Touch Me And Your're Dead! [English]

05

Chapter 05

The cold Italian air bit at Hilda's exposed skin as she stumbled through the unfamiliar streets, her heart still pounding from her narrow escape at the airport. The adrenaline that had carried her through her desperate flight was beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and the crushing weight of her situation. She had managed to get far from the airport—the sounds of aircraft and bustling crowds had long since faded into the distance—but the memory of those two brave women who had risked everything to help her haunted every step she took.

*What happened to them?* The question gnawed at her conscience like a persistent wound. The blonde woman with the kind blue eyes, the dark-haired woman who had knelt to adjust her shoes with such unexpected tenderness—were they safe? Had they escaped the wrath of Truson's men, or had they paid the price for their compassion? The uncertainty was almost unbearable, adding another layer of guilt to the fear that already consumed her.

Hilda's bare feet, still tender from years of sheltered living, were beginning to blister against the rough pavement. The elegant dress she had borrowed hung awkwardly on her frame, too short and too tight, marking her as clearly out of place in this foreign land. Every shadow seemed to hide potential threats; every sound made her flinch and look over her shoulder.

She needed help, but where could she turn? The police—surely they would be her salvation? Her nanny had always told her that police officers were there to protect people, to help those in need. With this desperate hope clinging to her heart like a lifeline, Hilda began searching for a police station near the airport, her eyes scanning every building, every sign, looking for anything that might represent safety and sanctuary.

The streets were quieter now, the tourist areas giving way to more residential neighborhoods. Street lamps cast long shadows that danced and shifted with every passing car, creating an ever-changing landscape of light and darkness that disoriented her further. She was so focused on her search that she didn't notice the elderly Italian man approaching until he was directly in front of her.

"Ti sei perso? Dov'è il tuo passaporto?" the old man asked, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

The words meant nothing to Hilda, but the tone was unmistakable—demanding, suspicious. The man was tall and broad-shouldered despite his age, with deep-set eyes that seemed to look right through her. His clothes were simple but well-maintained, suggesting he was a local resident who knew these streets intimately. To Hilda, isolated and vulnerable in this foreign place, any stranger represented a potential threat.

Terror flooded through her system like ice water. *He's going to hurt me,* her panicked mind concluded. *He's going to take me back to them.* The paranoia that had kept her alive during her years of abuse now painted every interaction with the brush of danger.

"No! No! Don't!" she cried out, her voice cracking with fear as she attempted to flee.

But the old man was quicker than his age suggested. He stepped sideways, blocking her escape route with the practiced ease of someone who had dealt with confused tourists before. His expression wasn't malicious—if Hilda had been in a state to notice such subtleties—but rather concerned and increasingly frustrated by the language barrier.

"Di dove sei? Passaporto!" he insisted, his voice rising slightly as he gestured toward her with weathered hands that spoke of a lifetime of honest labor.

The situation escalated when another figure approached—a younger man in a crisp uniform that Hilda recognized from countless television shows and movies. The sight of that uniform should have brought relief, but instead, it sent another wave of panic through her already overwrought system.

"Police?" she whispered, the word barely audible as her throat constricted with fear.

The traffic officer, a man in his thirties with kind eyes and a patient demeanor, immediately recognized the signs of distress. He had dealt with lost tourists before, but there was something different about this young woman—something that spoke of deeper troubles than simple disorientation. He reached into his jacket and produced his identification, holding it out so she could see the official seal and his photograph.

"You have a passport? Where are you from?" he asked in careful, accented English, his voice gentle but professional.

The question hit Hilda like a physical blow. Passport. Documents. Proof of identity and legal presence—all the things she didn't have, all the things that would immediately mark her as someone who didn't belong. Her mind raced through the possibilities: if she had no documentation, they would either contact the authorities who would eventually lead back to Mr. Truson, or they would deport her directly back to the Philippines, where her father waited with his cold hatred and his plans for her future.

She took a step backward, then another, her eyes darting between the two men who now flanked her like prison guards. The elderly Italian man's expression had shifted from concern to suspicion as he took in her obvious distress and inability to produce any identification. The police officer's hand moved instinctively toward his radio, a gesture that sent alarm bells ringing through Hilda's consciousness.

The two men exchanged a rapid conversation in Italian, their voices low but urgent. Though Hilda couldn't understand the words, she could read the body language—they were discussing what to do with her, how to handle this obvious problem that had wandered into their orderly world.

Just then, providence intervened in the form of a large delivery truck rumbling down the street. The diesel engine's roar and the bright headlights momentarily distracted both men, causing them to glance toward the approaching vehicle. It was the opening Hilda had been praying for.

She ran.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold pavement as she sprinted away from the two men, her borrowed dress hampering her movement but not her determination. Behind her, she could hear shouts in Italian—commands, calls for her to stop, the sound of pursuit beginning.

The street stretched before her like a gauntlet, lined with parked cars and shadowed doorways. Her lungs burned as she pushed herself harder than she ever had before, driven by pure desperation and the primal need to remain free. The police officer was younger and fitter, but Hilda had the advantage of desperation and the head start provided by the truck's distraction.

She reached the intersection just as another vehicle—a produce truck loaded with wooden crates and canvas-covered goods—rumbled through. Without thinking, without considering the consequences, Hilda leaped onto the back of the truck, scrambling over the tailgate and diving between the large baskets of vegetables that filled the cargo area.

The truck continued its journey, unaware of its stowaway passenger. Hilda pressed herself as deeply as possible into the space between two large baskets filled with what smelled like onions and potatoes, their earthy scent filling her nostrils as she tried to control her ragged breathing.

"Dov'è lei? Ha perso velocità," she heard one of the officers call out, his voice carrying clearly in the night air.

Through a gap in the canvas covering, she could see the police officer standing beside the truck, his flashlight beam sweeping back and forth as he searched underneath the vehicle. The elderly Italian man stood nearby, gesturing and speaking rapidly, clearly frustrated by the turn of events.

Hilda covered her mouth with both hands, pressing so hard that her lips hurt, terrified that even the sound of her breathing might give her away. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed to every deity she could remember—to her nanny's spirit, to her mother's memory, to anyone who might be listening in the vast darkness above.

The truck's engine continued to rumble beneath her, and after what felt like an eternity, she felt the vehicle begin to move again. The voices of the men grew fainter, then disappeared entirely as the truck carried her away from immediate danger and into the unknown Italian countryside.

As the truck gained speed, Hilda finally allowed herself to sit up slightly, though she remained hidden among the produce. The cold night air whipped through the canvas covering, cutting through her thin dress and chilling her to the bone. She pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to conserve what little body heat she had, and looked up at the star-filled sky above.

The stars were different here—or perhaps they only seemed different because everything else in her world had changed so drastically. In the Philippines, when she had been allowed outside at night, the sky had been familiar, comforting in its constancy. Here, even the constellations seemed foreign and unwelcoming.

"Nanny, Mom—please take care of me," she whispered to the heavens, her voice barely audible over the truck's engine and the wind.

The words were both a prayer and a desperate plea, spoken to the only two people who had ever truly loved her. Her nanny, who had raised her with gentle hands and wise words until death had claimed her too early. Her mother, whom she had never known but whose sacrifice had given her life. If their spirits existed somewhere in the vast universe, she needed their guidance now more than ever.

As if in response to her prayer, or perhaps simply due to the wind's whims, the blonde wig she still wore was suddenly lifted from her head. She watched it disappear into the darkness, carried away like a symbol of the false identity she had briefly worn. Her own dark hair, longer now than it had been in years, streamed behind her in the wind, and for a moment, she felt a strange sense of liberation.

The truck continued its journey through the Italian countryside, carrying her further from the airport, further from Truson's men, but also further into uncertainty. She had no idea where the vehicle was headed, no plan for what she would do when it stopped, no resources beyond the clothes on her back and the desperate will to survive that burned within her chest.

Time became meaningless as the truck traveled through the night. Hilda dozed fitfully among the vegetables, her exhaustion finally overcoming her fear and adrenaline. She was awakened by the change in the truck's engine note as it began to slow, then by the sensation of the vehicle turning off what had been a smooth road onto something rougher and more uneven.

When she peered out from her hiding place, she could see that the landscape had changed dramatically. Gone were the urban lights and suburban houses. Instead, she saw vast darkness punctuated only by the truck's headlights and the distant glimmer of what might have been water. The air smelled different too—salt and seaweed and the indefinable scent of the ocean.

The truck came to a complete stop, and Hilda heard the driver's door slam shut. Panic flooded through her again as she realized she needed to escape before the man discovered her presence among his cargo. Moving as quietly as possible, she climbed over the tailgate and dropped to the ground, her bare feet landing on what felt like sand mixed with gravel.

The driver was already moving around to the back of the truck, a flashlight in his hand and the sound of keys jingling as he prepared to unload his cargo. Hilda didn't wait to see what would happen when he discovered her hiding place. She ran into the darkness, guided only by instinct and the sound of waves that seemed to be calling to her.

The shoreline, when she reached it, was unlike anything she had ever seen. The beaches of her childhood memories were tropical and warm, filled with the sounds of life even at night. This coast was austere and wild, with dark water stretching endlessly toward a horizon she couldn't see. The waves crashed against the shore with a rhythm that was both soothing and ominous, speaking of depths and distances that dwarfed her small human concerns.

She walked along the water's edge, her feet sinking into the cold, wet sand with each step. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion that weighed her down like chains. She was free, yes, but free to do what? She had no money, no identification, no way to communicate effectively with the people of this country, no plan for survival beyond the next few hours.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she asked the empty beach, her voice swallowed by the sound of the waves.

The question hung in the air, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. She was completely alone in a foreign country, hunted by dangerous men, with no resources and no allies. The magnitude of her situation threatened to overwhelm her, to drive her to her knees in despair.

But then, in the distance, she saw a light.

The light was small and warm, emanating from what appeared to be a modest structure set back from the shoreline. As Hilda drew closer, she could make out the details of a small hut—weathered wood and a tin roof, simple but solid construction that spoke of practical people living practical lives. Smoke rose from a chimney, and through a window, she could see the golden glow of what might have been an oil lamp or candles.

More importantly, she could smell food. The aroma that reached her was simple but heavenly—instant noodles, perhaps, or some other humble meal that represented warmth and sustenance and all the things her body desperately craved. Her stomach cramped with hunger, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the airplane, which felt like a lifetime ago.

Hilda approached the hut slowly, torn between desperate need and ingrained caution. These could be good people, the kind who would help a stranger in distress. Or they could be dangerous, ready to take advantage of a vulnerable young woman with nowhere else to turn. Her experiences had taught her to expect the worst from people, but her current situation left her with little choice.

The cold was becoming unbearable, seeping through her thin dress and into her bones. Her feet were numb, and she could feel her strength ebbing with each passing minute. If she didn't find shelter soon, she might not survive the night, regardless of who lived in this humble dwelling.

She raised her hand and knocked on the door, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet night. Almost immediately, she heard movement from within—footsteps, voices, the scraping of furniture being moved. The door opened to reveal an elderly couple, both looking surprised and concerned at finding a young foreign woman on their doorstep at such an hour.

The man was perhaps in his seventies, with silver hair and hands that spoke of a lifetime of physical labor. His face was weathered by sun and sea air, but his eyes were kind, filled with the sort of wisdom that comes from having lived through many seasons of hardship and joy. The woman beside him was smaller and rounder, with gray hair pulled back in a simple bun and an expression of immediate maternal concern.

They took in Hilda's appearance—the ill-fitting dress, the bare feet, the obvious distress—and their faces softened with compassion. These were people who understood hardship, who had perhaps known their own struggles and could recognize suffering in others.

Hilda's eyes immediately went to the table visible behind them, where simple bowls and plates held what looked like the most delicious meal she had ever seen. Her stomach growled audibly, and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain some dignity despite her desperate circumstances.

"Are you hungry?" the elderly man asked in careful English, his accent thick but his meaning clear.

The simple question, asked with such genuine concern, nearly brought Hilda to tears. When had anyone last asked about her needs, her comfort, her well-being? The kindness in the stranger's voice was like a balm to her wounded spirit.

She nodded eagerly, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she tried to speak. The elderly couple exchanged a look—one of those wordless communications that come from decades of shared life—and immediately stepped aside to welcome her into their home.

The interior of the hut was simple but immaculately clean, filled with the accumulated treasures of a long life lived together. Handmade furniture, faded photographs, religious icons, and practical items all spoke of people who valued substance over style, who had built their happiness from simple pleasures and mutual devotion.

The elderly woman immediately began bustling around, preparing a place for Hilda at their table and adding more food to what was clearly their own modest dinner. The man pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit, his movements gentle and non-threatening, clearly recognizing her skittish state.

"Thank you, thank you," Hilda repeated, the English words tumbling from her lips as tears of gratitude filled her eyes.

The couple could see how desperately hungry she was, and they continued to add more food to her plate—bread, soup, simple vegetables that had been prepared with love and care. They gave her water to drink and watched with satisfaction as she began to eat, their own meal forgotten in their concern for this unexpected guest.

They didn't pepper her with questions while she ate, understanding instinctively that her immediate need was nourishment, not conversation. The elderly woman disappeared briefly and returned with a thick, hand-knitted sweater that she draped around Hilda's shoulders, the wool still carrying the scent of lavender and the warmth of human kindness.

Only after Hilda had eaten her fill did they begin to speak with her, their questions gentle and non-invasive.

"What's your name?" the elderly man asked, his voice soft and encouraging.

"Hi-Hilda," she whispered, still hardly believing that she was safe, that these strangers had welcomed her without question or demand for payment.

She found herself praying silently that they wouldn't ask for documentation, wouldn't demand to see papers that she didn't possess. The fear must have shown in her eyes because the elderly woman reached across the table and patted her hand gently, a gesture that spoke of understanding and acceptance.

The couple could clearly see that something terrible had happened to this young woman. Her scratches and bruises, her bare feet, her obvious terror—all spoke of someone fleeing from danger. But rather than prying into details that might be painful to share, they focused on practical matters.

"You have an address? Or home so we can call your family to inform them that you're here?" the elderly man asked carefully.

"No—no family," Hilda replied, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of loneliness.

She tried to explain her situation through gestures and the few English words she knew, acting out being chased by bad people, showing her fear of those who had taken her. The language barrier was frustrating, but somehow, the essential truth of her situation came through.

"You want to call police?" the elderly woman asked, her concern evident in every line of her face.

Hilda immediately shook her head, her reaction so violent and immediate that both elderly people understood this was not an option for her. They didn't understand why—perhaps she was in the country illegally, perhaps she had other reasons for avoiding official attention—but they respected her choice.

"Stay here as long as you want. Feel at home. Not so many people come here to visit or stay in this area, and no one will recognize you either," the elderly man said with simple generosity.

The offer was like a miracle, like an answer to prayers she hadn't dared to voice. Hilda's face lit up with the first genuine smile she had worn in years, and she thanked them over and over until they gently shushed her and led her to a small alcove where they had prepared a bed with clean sheets and warm blankets.

What followed were perhaps the most peaceful days of Hilda's adult life. The elderly couple—she learned their names were Giuseppe and Maria—welcomed her into their simple routine with the natural grace of people who had always shared what little they had with those in need.

Hilda threw herself into helping them with a fervor born of gratitude and the desperate need to prove her worth. She cleaned their small home until it sparkled, scrubbing floors and washing windows with the dedication of someone who understood that her presence was a gift that needed to be earned daily.

When she discovered small holes in the walls where the sea air had worn away the wood, she found materials to patch them, working with her hands in ways she had never been allowed to do in her father's house. The physical labor was satisfying in a way she had never experienced—each task completed was a small victory, a contribution to the household that had taken her in.

She gathered driftwood from the beach for their fire, learning to identify which pieces would burn well and which were too waterlogged to be useful. Her hands, soft from years of enforced idleness, quickly developed calluses and strength. The work was hard, but it was honest, and it was chosen rather than forced upon her.

Maria taught her to help with the laundry, showing her how to work the soap into the fabric and how to wring out the water without damaging the clothes. They worked side by side in comfortable silence, or with Maria chattering in Italian while Hilda listened to the musical flow of the language, gradually picking up a few words and phrases.

Giuseppe showed her how to collect the trash that thoughtless tourists left on the beach, explaining through gestures and simple English that they could sell some of the discarded items for small amounts of money. Hilda took to this task with particular enthusiasm, rising early each morning to comb the shoreline before the elderly couple woke up.

The work gave her purpose, but more than that, it gave her a sense of belonging she had never known. For the first time in her life, she was part of a family unit where her contributions were valued, where her presence brought joy rather than resentment.

Giuseppe and Maria delighted in her company. She was naturally cheerful despite her traumatic experiences, and her eagerness to help touched their hearts. They had been alone for so long, their own children grown and moved away, that having a young person in their home brought back memories of happier, busier times.

They began to treat her like the daughter they had always wanted, fussing over her health, making sure she ate enough, worrying when she stayed out too long collecting driftwood or cleaning the beach. In return, Hilda gave them her complete devotion, her gratitude, and the kind of innocent affection that had been suppressed for so many years under her father's roof.

For three precious days, Hilda experienced what it meant to be part of a loving family. She woke each morning in a warm bed, ate meals prepared with care, spent her days in useful work, and fell asleep each night feeling safe and valued. It was a glimpse of the life she had always dreamed of but never dared to hope for.

On the fourth day, their peaceful existence was shattered.

Hilda was sitting on the beach, sorting through the morning's collection of debris, when she noticed several pairs of expensive shoes approaching across the sand. The sight was so incongruous—polished leather and designer styling in this humble, working-class area—that she looked up in confusion before the full implications hit her.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins as she recognized the type of men who wore such shoes, who moved with such purposeful coordination. These weren't tourists or local officials. These were the kind of men who worked for people like Mr. Truson, the kind who made problems disappear and asked no questions about the methods required.

She stood slowly, the garbage bag falling from her nerveless fingers as she faced the inevitable end of her brief freedom. There were four of them, all large and intimidating, all wearing the sort of clothes that spoke of serious money and serious business.

"Come with us quietly," one of them said, his voice carrying the sort of casual menace that suggested resistance would be both futile and painful.

Before Hilda could respond, she saw Giuseppe and Maria approaching from their hut, both carrying the machetes they used for cutting firewood and clearing brush. Despite their age, despite the obvious danger, they were prepared to fight for the young woman they had come to love as their own daughter.

The sight of these two elderly people, ready to risk their lives for her, broke Hilda's heart more completely than any of the cruelties she had endured. She couldn't let them be hurt because of her. She couldn't let their kindness be repaid with violence and suffering.

She shook her head at them, tears streaming down her face, trying to communicate without words that they should stay back, that they shouldn't try to help her. The love in their eyes, the desperate desire to protect her, was almost unbearable to witness.

Giuseppe and Maria stopped their advance but remained where they were, their faces etched with anguish as they watched the men surround their adopted daughter. They understood that they were helpless against such overwhelming force, but their hearts were breaking at their inability to save her.

Hilda walked quietly toward the waiting car, her head held high despite her tears. She had learned long ago that dignity was sometimes the only thing that couldn't be taken from you, and she was determined to maintain hers even in defeat.

Before getting into the vehicle, she turned back one last time to look at Giuseppe and Maria. Their faces were masks of grief and helplessness, but she managed to smile at them—a small, sad smile that carried all her gratitude for the brief happiness they had given her.

"Thank you," she whispered, knowing they couldn't hear her but hoping somehow that her love and appreciation would reach them anyway.

Then the car door closed, and she was trapped once again.

The interior of the car was luxurious but felt like a tomb. Hilda sat in the back seat, flanked by two large men whose presence made the spacious vehicle feel claustrophobic. She kept her head down, not wanting to meet their eyes, not wanting to see whatever emotions or lack thereof might be reflected there.

The man in the passenger seat was speaking into a phone, his voice professional and matter-of-fact as he reported their success.

"Don't worry, Mr. Truson. We are going there now with the woman you are looking for. She's safe and sound," he said, the words hitting Hilda like physical blows.

Safe and sound. The irony was almost laughable. She was anything but safe, and the soundness of her mind was questionable after everything she had endured. But she supposed that from Mr. Truson's perspective, she was merely a valuable asset that had been temporarily misplaced and was now being returned to its proper owner.

The four men in the car looked at her with expressions that made her skin crawl. There was something predatory in their gazes, something that spoke of men who enjoyed their work a little too much. She closed her eyes and tried to retreat into the safe spaces of her mind, the memories of Giuseppe and Maria's kindness, the brief taste of freedom and family that she had experienced.

Those three days would have to sustain her through whatever came next. They were proof that goodness existed in the world, that not all people were cruel or selfish, that love and kindness could flourish even in the humblest circumstances. Whatever happened to her now, she would carry that knowledge with her like a talisman against despair.

The car moved through the Italian countryside, carrying her away from the shoreline where she had found temporary peace and toward an uncertain future that filled her with dread. But she was still alive, still capable of hope, still carrying within her the strength that had gotten her this far.