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 brushes against my shoulder.

 "M' sorry, Miss Adair. I didn't mean to spook ya," the old man laughs, running his large hand over his shiny bald head. "My boys have gotten your furniture set up and boxes moved in."

 "Right, thank you," I turn my head back to the mansion before me, acutely aware of the man's sudden closeness. Taking a step forward, I distance myself from his clear disrespect of boundaries, his hand finally falling away.

 People who think they can just reach out and touch you, invading your personal bubble without a second thought, are the worst. It doesn't matter if their intentions are innocent or not— just keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Clean.

 Scratching at his neck, I try not to look at him as he shifts uncomfortably, staring at me for much longer than I care to be perceived. "Is there something wrong with the payment, Mr. Shepherds?" I deadpan, knowing there isn't, hoping he'll just get out of here so I can relive my trauma in peace.

 Chuckling, he jabbers on, "Of course not, 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.

 I fear I'm going to start sobbing before this old man if he doesn't leave quickly.

 "If you ever need anything, just know 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 interrupt, my tone firm and final. I know exactly where he's headed, and I want to stop him before he gets there. "But thanks," I add, a reflexive buffer to soften the blow—I've seen how some men react to even the slightest hint of rejection.

 The audacity of men never ceases to amaze me. But it's always better to be safe than sorry.

 Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I give him a quick wave goodbye before making 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 tell myself for the hundredth time today.

 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 recall all 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 ten years old, 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 before. She told me I was too old to be pretending a bear was my friend. But I wouldn't have needed that 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.

 Entering each room, I take in the changes, noting every detail. The kitchen has been remodeled, and the carpeting on the stairs replaced. The old painted-over scratches that once marked the wall to the basement have vanished, along with the photos that used to hang there, now discarded and forgotten. But none of it strikes me as deeply as the sight of my childhood bedroom after three years away. I don't know why I thought they'd leave it untouched. Aside from the kid-sized bed, everything's gone. I try to ignore the sting, closing the door quietly behind me, knowing that stepping in any further will just bring the tears.

 I'd left in a storm of fury and hysteria on my 17th birthday, knocking over everything in my path as I fled and never looked back. With no legit schooling records and barely $800 in my pocket, I was extremely lucky to land a job waiting tables. The sweet old lady, Mrs. Jackson, who owns 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 just 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 the 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.