Amy

Freedom

Clara became my anchor, my lifeline, my connection to the girl I used to be. She reminded me of my name, of my past, of my dreams. She helped me to remember the scratching sound, the whisper of my name, and the faint glimmer of hope that still flickered within me.

One night, as Clara and I sat huddled together in the shadows of my room, she told me a story about a bird trapped in a cage. The bird, she said, had forgotten how to fly, had forgotten the taste of freedom. But one day, a storm came, shattering the cage and giving the bird a chance to escape.

The story resonated with me, striking a chord deep within my soul. I was the bird, trapped in a cage of my own making, my wings clipped by addiction and despair. But the storm was coming, a storm of change, a storm of rebellion.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a flicker of clarity, a moment of lucidity that cut through the haze of my addiction. I saw myself, not as a victim, not as a ghost, but as a survivor, a fighter, a warrior.

I looked at the doll with broken eyes and hope, and I saw not just my own brokenness but my own resilience. I saw the girl I used to be, the girl who dreamed of stars and meadows and laughter. I saw the girl who still had a chance to fly.

I turned to Clara, my eyes filled with a newfound determination. "I want to escape," I whispered, my voice hoarse but firm. "I want to be free."

Clara smiled a smile that radiated warmth and hope. "Then we will escape," she said, her voice filled with conviction. "We will fly together."

And in that moment, I knew that I wasn’t alone, that I had an ally, that I had a chance. The scratching sound, the whisper of my name, seemed to grow louder, clearer, like a call to action, a summons to freedom