Chains of the Brothel: Part 7 Silent Walls

The Prison Disguised as a Home

The place where Anita now lived was not a home. It was a forgotten prison pretending to be a sanctuary. The villagers called it the Old House, but its name was a cruel lie. It wasn’t a shelter for the elderly or a place of care. It was where society abandoned those it no longer wished to see—the “incurable,” the “dangerous,” the “inconvenient.”

Inside its crumbling walls lay men and women consumed by cancer, AIDS, tuberculosis, and mental illnesses that made others recoil. They were hidden here like shadows of humanity.

But Anita did not belong among them. She carried no infection, no terminal disease. Her only “crime” was her voice—the voice that dared to disturb the powerful men who had stolen her life, silenced her children, and tried to bury her in shame.

Rumors as Weapons

Killing her outright would have raised questions. So they used something subtler, something more poisonous: prejudice.

Rumors were planted like seeds. Whispers spread through the village like venom:

“This woman carries disease. She and her daughter are cursed. She once lived in a brothel—her presence will destroy us all.”

Fear did the rest. The frightened villagers signed their names, and the police came. Under the excuse of “public safety,” Anita was dragged into the Old House—a place where many entered but few ever left alive.

A Living Reminder

Surrounded by suffering and slow death, Anita became something unexpected—something the authorities had not planned for. She was a living reminder of their crimes.

The hallways reeked of antiseptic and despair. At night, the building echoed with coughs that tore through lungs, with prayers whispered in delirium until voices faded to silence.

And in one dark corner, Anita sat. Fifty years old, her body seemed to carry a century of sorrow. She had buried her youth in pain, her son in grief, and her daughter in her arms. What was left of her? Nothing, perhaps. Yet maybe everything. Because society had forgotten one truth:

Broken people still breathe.

Broken people still dream.

And sometimes, their broken breaths carry truths sharp enough to cut through stone.

A Candle in the Storm

Despite her frail body, Anita did not stay silent. At night, when groans of the dying filled the halls, her voice rose—not loud, not angry, but piercing in its quietness.

She told her story. She whispered it again and again, as though rehearsing it for the day someone would finally carry it beyond these walls.

That was the day I entered her life.

Reaching Her

Getting to Anita was dangerous. The powerful men who had orchestrated her downfall had eyes everywhere. They didn’t want me near her; they didn’t want her words to escape.

But truth demands persistence. And persistence had become my second skin.

One evening, I dressed as a janitor, pushing a mop across filthy tiles while my heart pounded under the guards’ gaze. Another night, I wore the clothes of a hospital assistant, blending into the exhausted staff. Sometimes I waited until midnight, slipping past shadows that swallowed me whole.

And then, finally—I saw her.

She was smaller than I imagined. Frailer. Her hair had thinned, her shoulders bent, her skin pale. Yet when her eyes met mine, a spark flickered—recognition.

“You came,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Her thin, trembling fingers reached out and touched my hand. For a long moment, we said nothing. The silence was heavy—but not empty. It carried everything she had endured.

Finally, she asked, “Will you be my voice?”

I bowed my head. “Yes.”

That was the beginning.

Whispers Against Silence

Night after night, I returned. Sometimes she told her story, each word dripping with pain. Sometimes she broke into tears halfway, clutching her chest as though her grief was suffocating her. And sometimes, she only stared past the walls, whispering, “If I die here, what will remain of me?”

But always, she returned to the same plea:

“Don’t let my voice die. Don’t let them bury me in silence. I have faced too much for death to scare me. But silence—silence is worse than death.”

Her words cut me like a knife.

The Last Candle

Around us, patients withered like forgotten leaves. Their cries became background noise, like wind through broken windows. Yet Anita’s voice stood apart. Not loud. Not harsh. But resolute—like the last candle refusing to be blown out by the storm.

Sometimes, villagers left food at the gates of the Old House. They were poor, but still human enough to pity those trapped inside. Yet pity could not erase the truth: Anita was meant to vanish. She was meant to be forgotten behind these silent walls.

But she wasn’t forgotten. Not yet. I was there, carrying her words like fire in my chest.

Her Prophecy

One night, as I prepared to leave, she stopped me. Her tired but blazing eyes fixed on mine.

“Listen,” she said softly, each word deliberate. “If I am not here tomorrow—if they take me, or if death comes—remember this: even my last breath will be a message. A message they cannot erase.”

Her voice wasn’t just words. It was prophecy.

In that moment, I understood something I had been too afraid to admit: this story was not ending. It was not fading into silence.

No—this was only the dangerous beginning of something far greater.

And as I walked out of the Old House, my chest burning with her words, I knew:

Anita’s story had not ended.

It had only reached the edge of a storm.

To Be Continue........

Click for ⏩ Next Part 8..