Patient A-3

Chapter 1: No More Running

Avalyn

 I once believed I could break free of this place, yet here I stand, drawn back to the very steps I once fled from. It'll be different this time, liberated from the specter of parental shadows and secrets. No more running. I rock back and forth on my heels, breathing deeply through the anxiety just like Dr. Beth taught me.

 "One, two, three, four..." I trail off, jumping slightly when a large hand lightly brushes against my shoulder.

 " 'M sorry Miss Adair didn't mean to spook ya," the old man bellowed, running his large hand over his shiny bald head.

 "My boys have gotten yer furniture set up, and boxes moved in."

 "Right. Thank you," I turn my head back to reality taking in the man's sudden closeness. Taking a step back, I distance myself from his clear disrespect of boundaries.

 God, I hate people who think they can just touch you. Always entering your personal bubble with no regard for your comfort. Whether it be suggestive or not, keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Clean.

 Scratching at his neck, he shifts uncomfortably, staring at me for much longer than I care to be perceived.

 "I already paid you, Mr. Shepherds," I deadpan, hoping he'd just get out of here so I can relive my trauma in peace.

 Chuckling, he jabbers on, "I know kiddo. I just wanted to express my condolences to ya. Losing a parent is tough, let alone both at the same time."

 "I appreciate that."

 Please please please please leave.

 "If you ever need anything, I'm willing. A pretty girl like you needs someone to take care of ya, especially in a time like thi-"

 "I'm good," I cut him off, knowing exactly where he plans on going with this.

 The audacity of men never ceases to amaze me.

 Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I make my way up the rest of the porch steps. I push in the white pristine door, taking in the foyer that still looks the same as the day I left. Memories from my younger years flood their way in, causing bile to rise in my throat.

 No running.

 I turn left first, walking into the large living room first. This place wasn't designed for living in. It was nothing more than show, with the numerous decorative pillows on a couch so stiff that a rock would be better seating. Long, luxurious curtains frame the ceiling-high windows, allowing light to pour in. In all honesty, it's beautiful. This place has always been so, but it's fake. I remember the various parties held in this house. People stretching from the kitchen to the large open living space, boozing and talking about meaningless things that I knew would never satiate the hunger of the rich. My parents were no better than the rich idiots they allowed into our home, in fact they were much worse. My parents were the epitome of success. With them both being surgeons, they were able to build their money up and settle down in the golden state of California. If I'm being honest, I didn't know much more about them than that. We were never close. My mother never held me close at night or wiped away my tears. My father never taught me how to ride a bike or drive my first car. We were strangers who coexisted. Really fucking mean strangers that caused a whirlwind of mental health issues and a lifelong amount of trauma.

 From the time I can remember, my parents hated me. I was always kept with a nanny, never allowed to venture outside or make friends. My best friend growing up was Bluey, a blue stuffed bear that I loved more than life. When I was 10, my mother wrenched my poor bear from my little hands and burned him to a crisp in the beautiful brick fireplace that I'm currently standing across from. She told me I was too old to be pretending a bear was my friend. I wouldn't have needed that fucking bear if she just let me go to school as normal children did. My father wasn't as mouthy but he was just as cold. He pretended I didn't exist. He didn't speak or look at me, and when he did I could see the regret in his eyes. I was unwanted.

 Continuing my way into each room, I made note of all the little changes. The kitchen had been redone, carpeting on the stairs was pulled and replaced. The painted-over scratches on the walls that led to the basement, the photos that were once hung, discarded and no long. None of that hurt as badly as seeing my childhood bedroom for the first time in three years. I don't know why I thought they'd keep it as is. I had left in a blaze of anger and hysteria on my 17th birthday. Knocking over anything and everything in my way. I ran from this house and never looked back. With no legit schooling records and barely $200 in my pocket, I was extremely lucky to land a job waiting tables. The sweet old lady, Mrs. Jackson, who owned a small dingy diner in one of the not so nicer areas of town, was kind enough to lend a helping hand. I was in an array of panic and tears when I entered her diner, begging for a chance. She did more than just give me a job though, she welcomed me into her home, allowing me to stay until I had just enough to get my own place. Now I definitely didn't make a pretty penny, but with months of saving, I was able to rent a small one-bedroom apartment that sat across the street from Jackson's Diner.

 Being on my own was invigorating, even if getting by on rent and food was more than difficult. But to me, anything was better than being at the hands of those abusive strangers I had the misfortune of calling mom and dad. You wouldn't believe my surprise when their family lawyer phoned me, asking me to come in to discuss their will. Now here I am, childhood home and millions of dollars richer, with not one fucking clue in the world of what to do next.