Seven Years of Devotion: He Left Me to Die, I Left Him for Good

I slipped my phone into my inner pocket and tightened the straps of my backpack.

A battered pickup truck was parked by the roadside, several passengers already sitting in the back with large packs.

The driver, a bearded local man, was haggling in broken English.

"Astara Gate! Five hundred dollars per person!"

I walked over, pulled out five green bills from my bag, and handed them to him.

"I'm getting on."

The driver held the money up to the light, checked it, then waved me on.

I climbed into the truck bed and found a corner to sit in.

The air in the truck bed smelled of sheep and gasoline.

Next to me sat a bespectacled young man clutching a laptop to his chest.

Across from us was a middle-aged couple, the woman quietly sobbing.

"That's everyone! Let's go!"

The driver slapped the side of the truck.

The pickup jolted violently, spewing black smoke as it surged onto the northern road.

The wind was fierce, stinging my face.

I curled into the corner and pulled up my jacket hood.

As we left the city, the landscape turned desolate.

Abandoned vehicles and scattered luggage littered the roadside.

The sky in the distance was a murky gray-yellow, indistinguishable between dust and gunsmoke.

I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Adrian's SUV disappearing into the distance.

This was the man I had loved for seven years.

At the edge of life and death, he had taught me the cruelest lesson of all.

The truck jolted, and my head slammed against the metal rail with a dull thud.

It hurt.

But I didn't rub it.

The pain kept me clear-headed.

From this moment on, my life belonged to me alone.

The pickup sped along the road for three hours.

Darkness crept in quickly.

Night fell fast over the Darsen Plateau, and the temperature dropped sharply.

No one spoke in the truck bed, only the wind howled around us.

The young man tightened his grip on the laptop, the sound of his teeth chattering clearly audible.

The middle-aged woman across from me had stopped crying and fallen asleep against her husband's shoulder.

Her husband stayed awake, scanning the surroundings with wary eyes.

"Miss, have some water." The man handed me an army-green canteen.

I shook my head and gestured toward my backpack.

I had water, but I didn't dare drink it.

I didn't know how long the road ahead would be, or what might happen next.

Every drop could mean survival.

Suddenly, the truck lurched violently, followed by a hard brake.

The momentum threw me forward, and I slammed into the young man's back.

"What happened?" someone asked, panic rising in their voice.

The driver jumped out, cursing in another language.

I leaned out to see what was wrong.

The road ahead was gone.

A massive crater split the center of the road, the asphalt shattered like broken biscuits.

Several destroyed cars sat nearby, still smoking.

"The road's blocked! We can't get through!" The driver waved his arms, shouting at us.

"So what do we do? Take a detour?"

The young man with glasses stood up, his voice trembling.

"Detour means two hundred extra kilometers! More money! Two hundred more each!"

The driver held up two fingers.

The middle-aged man stood up angrily. "We already paid! This is robbery!"

The driver shrugged and gestured at the pitch-black wilderness around us.

"No pay, no ride."

A distant howl echoed through the dark, maybe wolves, maybe stray dogs.

No one said another word.

I pulled out two more bills, jumped down, and shoved them into the driver's hand.

"Let's go. Take the detour."

The others followed, handing over more money.

Being left here meant certain death.

The pickup turned around and drove onto a gravel road.

The jolts were ten times worse than before.

My stomach churned violently; I hadn't eaten dinner, and only acid was rising.

I bit down hard on my lip, forcing myself not to throw up.

Vomiting would lead to dehydration. Dehydration would leave me too weak to keep going.

I couldn't afford that.

The truck entered a valley.

The signal vanished completely.

I took out my phone. Battery at forty percent.

There was a photo in my gallery, taken at the airport before departure.

Adrian had his arm around me, smiling brightly.

Back then, he had said, "Clara, once this trip's over, let's start trying for a baby."

My finger slid across the screen. I tapped delete.

The photo disappeared, wiped clean along with the trash.

Suddenly, a blinding light appeared ahead.

The driver slammed on the brakes.

Several men in camouflage stood in the middle of the road, faces covered, AK-47s in hand.

They weren't soldiers—they were armed bandits.