She remembers screaming as his arms pinned her down, leaving rings of bruises up by her shoulders, her legs shoved apart as far as they would go as he pumped in her, a filthy smelly thing, rubbing her hair in the muck, and she remembers crying and asking him to let her go, just let her go.

Eventually, an angel came and asked her what she wanted, as she had free will to choose her future, and she picked: Free will.

Freedom.

So she was released into the world.

In the garden which was supposed to be innocence, she had had every need cared for except her heart; all food was provided, all shelter was given freely, though it was never needed.

The first thunderstorm, she hid under bushes, shivering and naked and miserable, red hair flattened to dirty skin, eyes huge and tired in her face. She didn't dare sleep; she'd heard preditors moving in the night. They could eat her.

She did not know how to catch her food. She thought berries might be safe; they were safe in the garden, but she spent a night vomitting up clear fluid, nothing else in her belly, after she tried some. She grew thin, bones nearly poking through her skin, beauty spoilt, hands shaking when she tried to reach out and take things she needed and hoped wouldn't kill her.

She was nearly dead when he found her, and he was beautiful, shining, and did not command but offered, did not order but welcomed, and she agreed, made wordless with hunger and thirst, tongue thick, but she set the terms, stumbling and halting from exhausted, unwilling to give up, will firm even now.

And when she made love to the light, he let her be on top, let her make her choices.

Really, that's all she'd wanted, and she had that now, and so much more, chains she could call freedom if she squinted at them from just the right angle, in just the right Light.