Chapter One: Freedom or Entrapment; Are They Not the Same?

I haven't slept all night. The papers have been signed for my release, but that isn't the right word. Freedom should feel different. Uplifting and exciting. Happy. Instead I feel like a small puppy that's pissed one too many times on the family rug, and has been placed out in the cold to survive on her own. As if a puppy can suddenly morph back into its original wolf form and return to its natural habitat. People presumably can change, but not that quickly. Six years in a Stockholm psychiatric ward though is considered preparation.

When I arrived here initially I was a small child, eager to attack anyone who came close enough. A girl of twelve with a lot of issues is an understatement, according to my doctors anyway. Everyone here has a lot of issues but about half were harmless nuts. I wasn't labeled harmless. Placed in solitary confinement, they declared me mentally unstable and legally incompetent. I remember that room…so white and soft…yet at the same time it was the sharpest, darkest and coldest place I had ever lived in. Three months felt like three years. I think the worst part was the sheer boredom. Bored of the loneliness. Bored of the hate. Past the point of emotion, onward to that part in you that feels nothing but the daily motions. You go from completely mental to completely physical: the brain shuts down.

The buzzer rings on my bedside nightstand. I ignore it. Having waited this long to leave, I can spare a few seconds to listen. I know this will the last time I hear that buzzer. Or hear the footsteps of the guards, walking along in their white sneakers, their clubs gently slapping across their open palms absentmindedly as they make the rounds. Even the food, if you can call it that. I still can taste the expired green jello on my tongue.

I finally hit the snooze button on the buzzer. Time to leave. Time to go and meld myself into society, right? The therapist assigned to me for those past years always said how I had to "Uplift myself into an amiable person that fit placidly into society," Oh yeah, she loved the conformist crap. Apparently Henry David Thoreau was not one of her idols. She preferred Sarah Palin.

"Salander. You're guardian's arrived, he's waiting for you in the east lobby." It's the guard of my floor. Funny how as he grunts this information to me; he keeps fidgeting and tracing at that scar that goes from his left temple all the way down to his chin on that grotesque thing he calls a face. I bet he thinks about the scar all the time, about the night he tried to crawl into my bed, about how I slashed his face open with that piece of broken glass...the night I awoke out of my catatonic state of denial. Two nights after I had been taken out of solitary.

I climb out of the medical-issued bed with intended procrastination, half out of the love of pissing him off (especially for the last time) but the other half was fear. What is outside of these walls? There's no Mother, not a sane one anyway. No father that I could give this title to, or I wouldn't be in the psychiatric ward in the first place. Was this really freedom? Was my legal declaration of sanity, freeing? Or were they ensnaring me into their lies even more. I had been here since I was a little kid, and now at the age of eighteen I feel safer here. As if there is a net waiting to hoist me up into some contraption as soon as I leave the ward's doors. Besides, I would still be declared incompetent and monitored. Freedom and entrapment, I guess in my case they are the same.

When the warden hands me an old decrepit suitcase, he briefly mentions that the contents are clothes and bare essentials. I wondered if my clothes from my last day outside of these walls were in there. Jean jumpers, black t-shirt, converse sneakers, basic kids clothes. I raise my free hand to his left temple, tracing the scar with my forefinger, smirking with pride, "Bet you think of this in loving memory of me, eh?" No matter what I went through all this time, sarcasm never left my mode of speaking. Then again, of course I'm being sarcastic…he's not that sick. Before he can say anything, or do anything, I push past him and march down the hall, my white-sneakered feet barely making noise against the tiled floor. My heart pounds as I walk past the isles upon isles of now former roommates.

I hadn't made many friends during my stay. A few friendly poker buddies over the years, but that was pretty much it. Guess I was too nuts, even for patients of the psychiatric ward.

Entering the elevator at the end of the hallway, I winced as I noticed an unfortunate occurrence. I wasn't alone.

"You were going to leave without saying goodbye." It isn't a question. Not an accusation either, just a plain statement. "How characteristic of you, Lizzie."

Damnit. Should have known he would show up before I would have a chance to sneak out undetected. Like I said, no friends. But a boy-toy isn't a friend.

"Don't." I looked down at the floor of the elevator as I pressed the button for ground floor…great; I'm stuck with him for the next fifteen floors.

"Don't what? Get attached? Fucking deal with it Lizzie, we both knew this would happen since the day we met,"

"Don't call me Lizzie,"

"Oh pardon, Lisbeth, Lisbeth Salander. How about Madam Salander? Or better yet, Her Majesty Lisbeth! If we are going to leave this on false pretenses, why not make you sound all high and noble like you act you are."

I look up at him coldly, "Are you calling me a liar, Sven? As you say, we both knew what was going to happen from the start. It was never to mean anything. You're the one that got carried away, not me."

Ten more floors…

"Lizz-"

Cutting him off I snapped at him once more, "I said don't call me that. My name is Lisbeth."

It's his turn to look away. Poor Sven, he had been diagnosed bipolar at the age of ten and was prone to be violent. We fit perfectly; I arrived and immediately clung to him when I was released out of solitary. It started as a friendship, but eventually as puberty kicked in, it became sexual. But for me it was emotionless. Or at least I trained myself to believe that. Either way I will never see him again.

Five more floors…

"So that's it then. That's our goodbye after all these years." He tries to get into my line of vision.

This time it is me that is hesitant.

"Sven, I'm sorry."

He laughs, which startles me. It's a rarity when Sven laughs.

"You see, that's hilarious, because I know you aren't. Its alright though, I know I'll see you again sometime. Hopefully by then you'll have re-found your humanity, if you ever had any. I wish you good luck on finding it, Lisbeth." He moves towards me. Remembering what he's in here for makes me afraid, maybe he's only pretending to be forgiving. Instead of hurting me he gently places his hand behind my head, his fingers entwining in my red locks as he pulls me forward, his lips brushing the surface of my forehead. Looking up at him I realize that my eyes are brimming just barely with tears. He smiles, which as always gets me to smile back…if only a grimace.

"You'll be ok, Sven?" He's got me in his grip as I look over to the elevator buttons: two more floors.

Sven looks at me intently, "Of course, Liz-I mean Lisbeth. I'm always ok, even if I'll have only the memory of you to get me through the next few years,"

One more floor.

I try to resist the urge, but I can't. I plant my lips tightly against his, pushing him up against one of the walls. Naturally, he is just as eager as I am, his hands gripping tightly at my sides as we embrace, body and soul.

I hear the bell ring as we reach the ground floor, instantaneously pushing myself away from him as the metal doors slide open. Only then did I think it curious that no one else tried to enter the elevator…a gift from the unknown? Sven looks desperately at me, his eyebrows arched, his body tense as both of his hands cling hard to the cylindrical railing behind him on the wall. I can tell he's worried about it too, about my release. He's just as worried as I am about leaving. Even if he covers it up by saying he'll see me again, knowing it is impossible. Trying to smile, I whisper, "I'll be ok. I'm always ok too, remember." Tears brim the edges of his eyes, we, both usually so strong, are both silently crying. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I proceed forward out of the elevator. Pausing I almost look back, but the doors have already shut. "Goodbye Sven."

There isn't anyone in sight; apparently there had been a forewarning of my release. When I look over towards the doors marked EXIT I see a man waiting next to one of the faux-plants. His suit is a dark navy blue, the only bold statement about him since his hair is so light a grey that it blends with his pale-wrinkled-scalp and his eyes so light a blue his eyes appear transparent. Judging by appearance, I guess he must be around sixty or sixty-five.

"Miss Salander?"

I hadn't seen an outsider for years. So strange, he looks like someone in a movie. Is this what people look like out there? It's almost cartoonish.

"Yes."

"Ah, good. I am Birghir Strand, your appointed guardian. Let me review the rules before we exit the premises. I will monitor your finances but you will have full access. When or if I see any bizarre purchases, or any over-spending, we will deal with it accordingly. There is an apartment in Stockholm waiting for you; it is twenty minutes from my own home in case of emergency. Any questions?"

"No."

"Good, please follow me. I've already signed you out of custody of the psychiatric ward. I'll drive you to your new home." The last sentence drives a nerve-impulsive chill down my spine as it once again reminds me of what I'm about to do. I'm about to leave the ward, the guards, Sven, my identity as nobody. Now, all I have left to cling to is my hatred as I shield myself from what's outside in the parking lot and beyond. I inhale slowly as I watch Strand walk ahead of me, slowly as old men do, look to the floor quickly as he turns back at me to make sure I'm following. A few hesitant steps and soon I walk past him at a brisk pace, I just have to burst threw those doors and I'm out. It'll be fine. It has to be. It'll be…better.

The electric doors slide open, I'm outside.