A/N: So this is slightly better than the last, and it's actually quite relevant to the last. So . . . enjoy!
Freedom was the sound of Ms. Bitterman saying, "Class dismissed." Freedom was rushing out of the room with my classmates, making plans to celebrate. Freedom was not having to be in that room with that horrible woman for another few minutes.
Freedom was what we felt when we got out for summer break.
Freedom was not, however, learning that my friend back in Wisconsin had breast cancer. After I'd gotten the call, I'd said my stomach didn't feel well. When my cast mates left, I'd retreated into my room and dropped onto the chair. Tears were streaming down my cheeks before I'd even closed the door.
Now I was clutching the pillow of the chair, just heaving my heart out. No matter how loud I cried, it couldn't drown out thoughts like 'She's going to die.' I embraced the thoughts, in hopes that the pain would go away faster.
After a few minutes, my shaking finally subsided. I was able to clear my head while I'd sobbed, so at that point it was easy to calm down. Once my breathing was normal and my snuffy nose had cleared, I stared lethargically into the distance. There wasn't a single thought. There was just me and cheeks that felt tight when I tried to move them.
Then he strolled in and ruined every bit of progress I'd just made.
"Hey Munroe," he said loudly. I didn't bother to turn my head to see him. "I heard the other Randoms talking about a sketch in the commissary, and I thought I'd just come here to gloat about how much funnier I am than all of you, and I'm on a real show."
"Chad, I really don't want to talk right now," I said softly, my voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. My throat tightened and I felt tears coming back. I sniffed and raised my hand to quickly wipe the tears away.
I didn't want to put up with his arrogance right now. Normally, one of our little spats would be great for getting any bad emotions out, but I felt too horrible. Besides, even if I had started a spat, it would've turned into a real fight. I would've said things I don't mean—really hurtful things. People would've gotten hurt and no one would've been any better off.
I heard Chad heave a sigh and close the door. Then he came over to where I was sitting and sat down on the chair, right near the legs that I was cradling.
"Sonny . . . is something wrong?" he asked in that sweet voice that showed he actually cared. Which was a little of a surprise.
I bit my lip. If I talked and heard my voice crack, I'd break down again. I shook my head, letting out a little whimper.
"So nothing's wrong?" His beautiful blue eyes were piercing mine. His eyebrows were raised in such a cute way. I couldn't hold out on talking much longer.
I shook my head again and looked away.
"So you're in the fetal position on a chair, ready to cry, and nothing's wrong?" Chad asked pointedly.
I looked at him. Through my blurring vision, I swear I saw pain crawl across his face. I briefly wondered if he was hurting because I was hurting. I quickly shook the thought away. I could worry about it later.
Then, talking in a trembling voice to a blur of colors, I said, "One of my friends back in Wisconsin called today."
He nodded, patiently waiting.
"She has breast cancer." I bit my lip in a final attempt to stop my tears, but it didn't work. I blinked, and suddenly my cheeks became the bed of a stream of tears.
"Oh, Sonny . . .," Chad said, expressing a flicker of pain in his voice. He held his arms out wide, offering a hug. A shoulder to cry on. I took the invitation and collapsed onto his shoulder.
As I sobbed, I was silently sorry for staining his nice shirt with tears and my running makeup. All the while, he was being so sweet, lightly rubbing my back and whispering into my ear.
"Shhh . . . Sonny . . . I promise everything is going to be alright."
After a few minutes of my relentless whimpering, he started to hum the tune to "Three Little Birds" by Marley. He began to softly sing.
"Don't worry 'bout a thing, 'cause every little thing gonna be all right. . . . Rise up this mornin' . . . smiled with the risin' sun. Three little birds . . . pitch by my doorstep singin' sweet songs of melodies pure and true, sayin', 'This is my message to you-ou-ou . . .'"
He sung the lyrics over and over until my tremors and sobs let up and eventually stopped.
I sniffed and lifted my head from his shoulder. I gave him a sad smile. My voice came out weak: "Thank you, Chad."
"You're welcome. And, um, call me anytime you need to talk or a shoulder to cry on. As long as that shoulder isn't covered with an expensive shirt." He gave me a quick smile, signaling that his arrogance was just meant to be a joke.
I accepted the arrogant humor with another sad smile and whispered, "Fine."
"Fine." His voice was so soft.
"Good."
"Good."
Somehow, our usual angry spat had turned into something a little more gentle and sweet. It made my chest feel warm.
He grinned and turned for the door. As he reached for the handle, I asked, "So we're good?"
He looked over his shoulder with a wider grin than before and said, "We're so good." And he left.
I sat, smiling at the door.
Freedom was knowing you had that one person who you could tell anything. Freedom was having someone that would gladly offer their shoulder for you to cry on.
My freedom was Chad.