Hope

The Move

{Chapter 3 - The Move}

Earlier that day, I had changed my name to Isabelle Willison, and I had gone to a psychiatrist for recommended medication. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)and anxiety.

The officers allowed me to gather some of my stuff. One of those things was my stuffed penguin. My mom had given me him when I was seven. I named him Pocket. He was a super soft black and white penguin. He was only a foot tall, but he was a great cuddle buddy.

I picked up some clothes and shoved them in to a black trash bag. I grabbed a photo of my mom and me. I decided I was going to put it in a picture frame once I got to my aunt's house. I finished grabbing my stuff within an hour. I didn't have much, since my father never really allowed me to have fun things. He let me have Pocket, which I was grateful for.

I made my way down the stairs. I was still in pain, so I was being careful. I made my way past the den, where the crime scene was. I stopped in the living room. The coffee table was knocked over, and the contents on it were strewed all over the carpet. The television screen was cracked with a few drops of blood on it. The teal vase that was previously sitting on the shelf was shattered in front of the tipped over wooden bookshelf. Books were everywhere. A few of them even somehow had made it to the opposite side of the room.

I stared at the scene for a few minutes, before I hurried out the front door. I shut it softly, another habit. I sighed, as I ambled over to my aunt's black Toyota Camry. My aunt was leaning against the car, because I had told her to wait outside.

She pushed herself off of the car and walked over to me. I dropped my bag, as she pulled me in for a hug. A few tears escaped and slide down my cheeks in to her light pink t-shirt. 

"Isabelle, it's okay," she whispered softly to me. She ran her hand through my hair. I stopped crying, after a few minutes. I sniffed. She took my hand and grabbed my bag. As she led me to the passenger front seat, I stopped walking.

"No. I can't sit in the front."

"Why not?" I stayed quiet and looked at the ground. I shuffled my feet, then she said, "Oh." After a pause, she added, "alright. You can sit in the back."

I opened the door and carefully got in. I buckled up, and I adjusted the belt so it wasn't rubbing against my neck.

~      ~      ~      ~

About thirty minutes later, we arrived at her house. It was two floors. We walked up the steps of the porch. She unlocked the door and stepped aside for me to go in first. When I walked in, I was instantly hit with the scent of vanilla, and I liked the smell. I jumped, when she closed the door.

"Honey, come here," Aunt Ella called out to someone.

A man made his way from the kitchen. He had what looked like a glass of milk in his right hand. In the other hand was a cookie with little dark circles on it.  Aunt Ella set my bag on the couch.

"Oh." He looked at me then Aunt Ella, before he set the cookie and glass on a table. "Hi. You must be Isabelle. I'm your uncle Jason."

He made his way towards me with his hand out. I took a step back out of habit. He stopped walking and looked over at Aunt Ella nervously.

"It's okay, Izzy. He won't hurt you, I promise," she reassured me.

I slowly reached my hand out and shook his. He smiled genuinely. I let go of his hand. I was unsure of what to do, so I just looked at my feet and shuffled my feet.

"Alright. I have some cookies in the kitchen, if you want any," he said.

I looked up carefully. "Um... what kind of cookies?"