I make a living as a truck driver here in England,
a job I fell into after being medically discharged from the Royal Logistics Court
due to severe back problems.
It's frustrating that I ended up in a similar line of work in the civilian world,
relying on strong pain medication to endure the long hours of driving.
But let's focus on the incident that unfolded one day
while I was driving along a desolate road outside Rotherham in South Yorkshire.
I spotted a young woman on the side of the road, bags in hand, hitchhiking.
Normally, I wouldn't stop for hitchhikers, knowing the potential risks,
but something about her made me slow down and eventually pull over.
Unlike the scruffy hippies or dodgy sign holders I usually encounter,
she seemed different—desperate, with an air of innocence.
I opened the cab door and offered her a ride.
When I asked where she wanted to go, she simply replied,
"Anywhere, just drive."
Her response made me a bit uneasy.
I didn't want a stranger sitting in my truck indefinitely.
I'm not the most sociable person, and awkward silences can be bothersome,
especially with someone half my age.
Plus, I couldn't afford to take care of her, paying for food and accommodation.
As we drove in silence,
I asked her why she was on the road, trying to gauge the situation
and make it clear that I couldn't be responsible for her indefinitely.
Just as a police car passed by, I barely registered it, focusing on maintaining the speed limit.
But moments later, I heard sirens behind me.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized it was the same police car,
now following me, seemingly with the intention of pulling me over.
To my surprise, the girl beside me panicked
and pleaded with me not to stop.
I tried to calm her down, explaining that I had no choice but to pull over
and that I couldn't engage in a high-speed police chase because of a stranger in my truck.
She burst into tears, but she didn't try to run away,
which reassured me that she wasn't a violent criminal or a fugitive.
The police officer approached my truck, calling her by name, Natalie.
I was taken aback.
How did the police know her?
The officer motioned for me to roll down my window,
and though I hesitated, I complied.
I strained to listen to their conversation, but the glass distorted their words.
Eager to hear, I continued lowering the window.
It was too late to catch what the officer said over the radio,
but what I heard next left me in a state of morbid fascination.
The girl screamed, "They're not my parents!
Why won't any of you understand?
Every time you drag me back there, they do worse and worse things to me, calling it punishment.
They say it's for my own good, but it's not!"
In a desperate plea, she pulled up her sleeve,
revealing a series of horrifying burns and scars.
I recoiled in horror at the sight.
She begged me not to let them take her back, offering to do anything.
I was paralyzed with uncertainty.
Should I drive off with her, pursued by the police?
Was she mentally ill, delusional,
or a victim of abuse?
Police backup arrived, and they forcibly removed the girl from my truck,
her screams echoing as they tossed her into the back of a police car.
I tried to inquire about the situation,
but the officers dismissed me,
stating it was none of my business and admonishing me for picking up young women from the roadside.
To this day,
I still wonder what happened to that girl
and if she really had received
the help that she needed.
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