“Go clean the house and stop bothering those who are actually working,” someone else snapped at him.
But the worst reaction came from her own father. Don Hilario, red-faced with anger and shame, grabbed her arm tightly in front of about 40 neighbors. He dragged her to the middle of the dirt road.
“I’ve had enough of your nonsense!” he roared, knocking her to the ground with a force that scraped her knees. “If you think you’re so smart and always know the truth, then get out! I don’t want any bothersome people in the house who make me look ridiculous!”
Ximena slowly stood up, tears of pain and humiliation streaming down her dirty cheeks. She looked at her father, hoping for a trace of remorse. She saw nothing. Only pure contempt.
“Then… I’m leaving,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
No one lifted a finger. No one defended her. And when the silhouette of the 14-year-old girl disappeared into the darkness of the forest, carrying only a small canvas bag, none of them could have imagined the blood-curdling hell that was about to unleash upon them…
PART 2
The forest greeted her with an icy gust of wind that took her breath away.
It was 8:00 PM, and the temperature was plummeting. Ximena knew she had no time to cry. Tears would freeze on her face. If her instincts, forged in the ruggedness of the mountains, were right, the first snowstorm would fall before dawn.
He needed a hiding place. Not just any cave where bears or pumas might seek shelter, but something safe. Something invisible.
She walked for three hours, stumbling over roots and rocks, until she reached the ruins of an old hacienda, about three miles from town. There, hidden beneath a thicket of weeds and dry prickly pears, lay an old water wheel—a well that had been dry for over fifty years. She had discovered it as a child while searching for firewood.
He walked to the stone edge and looked down into the abyss. It wasn’t that deep; time and landslides had partially filled it, leaving a hole about 4 meters deep.
But it offered something invaluable: thermal insulation. Thick walls of volcanic stone blocked the deadly gusts of wind.
“This is it,” she said to herself, rubbing her trembling arms. “This is where I’ll live.”
She had no time to waste. She descended, clinging to the cracks in the rock. The bottom was filled with rubble, packed earth, and the bones of small animals. Without pickaxes or shovels, Ximena began digging with her bare hands. She used sharp stones, thick branches, and pieces of broken pottery she found at the bottom.
He wanted to widen the side opening in the clay wall of the well to create a veritable underground chamber in which he could curl up.
The pain was immediate. Within two hours, her fingernails were shattered. Blood from her fingers mixed with the reddish earth, creating a dark mud. Blisters burst and skin cracked, but the fear of freezing to death was stronger than the physical pain.
For four feverish days, he worked tirelessly. In the mornings, he frantically went out to gather dry branches, acorns, pine needles, a few tubers, and water from the stream, which was already starting to solidify. At night, he continued digging the grave to survive.
