Where The River Breaks

The river never slept. It coiled around the house like a serpent, its dark waters whispering secrets to anyone who dared listen. Isabel often stood by the window, watching the current slip past the stone walls, wondering how many voices it carried and how many it had swallowed.

But tonight, the whispers weren’t from the river.

Inside the stone house, the walls were thicker than bone yet thinner than silence. Isabel was beginning to hear the women who came before her.

At first it was a murmur, like wind through cracks. Then the whispers sharpened until a single word surfaced: Run.

One voice at first, a plea bleeding from the walls. Then another, and another, until it became a chorus.

Tonight, Isabel lay still beneath Don Fernando, offering him the only part of herself he wanted. He took it without question, blind to the rest of her—the eyes darting across the darkened room, chasing shadows, searching for the voices that whispered again: Run.

But she couldn’t. Not unless God Himself showed her the way.

She was devout, faithful to mass and the rosary. Even now, as Don Fernando gripped her, blurring pain with duty, she prayed in her heart: God, how can I run? Please, how can I run?

Her plea faded beneath the rising chorus of the dead. Don Fernando spilled into her, then stood and left without a word.

He left her uncovered, steeped in sin.

As Isabel lay in the silence he abandoned, a heaviness pressed on her chest, denser than shame. The room seemed to close in, shadows curling tighter around the corners. Then, cutting through the stillness, a voice rose clear above the murmurs:

“You are not the first.”

At the foot of the bed sat a woman in a dark camisa and silk saya that draped like lead. A lace pañuelo hung from her shoulders. Her hair, brittle and thin, was pinned back with a dull gold comb that caught the light. Her frame was frail, her skin stretched over sharp bones, as if a strong wind might carry her away.

Her face blurred, smudged by time, features shifting in the dimness.

Her gaze never left Isabel.

“You are not the first.”

This was Doña Beatriz Mercado, the first mistress of the house.

Before Isabel could move, another voice, softer but edged with warning, broke through:

“You might not be the last, either.”

Isabel flinched and turned. Beside her, a woman in servant’s clothing pulled the blanket over her shoulders, tucking it with careful hands. Her face, too, was faded. Dark bruises, like ghostly fingerprints, ringed her neck, stark against the pallor of her skin. The marks stood in cruel contrast to the gentleness of her touch.

This was Rosa Linao, a servant the Don had once taken and discarded.

Isabel’s breath caught, but she did not move. Fear should have seized her, sent her reaching for prayers or escape. Yet their presence brought a strange calm.

The third voice cut through the air, sharp and defiant, refusing to bow.

“I almost got away from him. But you… you will not.”

Unlike the others, this woman did not sit close. She stood, her figure more solid, her stance purposeful, as if unfinished business kept her here. The remnants of a once vibrant saya clung to her frame, the fabric worn thin from struggle. Her hair hung wild, her arms and neck marred by bruises and scratches. A faint blue tint clung to her skin.

This was Ana Silang.

“Why did you even marry Don Fernando?” Ana’s hiss cut the silence. She crossed her arms, staring down at Isabel, who propped herself on trembling elbows. “Surely you heard rumors.”

“Rumors,” Doña Beatriz murmured. She tilted her head, studying Isabel. “The Don is a powerful man. No rumors would have slipped past these walls.”

“No,” Rosa whispered, her hands twisting in her skirt. She hovered closer, casting a wary glance at the door as if someone might be listening. “He punished anyone who even whispered.”

A heavy silence followed, pressing in like the walls themselves.

Ana’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you still chose him.”

Isabel swallowed, but no words came.

Rosa’s cold fingers moved through Isabel’s tangled hair, smoothing it with a tenderness that unsettled more than soothed. Each stroke loosened thoughts she had tried to bury.

Why had she married Don Fernando?

He was well into middle age, his hair streaked with grey, while Isabel was still young, still blooming. He was prominent, but her family was no less. Wealth met wealth in their union, but beauty had sealed the match.

It was during a Sunday mass that Don Fernando first saw her. His gaze had landed on her like a mark. A few words to her parents, lavish gifts, grand displays—and her fate was set. Her parents had smiled, pleased by the arrangement.

Isabel Alvarez had become the Don’s bride.

And in the beginning, it was beautiful.

Despite the years between them, Don Fernando was striking. His words flowed like honey, and Isabel melted beneath his gaze. She had been raised to yield, taught that a wife must submit as she would to the Lord. To please both God and husband was virtue. In those early days, it felt warm, almost holy.

He was gentle the first time. Isabel surrendered willingly, believing in the sanctity of their union.

But the tenderness faded.

Over time, his affection shifted. Sweet words dried to silence. His eyes no longer lingered on her face, only on her body. Isabel slipped from his mind until she was little more than an object. A doll to be used and set aside.

The beauty of marriage rotted. What once felt sacred turned unclean. Isabel was left to decay in the silence of it.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, twisting the blanket’s edge. The women’s stares pressed down.

“I didn’t…” Her voice faltered, thin as a breath. She swallowed. “I didn’t choose him. Not really.”

Ana’s eyes hardened. “Yet you stood at that altar.”

Isabel flinched. “What choice did I have?” Her voice shook. “My parents said it was God’s will. That marriage to him was an honor. They said I would be safe. Provided for.”

“Safe?” Ana’s tone cut. “Does this feel safe to you?”

Isabel’s throat tightened. The cold in the room deepened.

“No,” she breathed. “But I believed them. I believed he loved me. That he… cared for me.”

Beatriz let out a bitter laugh. “Love? Men like him do not love. They own.”

Rosa’s fingers trembled in Isabel’s hair. “We all wanted to believe.”

Ana leaned closer. “And now? Do you still believe?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

Isabel rose, clutching the blanket tighter. As she moved, she felt it—the sick warmth Don Fernando left behind sliding down her thighs. A shudder tore through her. She wanted it gone. Wanted to scrub until her skin peeled, until every trace of him was erased.

Rosa crossed the room, silent as smoke. At the basin, she dipped a cloth into the cool water and wrung it out. Without a word, she returned and wiped Isabel clean. Her touch was light, almost reverent, the cloth moving between Isabel’s thighs with steady care.

And Isabel let her.

She had tried once—tried to tell her parents of the coldness in her marriage, of how Fernando used her. But they brushed it aside with soft smiles and harder words: A wife must submit to her husband, as to the Lord.

Now, as Rosa tended her, sorrow hollowed Isabel out. Her breath hitched. Tears slipped down her cheeks, soundless, unending.

Across the room, Doña Beatriz opened the heavy cabinet. The doors groaned. She chose simple, clean garments and crossed the floor. Kneeling, she dressed Isabel layer by layer, her hands practiced and precise. Ana stood at the window, arms crossed.

A woman can only break so many times before something sharper takes its place.

And Isabel was breaking.

Beatriz sat her before the vanity. Cool, translucent fingers reached for the comb. She pulled it through Isabel’s hair, slow and sure.

“I was his first,” Beatriz said. “As young as you are. And he was young as well… dashing. A woman can’t be blamed for falling in love.”

Isabel glanced at the blurred reflection. Her tears had stopped, but the ache remained.

Beatriz’s voice softened. “Ours was a secret love. He was still in universidad. I was told to wait. I did. In the end, we married.”

A thin smile flickered, gone in an instant. “A wedding is a woman’s dream. But was it mine? Or only one I was taught to want? It didn’t matter—I believed I would be complete with a husband.”

Her hands rested on Isabel’s shoulders. In the mirror, Isabel saw the ghost’s frailty: thinning hair, hollowed cheeks.

“And like you, it was beautiful at first. Until the years proved our marriage would be childless. I could not give him an heir. His frustrations grew.”

“I tried everything. Prayers. Offerings. Then the medicine—always bitter. I told myself bitterness would bring life, fix what was broken inside me. But nothing grew. Only sickness. Little by little, I faded. And he watched. He said it was my fault. That I must drink more. Try harder.”

Beatriz paused, gaze fixed on Isabel’s reflection.

“When Fernando and I were together, you were not even born.” She fastened a simple pin in Isabel’s hair. “But memories linger in these walls… and so do poisons.”

Rosa stepped forward, studying Isabel in the glass. She opened the vanity drawer and lifted a tin of powder. Tilting Isabel’s chin, she guided her face upward.

“I was an alipin,” Rosa said. “And any alipin knows the comfort of being favored by her master. It seemed a blessing. A chance for something better. So when Don Fernando noticed me, I was grateful. Foolishly grateful.”

Her cold fingers moved with steady care, dusting powder across Isabel’s cheeks, as if her face were porcelain. Isabel sat still, listening, letting Rosa’s tenderness settle over her like a thin veil.

“The other servants saw how he favored me. Finer clothes, better food, even a softer bed. To them, it must have looked like I was rising above my station.”

She paused, smoothing the powder.

“But I was still an alipin. I still scrubbed floors. I still carried burdens. And their stares grew colder, sharper. I felt their envy, their judgment. Still, I endured it. It was easier when I believed he loved me.”

Rosa closed the tin and reached for a small jar of lotion. She uncapped it and took Isabel’s hands, rubbing the cream into her skin.

“After a while, he began calling me to his bed.” Her eyes stayed down, her thumbs pressing into Isabel’s palms. “I thought—if I pleased him, he might love me. At first, he smiled. He kissed me. But in time, it changed. His touch grew cold. His words, distant. I realized his kindness was only a mask for one desire: an heir.” Her grip tightened. “And when it was clear I could not give him one… he strangled me in his bed.”

Isabel’s breath caught. Rosa kept rubbing the lotion in, steady as before.

Isabel turned to the mirror. Her reflection was blurred, the glass fogged and frayed at the edges. Don Fernando had never replaced it. That neglect lingered like a bitter taste.

At first, he had drowned her in gifts—clothes, delicacies, jewels to dazzle and bind. But the gifts dwindled. The wealth he flaunted turned to dust.

All he had left to give was his seed. Night after night he came, but nothing took root. No child. No heir. As the months passed, his touch grew mechanical, his eyes sharp with resentment.

His love had always been a mask. Now it had slipped.

“It’s only a matter of time before he ends you, too, Isabel.”

“What about you?” Isabel turned to Ana, who stood by the window, watching the river. “What happened to you?”

Ana’s gaze flicked to Isabel, then back to the water. “I refused to yield. My parents owed Don Fernando more than they could repay. They begged for time, for mercy. He wanted neither.” Her lips twisted. “He wanted me.”

The weight of the others pressed behind Isabel—Beatriz’s silence, Rosa’s grief. They listened, bound to the same cruel story.

“I was his possession, bought and paid for,” Ana said. “And he meant to break me. He forbade me from leaving. Starved me when I disobeyed. Denied me even water when I defied him.”

A shudder ran through her. “None of it mattered. Not my resistance, not my suffering. He only wanted one thing, and he took it whenever he pleased. Even tied my hands to the bedposts.”

She stepped closer, though the river seemed to hold her back. “Don Fernando desires an heir. That’s all he’s ever wanted.” Her gaze flicked to Beatriz and Rosa. “But like them, I bore him nothing. And neither have you, have you?”

Isabel’s hands clenched in her lap. No prayers, no effort had ever given him what he wanted.

Ana’s lips thinned. “One night, I decided I would not endure it anymore. I ran. I reached the river. But God must favor him, because just as I touched the bank… he caught me.”

She stepped closer. “He took what he wanted one last time. And then… he drowned me.”

Silence.

Isabel’s breath came in shallow bursts. Rosa’s hand brushed her shoulder, a ghost’s offer of comfort, but no touch could reach the chill inside her bones.

The voices did not speak again. They only watched as Isabel rose.

She moved in silence, her feet soundless on the wooden floor. The door gave a faint creak. Even as she passed Don Fernando’s room, nothing stirred. She carried no prayer, no plan—only the weight of the ghosts pressing her forward.

But the house was not finished. At the foot of the stairs, the shadows thickened. A board groaned. And then—his voice.

“Where are you going, Isabel?”

Don Fernando stepped from the dark, a glass in hand. Liquor clung to the air.

Isabel paused, then descended.

“Don Fernando,” she asked, “what would happen if I never bore you a child?”

His breath caught, though his reply was smooth. “Then I don’t become a father, and you… don’t become a mother.”

She stopped before him. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

The candles were long dead. Moonlight strained through the windows. Husband and wife stood at the bottom of the stairs like two shades, barely more than shapes.

Run, the voices urged. Run, Isabel.

“Go to sleep, Isabel,” was all he said. He took her wrist, turning toward the stairs.

He did not expect her to tear free. And so, the jolt broke his grip. By the time he steadied, she was at the door, twisting the knob but it was locked.

Don Fernando sighed. “I never forbade you from leaving. But why wander at midnight?”

Her hands shook on the brass.

“Is it the house you want to escape, Isabel? Or me?” He lifted his glass, walking slow, each step echoing.

She tried the knob again as if it would open without a key.

He set his glass down, quiet as a whisper. Then he reached past her, slid the bolt, and pulled the door open.

The night rushed in, cold and damp, smelling of grass and river.

He stepped back. “Go, if you wish.”

For a heartbeat she froze. The ghosts crowded close—Rosa’s hand at her back, Beatriz’s fingers on her shoulder, Ana’s voice hot against her ear: Run.

She moved. Down the steps, into the wet grass. The river hissed ahead.

Behind her, his footsteps followed.

The ground softened. The dark water swelled before her. She could not tell if the rushing was the current or her blood.

She stepped into the mud.

The river gripped her ankles.

She looked back once. He was there, hands in his pockets, watching. Or only standing in shadow. His face was veiled, unreadable. But she remembered his nights, the years of use and failure.

The water climbed to her hips. Beatriz, Rosa, Ana rose from the mist, drifting between her and Don Fernando until he was gone.

Then the current seized her.

And for a moment—just a moment—she thought she heard the women laugh. But the laughter didn’t last for long, or it could be that time simply bent with the river. When Isabel opened her eyes again, she saw light. Finally, she was free.