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It was time. Clémente had spent months preparing for this moment, and tonight, the plan was finally ready to be set in motion. As the household slept, the child lay awake, buzzing with anticipation. Tonight, they would break free from their prison, so that tomorrow, their life could begin.
They had stuffed their little bag to the brim, ensuring it was safely tucked away where their mother would never look for it at all times.
Their clothes were restricting at best and suffocating at worst. They had been quite literally tailored onto their body and it showed. None were made for running, but Clémente had prepared for this.
Over weeks, they had stretched out the seams until some of the tighter stitches gave way. This way, the loosened pieces allowed for some much-needed movement. The clothes they had selected for this had a plethora of ruffles, in the hope that the fabric folds would hide the alterations. It wasn't ideal, but the best the child could do with their limited resources.
It was the dead of the night and the sun had yet to beach the horizon. Clémente had planned to wake up early before any of the staff started their morning shift, but they hadn't been able to get any rest, their entire body vibrating at the thought of what was to come. Instead, they had just laid awake. If you’d asked them, they could not have told you how much time had passed. Was it minutes? Hours?
They just waited until it felt like an appropriate amount of time had passed. Then, they slipped out.
But it wasn’t nerves that kept them awake. In the beginning, they had mulled over the idea for weeks, contemplating whether this was the right step, but the seed had taken root. The clearer the plan took shape, the more anticipation blossomed in their chest.
Their heart beat to their own drum, bright and bold, just like their father's had once upon a time. They were never meant to be confined, their feet itching to take them on adventures—to climb mountains, explore rivers and forests, and follow wherever the wind might lead. But this very tendency had been his ultimate demise. And Clémente's world had lost its color.
Before, they had played together—Clémente, their father, and their mother, who watched over them with a careful gaze. The air had once been filled with the joyful sound of a child's laughter, echoing through the halls. But that joy had faded. After their father had ventured too far, too recklessly in his exuberance, and paid the ultimate price, everything had changed. The light in their lives had dimmed, and the carefree days of laughter were gone.
Clémente knew with an unwavering certainty that their mother loved them. Of all her faults, this wasn't one that could be held against her. They knew it at night, when their mother insisted on tucking them into bed, they knew it at every meal, where they sat side by side, and most importantly, they saw it in her eyes when she thought nobody was looking. During those times, they shone with compassion and unrestrained love. But above all, a deep, profound pain.
However, that love had become twisted over the years, tightening its grip in the fear of losing what little family remained until nothing but cold obsessiveness was left.
She was obsessed, that Clémente follow a straight schedule so they were never unaccounted for. Obsessed with providing them the best education —by private tutors, of course—so their future would be secure, and they would grow into their role as Baroness.
For the same reason, Clémente was also made to attend all the relevant social functions. Dolled up in their best dresses, they could be seen at proceedings in the shadow of their mother. They had been taught what to say to whom, over and over again until they could recite it like a barrel organ. When they were not spoken to, they were to remain silent and undisruptive. Flowers are only meant to look pretty, after all.
This was important, their mother preached; even with their title, connections would help them out a long way. The upper ranks of society were brutal, especially to those who didn’t conform to their rigid standards. You had to wear the right clothes, display impeccable manners, and know the right people—or you risked being torn apart by the very people you were supposed to belong to, landing at the bottom of the rumor mill they all loved to churn.
In this maelstrom, Clémente felt like nothing more than a puppet, pulled along by strings they couldn’t see, but knew were held by their mother’s trembling, desperate hands.
They despised every dreadful second of it.
Especially since for all the talk they did, the sway of the aristocrats had steadily diminished over the decades. They held no real influence, no real power besides a title. Their extravagant lives were filled with nothingness. Nobody on these gatherings had left a mark on the world, besides their name being added to an endless row of nobility in genealogy records.
It wasn’t all awful. Even if their diet was strictly regulated, Clémente never had to fear an empty stomach and there hadn’t been a day in their life where they had to perform manual labor. The walls of their home kept them safe from biting winter colds and fierce summer storms alike.
Their house was beautiful, and Clémente was aware of how privileged they were. But for all its pomp and splendor, its true nature was a cage. A filigree gilded, intricate golden birdcage perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. One containing a bird who longed to stretch their wings for the first time and take flight.
Once, many years ago, they had complained, uttered their dissatisfaction with this way of life. Their mother had screamed her throat raw and then dissolved into sobs. Clémente should be grateful for all the things she provided them, how they had everything they would ever need, this was the best way they could keep their child safe. Didn’t they see that? Didn’t they appreciate all their mother did for them? Oh, what a horrible parent they were, wanting their child safe and sound; how selfish!?
Clémente had not dared to speak out afterward. Nobody would listen to it anyway.
On their bed, a letter remained. In the same ornate handwriting they had been trained in, their mother would come to find an explanation for the disappearance of their child. Maybe she would understand that they would be happier now, that they would have miserable remaining here and becoming the next Baroness. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Clémente didn’t plan to find out either way.
They passed the gallery hall, filled to the brim with portraits of their ancestors. Now, in the dark, it was hard to make out any features beyond their basic silhouettes. Secretly, Clémente was glad for this. When they were younger, they had always feared the paintings; convinced the Barons of the past were watching them, observing every step with scrutiny. They had grown up and out of that belief, but standing here all alone let old fears bubble up.
Nowadays, they saw in the portraits a wretched mirror of their own future. Their predecessors had been born inside this estate, and that was where they had died, never stepping foot into the real world and understanding how life beyond their comfortable walls worked, living an empty life in an empty house to fulfill an empty role.
Clémente didn't know whether this was by their own choice or if they were like themselves, bound to this place in an invisible prison. They prayed it was by choice.
Before Clémente left the hall and those that came before them, they softly nodded their head to their ancestors. Clémente's portrait would not join their ranks. This goodbye had to be enough.
The entrance was locked by the guard like every night, so Clémente took another route. Some days ago, they had "accidentally" pushed over a small vase. When their governess hurried away to fetch a mop for the water, Clémente had slightly opened the window behind it and secured the gap with their golden brooch. They lifted the vase and pushed it just right to conceal the crack. When the governess returned, Clémente had apologized profusely. Having already "fixed" the vase did not help them escape from the punishment that followed, but it did prevent the loyal servant from doing it themselves and reporting it to the Baroness.
Tonight, they carefully opened the window further and crawled through it. An adult would undoubtedly have been too large, but Clémente fit without problems.
The window they had selected was near the adjoining forest, to where they now darted. Climbing the fence was not a problem. The Barons who built it had been so concerned with how it would look, that they gave its utility against intruders little thought. Yet, it wasn't a burglar breaking into the mansion who ultimately seized this opportunity, but a prisoner escaping it. Swiftly, they scaled the intricate metal forms.
But Clémente had not climbed trees in a long time, and so their arms betrayed them. Fortunately for them, they had fallen down on their desired side of the fence. Unfortunately, the landing had been rough and their leg had suffered for it. Clémente hissed at the sting but paused.
They stared at their scrape, the torn fabric, how the blood mingled with the clumps of moss on their knee, and laughed. This is what freedom must taste like.