That place was a constant reminder of everything that had happened, and he could no longer bear to be surrounded by the walls that had witnessed his degradation, his violation, and his slow dissolution into something less than human.
He could not stay.
He barely tended to the infant either. It was still revolting to touch, and all he could do was wrap it in some clothing. Dirt, grime, and all.
He could not love it.
But he could not kill it either.
He sold nearly all his belongings, kept only what he could carry and set out on foot towards the distant villages, the nameless infant hanging in a draw bag at his side while he held his other belongings to his chest and back.
Perhaps if he ran far enough, he could outpace Paloma's shadow.
There were weeks of trekking, hopping carriages, and constantly pleading for the incessant cries of the child.
