The March: of Rain and Reminisce

HEAD bent down, forced down, she heads out into the war of the rain versus the humans, the straggling, soaked-to-the-bones souls caught in the sudden downpour. At first she attempts to wipe the tentative few drops away. Then she realizes her foolishness; there will only be another 100 for every 10 she managed to wipe away.
And halfway down the path she stops beneath a tree which offers her some degree of shelter from the pelter even though it mean the occasional collated droplet tended to hit the top of her head with an almost resounding sound in the silence beneath the leaves of that tree. All around everything is loud and violent and yet vibrant, full of sound and life and all that other good stuff. She takes a breather, sensing a slight pause, a small period when the storm seems to grow fickle of its pouring and raging, and relent a little. But she doubted she would be able to wait it out. And besides, there was something so deliciously forbidden and wild to feeling the drops raining down her arms and her hair gradually getting so soaked she could practically wring it out. With a flourish she tore off her scrunchie, letting the curly locks dangle appeasingly around her ears. And she sets off again, into the rain. With a smile on her face and a chuckle petering down the air, a church bell rung amateurly just a little off rhythm, yet tri-tone and lilting.
Later she slings her bag to the flow and realizes she is almost dripping water. She wonders if she should take a picture of her exhausted face now, or if her shaking limbs would make it all blurry. Normally cameras would be a taboo but now it was different. Suddenly she was a portrait, measuring 5"6 by happy by water.

This is what they meant by that old word.

Emancipation.