Forbidden Freedom

Chapter 2

Three years ago

French Alps. Harmony Springs Renewal Youth Wellness Institute.

I flick the lighter once again. Nothing but sparks.

"Damn it!" I angrily throw the useless piece of plastic into the bushes of tall grass.

I nervously crush the cigarette filter between my teeth and wrap my arms around myself. Despite the warm summer evening, I'm shaking. My cotton pants are completely soaked from dew around my ass.

For a month now, I've been stuck in this ridiculous clinic (though I'd call it a loony bin, but you can't call such a pretentious place where all wealthy parents dump their embarrassing children). My father forced me here. I understand it's because of my addiction to drugs, but the thought that I've been replaced in favor of a new stepmother...

Ugh. It sounds disgusting even to think about it.

I laugh hysterically, remembering the screenshot Liam sent me when we were still in touch. Sophie in a wedding dress, arm in arm with my father on the steps of the City Hall. Back then, in anger, I smashed my smartphone, and since then, I've had no contact with the outside world except for the shared landline in the clinic.

Dad tries to reach out to me occasionally. But I tell him I'm not ready to communicate with him yet.

My therapist, a forty-year-old bleached blonde with a strong French accent, supports me in every way and helps me deal with my emotional pain. That's what she says. That my soul hurts because I can't forgive two people close to me, so I behave like a lost wanderer of these worlds.

Damn blissful esoteric. I'm sure she has Tarot cards in her desk drawer, and there's an Astrology Birth Chart file in every patient's record.

But if being honest, I don't feel anything. Nothing but a strong desire to inhale nicotine.

It's as if the universe heard me. Because a lit match appears before the tip of my cigarette. Without hesitation, I take a drag, continuing to gaze at the alpine mountain river ahead.

"Is your ass not freezing?" a male voice taunts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice someone sitting next to me. I clamp the cigarette between my fingers and exhale smoke, turning towards the stranger.

The first thing that catches my eye is the black curls hanging over his forehead like icicles and the piercing blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, a dimple on the chin. Moving down, I notice the thin body clad in dark gray T-shirt with holes, bearing the emblem of Duran Duran, worn-out track pants, and bare feet.

"Is it any of your business about my ass?" I tilt my head and lick my lips.

"Well, your ass is beautiful. It'd be a shame if it got necrotic," he chuckles and pulls cherry cigarillos out of his pants pocket.

Not a bad choice. And quite expensive. I squint, surveying the stranger once again. I wonder who he is and where he's from. Judging by the accent, he's British. But my head is so foggy from the drugs they pump us with here that I doubt every thought I have.

"Well, I bet it get necrotic from the constant injections by these scums," I grimace, recalling the nurses, and take a drag of the gray smoke.

"Are you nut too?" he laughs and pulls down the waistband of his pants, exposing the upper part of his buttocks. For someone, it would be the height of rudeness, but in this place, you don't care how you look from the outside.

You just exist separately from the whole world.

"You've got more bruises from the injections than me," I smile back, noticing the marks. I have far fewer.

I catch myself thinking that during all this time in the loony bin, I've never smiled at anyone. It turns out I haven't forgotten how to do it.

"Are you new here? I've never seen you on the walks," I inquire curiously.

The stranger falls back onto the ground and rests his palms under his head, staring up at the starry ceiling above our heads. The stars shine brighter here than in my hometown. Although maybe it's just my perception? My last days there passed as if in a black fog.

Flashbacks of my father dousing me with icy water from the shower to sober me up after another party, then declaring that he no longer wants to watch me flush my life down the toilet and sending me to rehab in another country, flash before my eyes as vividly as if it were yesterday.

I shake my head, trying to forget the horror of those days.

"I've been here for almost a year," he brushes the ash off his cigarillo and looks pensively in my direction. "I just don't like being around people."

I smirk.

"Then why did you come here?"

"Saw you struggling with the lighter," he shrugs. "Decided to help."

"Very noble of you," I make a sarcastic remark, stretching my stiff back. "So, you're from the men's dorm?" I gesture towards the building behind, the corner of which is visible through the thick, tall bushes.

"Yep," he nods, pointing to the only window visible from here. "My room."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise and turn to the stranger.

"Are you stalking me?"

He bursts into laughter. But his laughter doesn't invite merriment at all. It's cold and empty. As if there were no emotions behind it.

"To be honest, I've been watching you since you got here," he squints and takes a drag. The bright red tip of the cigarillo catches my attention. "You're quite an interesting character. You don't talk to anyone, you sneak out here every evening from the dorm, hunch over, and try to look inconspicuous, although that's clearly not in your nature. And it's like you're constantly angry. Not at anyone, but at yourself."

I nervously swallow and turn away towards the river. Great, now I have a personal stalker. And, apparently, a very observant one. Because not even my brainwasher could dig that deep.

"Care to share your story?" he persists.

I close my eyes and take a calming breath. I put on a mask of relaxation. They say you shouldn't show your fear and confusion to predators. And my interlocutor invokes exactly those thoughts. I curve my lips into a friendly smile and turn to him.

"Maybe you could tell me your name first?"

"Ethan Blake," he smiles, bites down on the cigarillo filter, and extends his hand.