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    Freedom

The mirror reflected the image of a face bearing the marks of sleep, of the dinner with his friends, of the light drunkenness of the night before.
He turned the tap on, washed his face trying to get rid of the drowsiness, wiped and looked again at the image the mirror went on reflecting off imperturbably.
He took the razor blade, the shaving soap and began to shave.
Free. Free from any tie, free to decide where to go and with whom.
He smiled with satisfaction at this thought, but the blade didn't appreciate that smile and cut him lightly on the left cheek.
A tiny drop of blood fell on the washbasin, its bright red faded almost completely on contact with the transparency of the water. A fine trickle of rosy liquid drew curious bends on the ceramic surface. A grimace of irritation on his face followed the descent of that trickle towards the sink.
He washed his face, then wiped it. The small cut didn't bleed anymore and, luckily, wasn't very visible. He looked at himself again in the mirror, self-satisfied, pleased with his life, with the decisions he had made. He thought he was free. Free to decide. Or not to decide. Even this was a decision. Even this was freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

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Written by Marta F., 03rd October 2005

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