Here lies the frail body of Freedom. She is locked away in a red, white, and blue casket, an axiomatic statement for such a misunderstood person. Freedom’s life was forcefully stuffed with secrets and dark truths, so cryptic and complicated that we still aren’t sure what really happened to her. All we can attempt to do is put the shards together, using scraps of information taken from people who claimed they knew her well, and formulate what we now see as a disturbing, twisted reality.

This is the alleged story of Freedom:

No one knows how old she was or where she came from when she arrived. But her origin isn’t the striking part of her life. It’s what happened to her once she was old enough to understand the society she lived in. Freedom was snatched viciously from her home by a group of men and stripped of her chastity, her pure white hands stained red with ribbon streaks. For many years the men held her hostage, caged in isolation, sporadically raping and beating her in the night. These men were smart, you see. They didn’t just keep her locked away for their own sinful pleasure. They used their power to torture her and evoke false hope in the people they controlled. This is where Freedom’s story becomes hopelessly distorted in the clenched fists of the men who took her greatest ability and used it against her.

Freedom was beautiful. Her words were entrancing. She was promised friendship and love and hope, and she frequently dreamt of running wild, dancing barefoot on the grassy land she used to call her own. But she knew her hopes were futile. The men somehow knew of her contagious ability to captivate crowds, so they made her a celebrity. Slowly but surely, Freedom was forced to put on a bright smile and flashy attire, and she would go out into the public and speak reassurances of the American life. She became an icon, a hero, an untouchable entity that the people wholeheartedly relied on. In the daytime she preached in the spotlight and sang songs of pride and unity which would ring in the ears of her followers; in the nighttime she curled up naked against the metal bars of her cage. Her tears were stifled by the sound of her name chanted over and over, the word “Freedom” pounding against her skull and pulsing behind her eyes.

Freedom’s fans felt truly connected with her; they loved her more and more each day, infatuated by her brilliance, by her promises, by her patriotism. She acclaimed this society’s ability to choose their future, she lauded the American dream, promoted democracy, galvanized the masses to get an education, to get fit, to buy this brand of clothing, to watch this TV show, and to make sure you eat the wholesome food, because it is all there for you, for the people. Sometimes Freedom was so deceived by her own charisma that even she believed the garbage she spewed on a daily basis. But most of the time, Freedom was seething behind her white grin and glittery eyes. The only thing running wild was the storm of emotions that swirled about her: resentment, sadness, bitterness, pain, shame. She showed her fans how important it was to vote, she stood on the stairs of the Capitol building emphasizing our right to speak freely, and she promoted peace and tolerance for all religions, although the men would only provide her with a Holy Bible when she attended church rallies.

Inevitably, people questioned Freedom’s intentions. She was a celebrity that seemed too good to be true. They speculated her proclamations and questioned Freedom’s background. So they protested against her, rioted, and assembled petitions and activist groups. They wanted to protect the common good; but little did they know, the beautiful Freedom was beaten and cuffed in the nighttime, surreptitiously threatened by the captors behind her apparent “success.” No one knew Freedom for who she really was. She dreamt of escaping, of stretching her muscles, vocalizing the truth, and revealing her suffering to everyone. She was a symbol of the independence she herself didn’t even have. She was a symbol of choice that the people were unknowingly deprived of, despite their ability to go to college, and own houses, and go grocery shopping, and vote for elected officials. She pitied the poor souls who worshiped her promises. They were all deceived, tricked into thinking their American lives were free. They didn’t know that everything from the food they ate, to the songs they listened to, to their private lives, to the jewelry they bought, to the ideas they taught, to the medicine they took, was all one big scheme, formulated and tweaked by the men who took Freedom captive. These men didn’t see humans, but dollar signs, net worth, profit. Freedom herself had a monetary value—in fact, she was the most valuable of them all. The people believed they understood Freedom, knew her on a personal level. But little did they know, all the money in the world could never pay the price of Freedom.

They say she died a long time ago, but no one’s really sure. Investigators claim the men realized she wasn’t worth tending to at that point. It was too much effort to make the public love her; it was too much effort to keep Freedom alive. In a way, these men gave up. Once the people stopped seeing her face, they grew worried. It came to a point where many of the original protesters shifted their focus from trying to disprove Freedom, to trying to get her back. At least before, there was some twinge of hope. At least, lies or not, they had something to hold onto. Now there was nothing.

Investigators are looking into the details of Freedom’s death and what exactly caused it. Perhaps it was the endless nights suffering under the hands of her captors. Perhaps it was the burden of lies she was forced to spread, the guilt of deceiving the people who so strongly believed in her. Oddly enough, some speculate Freedom was never even there to begin with; she was simply a figment of our imaginations. But this disputed theory was finally proven inconclusive when a group of devastated women opened her casket to find it empty.