hours through the dense jungle. My skin, once like porcelain, is now full of scratches and caked in dirt.

When I'm allowed to bathe, I always feel better after. But the process of being unclothed by the men and stared at while naked creates anxiety within me.

But I control my anxiety better than when I was with Carlos.

They've not sexually forced themselves on me. Every day, I fear they will. Several of the men give me looks that make my skin crawl, whether I'm clothed or not, but the same three men take turns guarding me. For whatever reason, they don't allow anyone to come too close. It's a false feeling of protection they give me. I mentally know it, but it still gives me a sense of safety from the others, whom I fear the most.

The rut I've fallen in is a new normal for me. I realize how fully I've allowed myself to acclimate to my new environment when the loud rumble of an approaching engine pulls my attention toward the area where the leaders of the guerrillas reside.

Twisting in my stomach tightens into knots. I'm not sure why. But I can't shake the dread that something terrible is going to happen.

Three men get out of the vehicle.

Time seems to move slowly. I sit on the ground and stare at the men. They aren't guerrillas. At least, I don't think they are. They don't wear the same military-style uniform the guerrillas do.

There's a conversation going on and an exchange of something. I believe it's money.

The leader of the guerrillas shouts in Spanish, "Bring her!"

Chills fill my body even though the sun is so hot I'm sweating.

I'm yanked off the ground and dragged so fast, I can't catch my footing.

The men who arrived grab me, and I'm forced into their Jeep while kicking and screaming. The guerrillas' responses are only to laugh.

The man who sits next to me straps me in the seat belt and tells me to stop moving, or he will shoot me.

Fear convinces me to freeze.

A blindfold is tied tight over my eyes. My anxiety shoots up. I try to calm my nerves, but the blackness doesn't help.

The terrain is bumpy and the journey once again long. When we finally arrive at our destination, I'm pulled out of the SUV, and the blindfold is torn off. Strands of my hair catch and rip out of my head.

But I don't cry. I won't give these men any of my tears. And pain is something that has become too familiar to me.

"Santiago!" the thug next to me yells.

Santiago? Oh no. Please, no.