Freedom to Live

© 2011 Helen Ying

“As I was saying before, my servants are perfectly behaved, their timing, language and
uniforms impeccable. My strict sense of discipline is legendary in this house and beyond.”
Mr Tudor chuckles to himself as he pauses to take a sip of wine, his eyes surveying the
assembled waiters lined up against the walls of the dining room. “This discipline extends to
everyone – even my children.”

Henry scowls at his plate as his father’s guests all turn to stare at him. He composes himself
with an effort, calmly puts down his knife and fork and rises to his feet.

“Father, may I please be excused from the table?” His words are barely audible. His father
tilts his head slightly to one side. Taking this as permission to leave the room, Henry
pushes his chair under the table, then walks stiffly away.

As he makes his way towards his room, he bumps into another of the family’s many
servants. He grunts with annoyance and pushes past the boy roughly. First embarrassment
in front of so many guests, then this! He sweeps away without another word.

The slave stares wistfully after him. Henry is barely a year older than he is, yet he has
everything the boy longs for. Money. Love. Family.

Family. What a strange word it is, muses the boy as he continues on his way to his sleeping
quarters in the dingy kitchen. He’d had one once.

He remembers what life had been like then. His family had been kind. They’d given him
everything he needed – enough food, enough water. They’d given him the one thing he
craved most of all – love.

The boy has reached the kitchens. However, he finds his feet guiding him past the familiar
wooden door towards another fancier one – the front door. He lets them carry him
forward along the cold timber floor.

That family had gone. All he can remember of them is a vague jumble of light and sound,
but he knows how they died. A bomb blast. Yes, that family is gone forever.

After that, he’d been taken in by another. He’d been given another pair of parents, another
set of siblings, another house to call home. But it hadn’t been the same. Every night, he’d

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cried himself to sleep, then woken the next morning by the nightmares that still haunt him
now.

He’d been an ungrateful child, he knows. They’d been kind, understanding, loving. He’d
rejected them, refusing to talk or let slip the smallest smile. As the realisation sinks in, the
boy begins to cry. Salty tears well up in his eyes, before cascading down his cheeks, leaving
behind glistening, wet trails. He brings his hand up to his face and brushes them away. You
never know what you’ve got until you’ve lost it.

One day, a man had come to buy him. His foster parents had refused, infuriating him as
they continued to rebuff his ever increasing offers of wealth.

That had been a mistake. The man and his accomplice had won in the end, kidnapping
him when he lagged too far behind his foster parents on one of their many shopping trips.
Anxious to get back home before the children’s bedtime, they’d walked faster than usual,
leaving him trying vainly to keep up. Then they’d snatched him.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on a cold stone floor, his body bruised and sore from
bumping against the sides of the men’s van so many times, while adults in a room next
door bickered over a price. That house had become his prison.

He stares in disgust at the expensive decorated frescoes that adorn the walls of the entrance
hall. The house is sickeningly elegant – even the polished timber floor seems to sneer at
him, standing pale and shabby at the front door. The overly flowery frieze stares down at
him, the roses seeming to laugh derisively at his pitiful figure.

He looks around the entrance hall and sees the grandfather clock. It had been his only
friend. In the darkest hours of the night, when the boy couldn’t sleep for the nightmares,
the grandfather clock had always ticked reassuringly, filling him with hopes for the
morrow. He says a silent farewell to the old instrument, his eyes drinking in the sight one
last time.

He now turns and stares at the tall imposing door before him, his hand resting on the
shiny brass knob in its centre. This door is all that stands between him and freedom.

But what is freedom? A little voice in his mind whispers. The boy hesitates, letting go of the
knob.

An image of his foster family flickers through his mind. They are smiling, happy. So
normal, yet so far away. What are they doing now, he wonders. Are they thinking of him?

The grandfather clock strikes eight, its musical chimes echoing down the corridor. The
clock is warning him to hurry. The boy nods his thanks, licking his lips nervously. He has
to get out of here.

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“I will find my place,” he says out loud, his voice soft but determined. He reaches out.

The door is in front of him; all he has to do is open it.

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