She never could define freedom.
Her thoughts were chained and, at least in this world, she wasn’t allowed to think too deeply. The cracked skin on her hands revealed the truth of her age that the world told her to hide. Fine lines caked in makeup, grey strands peeking through dark coils and poorly-concealed shadows attempted to paint a different picture.
One where the essence of her smile could be caught if you looked hard enough. It’s a shame no one ever did.
And now her body lies in the wheat fields. She’s not dead yet, but she may as well be.
Fight or flight? For once, this is her choice to make. Her choice to make and her consequences to reap. Like so many times before, she chooses not to fight.
Anxious walks home had plagued her childhood, as she avoided lustful gazes from men peering through layers of skin and innocence that wasn’t theirs.
Growing up until she grew out of her father’s hands and into her husband’s.
Hands which once were kind, now gripped her with a tightness she had never expected, bound to something she could never escape.
Regular media perpetuation of what a perfect woman should be shaped her beliefs; slowly, but firmly, molded her morals, yet could never change her to the extent that she truly forgot what it was like to be free.
What it was like to watch a sunset, and not worry that you would spend the rest of your life chasing another, unsure if you would feel the sun’s warmth on your skin again.
Somehow, through all of this, she had built a family; to a certain extent, she could make her own decisions and no one had ever physically restricted her from doing what she wanted.
So she was free. Right?
She didn’t need to define freedom if she knew she possessed it.
No one had fought for her right to be an equal to her husband, but it wasn’t necessary.
No one had fought for kindness, and yet it showed through the cracks of busy, everyday life; The softening of a fellow woman’s eyes as she recognised the exasperated struggle of a mother trying to calm her children was enough to know she wasn’t completely alone.
Even the silent judgment of others, which could never touch her, was enough to know she had the freedom to live her life as she chose.
To a certain extent.
But right now, she doesn’t know if she is free.
Her back is cold as she lets the damp grass soak her clothes and she wonders how a world in which she thought she was free, could ever allow her to end up here.
Alone, after exercising a right she assumed was guaranteed.
Unfortunately, freedom is never guaranteed. She learns this lesson late in life, too late for it to save her.
Despite this, she feels calm.
She knows she won’t go to waste.
Her bones, ground to ash and dust, will make an excellent broth for her children to eat. Her thick skin, adorned with stretches, scars, and bruises will make a perfect coat for her husband’s hypothermic tendencies.
And her heart, raw and bleeding, will make a sweet fertiliser for the restless ants that crawl beneath her.
Deep in the reeds of the wheat fields, Vivian lays with her eyes closed, and her thoughts start to wander paths she had never considered taking. After a lifetime of tolerating, accepting, and serving, rest is the only thing she can think of needing.
Not a doctor. Not a husband. Not a God.
This must be what true freedom feels like, she thinks to herself.
A gentle breeze peppers soft kisses across her cheeks and in this moment, there is absolutely nothing influencing Vivian. There is no societal expectation warping her sense of self worth, no nagging child repressing her into nothing but a mother, and there is no one who can take away her liberty.
Throughout life, a sense of hollow emptiness had haunted her persistently, but strangely, her arms have never felt lighter, and when she lifts her hand to stretch her fingers, she can feel the fire in her bones ignite.
For the first time, she feels alive.
So, why is she dying?
Does true freedom only come with death?
Her confliction gnaws at her relentlessly, but she doesn’t fight it.
She tells herself this is how all women feel as they die, because this is the only moment that is truly theirs.
Slowly, after the light is gone and her final hope of this being an odd, but not unpleasant dream, has shrivelled into a heavy feeling of disappointment, the thumping within her chest starts to feel less like a heartbeat and more like a timer running out.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
There’s no sense of impending doom – only relief that she can start over again. As her body decomposes, the shackles of her mind snap free.
It’s a shame that it has come so late – but she is free now.
That’s all that counts.
Her thoughts run wild and she knows exactly what freedom is.
It’s everything all at once and it’s most important when one has nothing. It’s the choice to devote your life to another, or commit to yourself.
The ability to live without the guilt of leaving others behind.
She knows now that freedom was never something that could be achieved. It was always hers, embedded in human nature.
It’s found in the burst of adrenaline that consumes as you sprint your hardest, finding yourself uncapturable. It’s ingrained in the spark of mischief as defiance forces you to realise that you cannot be controlled. Most importantly, it’s an assurance that your thoughts, feelings, and speech are yours. They cannot be suppressed, they cannot be taken.
Vivian’s body rots in the wheat fields. There’s no sense of repulsion, this is natural.
She knows she wants to be free, now she can be. Finally, this is freedom.