“Freedom is the freedom to say two plus two makes four”
-George Orwell

If born a woman, the first cries of Freedom would have joined the collective disaster of some unreliable alley. She would’ve been born in the morning of the sixth day in an early month of the year in which the music and alcohol involved the masses in a disastrous party.

The covert activities in which men and women of wealth and scarcity would agree in the neighborhood where the neonate would be abandoned in a cardboard box would be both the first examples of the hard life to come and the reminiscence of the childhood she wouldn’t enjoy.

During those early days of life, in the gray alley in which her denatured parents would’ve left forgotten about her, Freedom would not see the sun for even him, as haughty as praised, would deny her. He would pass the task of showing her a lesson of humbleness to the cold wind and the heavy rain.

However, soon she would know decency or at least the dissimulation of it. An old woman, much given to prayer beads and processions would approach on that first sunny Sunday morning and find the muffled cries of the girl in the very corner where she was miserably abandoned at counted minutes of being born.

She would have food and somewhere to sleep and she would be trained to be the perfect lady in a catholic environment. The good look of that little baby would go as far as the vision of this woman that bear no children and kept expecting one. But the plans she had for Freedom weren’t the ones that the busy soul of hers was expecting. That Good Samaritan, impoverished and ill, would be carried away by the cruel kiss of death, leaving only an illiterate girl wandering the world.

Once again, Freedom would know the infamous colors of the low alleyways where she was probably born. She would walk like a ghost and people, contaminated by the sleaze and corruption of the time, would not even pay attention to her soul to turn around and mark her as “another needy one”. Few would know who owns the corrosive and immersive hooks with the color and depth of a nonexistent virgin oceans accompanied by an indelible chocolaty skin protruding Adam’s sin that replace her red lips.

The human form of Freedom would be distinguished among the masses for the simple fact of having marks on her shoulders, prove of all of the weight carried on them. Those shoulders marked with an infernal kiss and feet open to the surface that mankind boasts about would make her a walking piece of meat, unashamedly flogged and tortured.

Among her indolent ankles would be the reason for her perpetual stay in a world that had ridiculed her since she was inside an inhuman womb, invisible chains moaning her name among the otherworldly shrieks through the oxide settlements between them. Probably due to the fact that Freedom will never fulfill her cycle to the rest of mankind, partly because every minute human beings need her more than the minute before or because perhaps we will never deserve her.

The day she understands that she would always be lost in this incomprehensible limbo of mankind, Freedom would then decide to sell her soul and keep her love to Random in a pocket, taking it out in the rainy day in which finally she saw herself in the maternal arms of Eternity.

But submission would be, at the moment, the best option. Little did she know that the plans made by her new owner would be very different and cruel. The Being would be the one who cured her wounds with no salt or alcohol. He would take the trouble to show her that smile that the sun refused to give her on the fateful day of her birth. He would make sure that Freedom trusted him to the point of making her cling to him for dear life. He would wait to have her under his total and irrevocable domain and then exploit in her face the maximum pain that can happen to a womans heart, betrayal.

Then, the account of her stay in the world would go through her mind in minutes, unchangeable minutes in which she would feel the utter collapse, the lost of safety.

In a hospital room, wither than a piece of paper and retained in this world through the arts of what we now call modern medicine, Freedom at last would feel rest and peace of mind. This two would abandon The Being to fill her.

Then, mankind, pushed by their beings, would impose statues to celebrate in her honor. Freedom would be part of the dictionaries now as the complete opposite of the life she had to live. Soon every war would be attributed to her. Random would’ve married another woman, less pained but as well, less beautiful. Meanwhile, Freedom, lonely and expressionless would explore the pleasures of unconsciousness. Random would’ve married another woman, a less painful one.

If Freedom were to be a female, she would still be painlessly and dreamy, wandering in a world of nonexistent ideas. If Freedom was born a woman, we would pay, carrying the generations she missed. She would still be in that bed, unable to show the world the benevolence of her embrace.