She’s breathing so hard. Her heart is racing. A cloud of dust pluming with each strike of her foot on the dry ground. The sandals she wore broke long ago and now she carries them in her hands as she runs far, far away. Her face muddy from the dirt and the tears it was covered in, she sits down under a lone tree along the path. She wipes the blood from her lip.
As she leans back against the tree visions of what her life could be like danced through her head. She sees herself tend her children, the garden and the livestock, and gaining the adoration of her husband. She sees a table filled with the richness of their bounty, vegetables from their garden, bread she’d made with her hands, lamb from their flock. Love fills her imagination. She conjures feelings of lightness, hope and freedom.
Having caught her breath she rises, picks up her sandals, and begins the long walk back to that place that she can never really leave. Running away means giving up her children and being alone. She is owned, a possession, damaged goods. Those were just dreams after all. He may possess her, but he cannot control her daydreams. There she can be free.