In the Shadows of Freedom

by C

  Her body experimented with these attractions of sight and touch. Then she began to explore within herself. The despondency and persistent sorrow underlying all her experiences and thoughts no longer remained. Or maybe they still existed, but this new, more powerful force overshadowed her other feelings. Now came a rush of excitement, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, which pounded inside her like the bass blasting at Little Pete’s. She no longer wanted to sit on the couch, for its black leather now possessed so vast a depth that she feared placing her hand in the wrong spot, lest she fall into one of its imposing black holes. Only the man sitting next to her kept her still, despite the overwhelming stimuli of shades, pitches, and scents.

  Amanda looked at him through this kaleidoscope, and it was as though she were seeing him for the first time. He had a power about him, unnamable yet definite in its forceful existence. He surely looked right through her, into the very depths of her being. She might have grown hesitant at this intimidating dynamism that he effused, but she was too awestruck by his appearance. Everything about him seemed more attractive, more appealing, more enticing. She took a deep breath and found his scent almost suffocating in its fragrant aroma. Had he worn more cologne tonight than usual? It seemed to waft from him like bacon sizzling in a hot frying pan.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” His voice sang to her like a snake charmer playing his flute-like instrument.

  She couldn’t ignore its hypnotizing melody. He stretched out his hand, placing it on top of hers, and she gasped at the feel. It was as though he had shocked her, but instead of it being a sensation that caused her to flinch away, it pulled her toward him like two magnets drawn irresistibly to one another. He didn’t move his hand, and the electricity sparked within her, releasing an exhilarating sensation up her arm: a glorious tingling, numbing her arm with a sweet, sensual euphoria.

  “So this is what it’s like to be happy …” She couldn’t pull her gaze from his bright eyes.

  “Happiness is sharing an experience like this with you.” He shifted next to her so their bodies touched, the energy now sparking down her torso.

  She closed her eyes, overcome by the power of the feel. Even with her eyes closed, images flashed. The darkness was gone; instead, beams of brilliant red light dashed before her like shooting stars. She would have continued to watch them, but the pull of Ethan’s handsome face was more alluring.

  For the rest of the evening, they played an odd game: he would ask her a question, sometimes of little relevance and other times more demanding of the privacy she had constructed around her. At times, she didn’t reply, being too engrossed in observing objects in the room, such as the Oriental rug below them, which seemed to hover in midair, supporting them like a magic carpet.

  Sometimes she did answer his questions, and when she did, the memories replayed in her mind with such vividness that she was convinced they were happening again. She returned to that Christmas afternoon when she sat despondent in her bedroom, snow falling outside the window. She reopened the paint set from her father and held the paintbrush again for the first time. Following another one of Ethan’s questions, she walked again on Valor’s campus for freshman orientation and registered for classes.

  The colors swirled around her, a panorama of shades and pigments that reminded her of her paints, and time stood still. She looked at the clock at one point, which proved futile: the digital numbers rapidly changed, not pausing long enough for her to read the time.

  “If you’re wondering, it’s Friday morning.” Ethan must have followed her gaze.

  Though her mind raced, her body yearned for rest. “I better get to class.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” She started to pull on her coat, but then took it right off. She was sweltering.

  He drove her back to her apartment so she could retrieve her art supplies. He drove; she reveled in their blissful night. She snuck a look at him, his striking features highlighted by the morning sunlight. They’d had a misunderstanding, but now they were back on track. No, even better than that: last night had been the pinnacle of success. They interacted better than ever, sharing this marvelous, indescribable experience. Maybe, in light of that, it was time to make things official. She longed for the commitment and security of seeing one another exclusively, in a relationship. She didn’t want to be just the girl Ethan hung out with; she wanted to be his girlfriend.

  He parked the car outside the apartment building. The waning effects of the pill played upon his face, providing him an angelic hue in the golden light of day. “You shared so much with me last night. Thank you for trusting me.”

  “I’ll share more. The more time I spend with you, the more I’ll trust you.”

  Ethan gave her a final kiss, one concluding spark of electricity. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  It took all her determination to open the car door. She stepped onto the sidewalk, the sunlight attacking her. Squinting from the painful brightness, she fumbled for the door to the building. Somehow she managed to reach the elevator and make her way into the apartment.

  She had taken the plunge. And now she swam freely in a rapturous river taking her speedily toward her goal: Ethan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Do as You Will

  Amanda was weightless and free. The shackles of a haunting past, social reclusion, inward isolation—they were gone. This moment alone mattered … here and now and everything that filled it, both within and without. This moment was perfect. This is what utopia feels like. How had she never known it before? How did she ever think it wrong, or undesirable? This was desire.

  The past was gone. Time was gone. Days passed, weeks passed. But seconds, minutes, hours meant nothing and held no power over her. Maybe they always meant nothing. Her new way of life didn’t need the regular rotation of day and night. Weekend or weeknight—what importance did they hold in this fluid existence of ecstasy? When exhaustion rose within her, she fell into an effortless sleep; when her body surged with adrenaline, she replied with a flurry of action and inspiration.

  The agenda belonged to her, and she filled it with Ethan.

  He held the key to this new level of reality. He took her by the hand and taught her the ways of this new world, this wilderness of euphoria. Embracing it meant embracing him. The pill served as their binder, and its adventures blended them together, delving into the landscape of pleasure. How much she owed him for the release and liberation she now recognized …

  Thanks to the pill, Amanda enjoyed a level of immediate understanding with Ethan and the elite society she’d now permeated. The pill brought her onto his team, and Little Pete’s was their shared playing field. The game had no rules; they were each the champion. The novelty of their dialogue … the extraordinary insights … the audacious dreams that seemed just beyond her fingertips—all while driving with Ethan, crisscrossing the Manhattan grid. Her defenses had evaporated. Together, they were building a cosmos.

  Her eyes opened to a ceiling covered in photographs. She stretched out her hand, and her fingers brushed an empty bag of chips, scattering crumbs onto the carpet. Relaxation and elation stirred within her. Warm embers of fire that had ceased producing flames still burned hot. She stoked them within, smiling to herself.

  Light broke through the plastic blinds. Car engines roared and horns blared from the street below. She stretched, potential flooding through her arms and limbs. No coat hung on the hook on the back of the door—Nikki was out.

  “Ethan?”

  Intriguing silence.

  The moment was a blank slate waiting to be written by her hand. What future would she choose for this corner of reality she inhabited?

  Her shirt was drenched with sweat, and her curls were matted against the sticky skin of her forehead. She welcomed the cold water of the shower pouring over her. And then came another craving to quench: hunger. Three bowls of cereal in, the silence reverberated within her, a summons to action. She despised the safe and predictable; ra
ther, boldness and audaciousness beckoned her now. Her eyes roved about the room until they fell upon her book bag. She checked her phone, pinpointing the day and time. She had Michael’s class in an hour.

  She put the sunglasses on her face, but not for hiding. With the tight green dress borrowed from Nikki’s closet and tall black boots, it was her city and she belonged here. Amanda could be whatever she wanted, and this was who she was right now. She liked this person; it had been so long since she had loved herself.

  People drifted about the front steps of the Masters Academy … so many potential paths to pursue, but Leila walked straight ahead and Amanda jumped at the opportunity.

  “Hey! Leila!” Amanda ran ahead and reached Leila, who turned around, wariness traced across her face.

  “Are you coming to class today? You skipped again last time.” Leila peered at Amanda from behind her thick, plastic glasses.

  “What class is that?”

  “It’s Monday, you freak. We have Michael’s class now—in case you’ve totally lost your mind. What have you been doing?”

  “Enjoying myself. It’s my life to do with as I please.”

  Amanda sauntered into the classroom and took a seat in front of her easel. Michael, upon entering the room, looked at her and raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “Amanda?”

  “Hey there, Mike. Congrats! You remembered my name.” She smiled—this was fun.

  He frowned. “You were absent last time when I spoke with each student about his or her semester project. Please come up to see me after class.”

  She smirked: she couldn’t wait to show him her sketch. She had visited the Met several times during the past few weeks. Empowered by the pill, she’d spent hours rendering tone to her sketch, building up gradation. Form drawing demanded patience, but the pill helped make the whole enterprise entertaining. Her sketch was now an exact replication of the painting hanging in the Met. Just wait until he saw it. … He would know she belonged here, that she was destined for greatness.

  At the end of class, she bustled up to the podium at the front of the classroom, her sketchbook in hand.

  Michael peered at her. “Do you have your sketch?”

  “Sure do.”

  She opened the sketchbook and flipped to the key page. Before them appeared Portrait of a Mother. The mother wore her royal dress, complete with intricate designs and detailing. She cradled the baby in her arms. The child gazed at his mother with devotion; she in turn stared at the viewer with her penetrating gaze. It was perfect.

  Michael took the book into his hands and studied the image for a moment. He shook his head. “It’s not right.”

  She gaped at him, and irritation boiled through her veins. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s a mother. But it’s not the mother in the painting. You’ve looked at her, but not into her. You have to return to the Met and fix it.”

  Hands trembling, she snatched her sketchbook back. “I don’t have to do anything.” How dare he … how dare he tear down her work again! She turned on her heel and marched to the doorway. “I’ll do the sketch if I feel like it!” Her scream reverberated through the hallway.

  She left to a stunned silence; her boots made the only audible noise, clicking on the tiled floor, announcing her departure.

  Amanda fled the building, her heart hammering and stomach twisted in knots. Confusion and dilemma greeted her outside. The sun shone too bright—and why the hell was it so hot? Like the skin of a snake, the enhancing layers of pleasure and power began to peel off her fragile frame. Yes, she was vulnerable … she was so weak. Now each footstep down the city block brought her one step closer to a sober awakening.

  She played her role, spoke her lines. But this wasn’t a stage, and no audience applauded. Michael had been silent. What kind of show was this? This was reckless, emotional abandon. But … no, that’s not right. Why not express her frustration, her disappointment at his misunderstanding of who she was as an artist? She was free to say, to act, as she desired.

  Things were wavering … fading within her … and in the vacancy came the old haunts.

  How long had it been since she last took a pill? Her head pounded in time with the nearby jackhammer drilling into the pavement; thoughts and ideas spun in her mind with no compass or anchor to direct or ground them. Where was she going again? What was she doing? Too many people pressed all around her … crowding her on every side, waiting on the curb to go somewhere, anywhere—but where?

  Panic came toward her like a tidal wave, and her legs shook. She had to keep calm and pull herself together. Ethan … where was Ethan? Maybe he was already trying to reach her, to save her from this downward spiral. She walked clumsily, digging through her bag trying to find her phone. She would have put it here—maybe. Her fingers closed upon the device, and she breathed a sigh of relief: an alert appeared that she had a voicemail message. Soon she would hear the soothing voice that was now the soundtrack of her life.

  Instead, another familiar voice spoke in the recorded message, a voice that she had shut into a far corner of her mind because, in the haze of the past few weeks, she had forgotten about him: her dad.

  “Hi, honey! Sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably extremely busy with all of your classes. I just … I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. You already know that, but I can’t help saying it again. To have my daughter at the only graduate art academy in the nation—it’s just a real honor. Anyway, I know you probably have a ton of projects, and that’s why I haven’t heard from you in a while. But when you have a chance, just give your old man a quick call, okay? Can’t wait to hear all about your classes. I’m sure you’re doing great. Well, anyway … Chiara says hi. We’ll talk soon. Love you!”

  The last car sped by, and the mass of pedestrians began to move, but she retreated in an icy haze, seeking temporary refuge under the cool shade cast by the scaffolding overhead, where construction workers labored. A bedraggled man, eyes closed and graying beard covering his filthy plaid shirt, sat defeated on the sidewalk nearby, an open hat beside him with a few coins inside. A cardboard sign lay on his lap, reading: Homeless. What would her sign say—Lost … Confused … Failure …?

  She rubbed her throbbing temples. The pill’s influence was waning, or maybe it was just the jarring effect of her father’s unexpected message.

  Everything had been so simple, so relaxing. She had been happy … she could still be happy. But her dad. What would she tell him? She didn’t have to tell him anything. It was her life, not his. She was her own person.

  Who was this person?

  Her self-definition began and ended with her art. Or at least it had up until now. She’d had goals and dreams long sought after: go to the Graduate Academy of Fine Art and begin her career as an artist. Were those no longer true and real? How could she have forgotten?

  Her father was so proud that she had broken the generational cycle of manual labor and service work. She was the first one in their family to ever be accepted to an Academy, let alone a Graduate Academy. She had been the trailblazer for their family, reaching a new stratosphere of society they had never yet experienced. It wasn’t just her dreams in jeopardy; it was her family’s hopes and aspirations too.

  “I’ll do the sketch if I feel like it!” Her words, flung in irritation and resentment toward Michael, ricocheted back to sting her. Her dad seemed so certain she was “doing great” in her classes, but she didn’t feel at all confident that was the case anymore. She had started this assignment, had (unwillingly) entered into its mystery. She had to see this through to the end. If she willed it, she could do it.

  It was a concrete enough resolution to keep her from drowning in the tsunami waves of the pill’s flickering presence. She didn’t know where she would be in five hours or five days, but for now she walked toward the Met.

  Amanda reached the outside staircase leading up to the Met’s entrance, but got no farther than the first step. Surprise and then relief flooded he
r: a red Anaconda sat parked on the side of the road. She hurried to the passenger door, her heart fluttering in anticipation, and got into the vehicle. Ethan pulled into the avenue, tires squealing.

  “Am I happy to see you!” She reclined against the headrest and sighed. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Process of elimination. I got a little concerned when I didn’t find you at your apartment. I was supposed to meet you there.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes, but apparently I’m the only one who remembers that.” He chuckled. “No worries though: I like a challenge here and there—a little hard to get.”

  “I’m glad you found me. Paranoia almost got to me first.”

  “That can be an aftereffect of the pill, if you aren’t careful. But what I would like to know is why—out of all the places I looked—this is where I found you.”

  She groaned. “Michael said I have to go back to the Met and work on my sketch.”

  He took advantage of a red light and turned his puzzled face in her direction. “I thought you told me you finished that.”

  “Apparently I haven’t.”

  “Is all that time and effort really worth it? The grade you receive in that class is arbitrary. It has little bearing on who you are as an artist. Michael won’t determine your career; that power lies in your hands. Maybe your immense talent is better spent elsewhere?”

  “I have a rule when it comes to my art: finish what you start. I don’t like leaving something undone and incomplete. Plus, doing well at the Masters Academy … you know, it’s really important for me …. for my family. My family isn’t like yours. My dad works construction. My sister is probably going to spend her life taking care of horses. This is my only way into a high-powered career.”

  “It’s not the only way.”