Forbidden Freedom

Chapter 4

Three years ago

French Alps. Harmony Springs Renewal Youth Wellness Institute.

I rub the broken tip of a soft pencil between my fingers. My skin takes on a graphite hue, and I'm hypnotized, studying the pattern on the pad of my finger.

I toss the piece into the grass and close my eyes, listening to my surroundings. The soft lawn of the clinic's backyard tickles my bare legs in cotton shorts; birds sing beautifully, watching from the trees how the patients stroll; one loco girl argues with the nurse again, resisting medication; the fresh Alpine air tickles my nostrils; a familiar quiet click of a lighter...

I open my eyes and turn my head towards the sound. The red glow of a tipped of cherry-cigarillo burns brightly in the bushes to my right. I catch Ethan's scrutinizing gaze on me.

Raising an eyebrow, I nod in his direction. In response, the corners of his lips creep up, and he places his index finger on them.

I glance around to make sure there are no prying eyes. Everyone is occupied with that same girl who managed to overturn the tray with water glasses and pills.

I've already taken my dose, so nobody will bother me. I pick up a set of plain pencils of varying hardness and a sketchbook from the grass, slip my feet into fluffy slippers, which I never take off and which serve as the only reminder of home and my former life.

"I thought you didn't like walking during the day," I smile at Ethan as I push through the bushes to a small clearing around the tree. Its canopy surrounds us with soft semi-darkness, shielding us from the bright sunlight and the sharp gazes of the nurses.

"After our conversation a couple of days ago, I must admit, I couldn't resist the pleasure of seeing you up close in the sunlight," he chuckles, taking a deep drag and sinking onto the grass, leaning his back against the tree trunk.

I settle down next to him and set aside my drawing supplies, grimacing with tension. Memories from that evening float back from my drug-clouded mind.

"A couple of days ago?" I massage my temples with my fingers. "I thought it was yesterday."

Ethan tilts his head and scrutinizes my face. A chill runs down my spine, but I ignore the sensation.

"Are you really taking the pills they're stuffing us with here?" Blake smirks. "I thought you were much smarter."

I grit my teeth and turn away, pretending to have seen something interesting in the bushes across from us.

"I thought you were much smarter."

"I thought you were much smarter than your mother," echoes my father's words in my head. A scene from the past appears before my eyes: Dad sitting on the floor in the bathroom, covering his face with his hands. Steam rises from his temples, his white shirt's sleeves soaked with water from, and tears frozen in his eyes because five minutes ago, he saved me from an overdose.

I expect to feel a pain in my chest, as if a giant hole has been drilled into me, but... nothing. The pills mute any emotions, allowing me to experience something similar only from a distance, as if I've barely touched it with my fingertips.

"Hide them," Ethan hands me the almost finished cigarillo.

I look into his piercing blue eyes, take the cigarette between my fingers, and take a generous drag.

"They're checking," I exhale a cloud of cherry-tobacco smoke from my lungs.

"Be smarter," Blake's pupils ignite with fire. "Only the cunning survives in this world. Being a good girl won't get you far."

"Maybe I've been bad for too long and now I want to try to be good?" I ask more to myself than to him.

Ethan laces his fingers behind his head and leisurely closes his eyes.

"What's the point in that?"

"To atone for past mistakes?" I shrug.

I truly would like to redeem myself. Until this moment, I thought I was managing that task. But being a goody-two-shoes, living by a schedule, drinking, and eating whatever they tell you, and not standing up to the nurses—can that really help erase the scars of the past? What if I'm not doing enough? What should I do then? Go to church and pray to God for my sinful soul?

"You're thinking too loudly," Ethan grimaces as if in pain.

"I could leave," I scoff.

"Silly, silly sheep," Blake laughs, opening his eyes. "Stop taking the pills, and you'll understand what I'm talking about. They're fooling us, poisoning us, trying to give the illusion that we can think rationally while medicated. As if we're normal. As if we're a flock of sheep being trained before being set free, and we'll always obey someone. Nurses, the government, bosses at work, teachers... Don't be a sheep, Christine. I know you're not like that."

I bite my lip, turning away from his intense gaze. Not being part of the flock... Not being an average sheep... I've never thought about it before or looked at the situation from that angle. I always thought I was special. That my life was special.

I hung out with the nepo babies, Dad bought me designer clothes, expensive cars, and apartments. I didn't consider myself an average girl. But in reality... Am I really just an ordinary, gray mouse in fancy gold trim?

I always followed someone's lead. Behaved, adapting to someone who had power over me. Mostly to Mom, who instilled in me that Dad was bad, that I should behave like a princess, throw tantrums, and manipulate people to get what I want.

Damn it, was I always a puppet?

"You..."

"I think too loudly," I interrupt Ethan and stub out the cigarillo against the tree root. "I've already figured that out."

"Actually, I wanted to ask if you draw," Blake nods towards my sketchbook.

A nervous laugh escapes me. Here I am, foolish.

"Yes, I draw. I studied at an art school and earned a bachelor's degree in architecture."

Ethan's eyes light up with genuine interest. The strange combination of his almost immobile facial expressions sends shivers down my spine.

"So, you want to be an architect?"

I nod, opening the album and examining pencil sketches of our asylum building.

"Yes. I want to apply for a master's program in England," I smile, recalling my long-standing dream. "To study art history. I'm very interested in it. Since childhood, I've been flipping through books and magazines about painting, sculpture, and architecture."

Ethan traces a finger over one of my drawings, smudging the smooth pencil line and leaving a gray stain behind. I lift my head to protest, but I freeze.

"You're an interesting girl, Christine," he licks his dry lips with his tongue and places his cool, tobacco-scented hand on my cheek.

I swallow nervously, unable to tear my gaze away from his eyes. Nervous impulses concentrate where we touch, my legs grow numb, my breath hitches, and my mouth feels like the Sahara. I clench my fist, digging my nails into the tender skin of my palm until it hurts. It brings me back to my senses and breaks the hypnotic fog emanating from Ethan.

I turn my head, breaking our physical contact.

"I have to go," I mutter to myself and rise from the grass. I push through the prickly bushes toward the backyard of the clinic, clutching my album, and joyfully notice that everyone is gathering for lunch.

I almost sprint to the door, suppressing the urge to look back at Ethan.