❝ i grew up here 'til it all went up in flames, except the notches in the doorframe ❞
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028. growing pains
𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐄.
Not in battle, not in some grand heroic sacrifice, but in the quiet and unremarkable way that comes with being slowly suffocated by life itself. Boredom, or maybe the hollow emptiness that had crept into her soul over the last few months — it didn’t matter what you called it. What mattered was how it consumed her, bit by bit, until every day felt like a fight for survival.
It wasn’t the kind of pain people could see. It didn’t leave bruises or scars, but it weighed her down all the same. New York, with its towering buildings and endless noise, felt small. Suffocating. Mexico, with its open skies and sprawling deserts, was worse. No place felt big enough to contain her or quiet enough to bring her peace.
The only thing that had managed to pierce through the monotony were her nightmares. Strange, vivid dreams that bled into her waking hours. They were a constant now, burning through her mind in shades of crimson and maroon, with flames that seemed to dance mockingly at the edges of her vision. They terrified her, consumed her — but at least they made her feel something.
Bruce said she was emotionally drained. He thought therapy might help, or at least talking about it. Ingrid didn’t disagree, exactly, but she didn’t understand. What could possibly have drained her? She wasn’t fighting battles anymore. She wasn’t running from anything. And yet, here she was, feeling like an empty shell. Still, she trusted her dad, and she’d do anything to feel whole again.
Even if it meant going there.
The house loomed before her now, shrouded in a kind of dread that no amount of logic could dispel. Her father’s childhood home.
It sat on a quiet suburban street that seemed almost too perfect, the kind of place that felt wrong in its stillness. The house itself was once white, she guessed, though the paint had faded to a dull, sickly gray, peeling away in strips like rotting skin. Rose bushes lined the path to the front porch — or they used to. Now, they were little more than thorny skeletons, their blooms long gone, their gnarled branches twisting like grasping fingers.
She’d only been here once or twice before, and even then, only as a child, and every visit had left her more convinced that the house was alive in all the worst ways. Her memories of it weren’t linear — more like snapshots of unease frozen in her mind.
She remembered the swing in the backyard, its chains creaking with every gust of wind, even when no one was on it. The rose bush by the porch, its thorns sharp enough to draw blood — a bright red stain on the soft green grass. The nights were the worst, though. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, she swore she could see faces in the cracks. Monsters, ghosts, her grandfather.
