After dinner, I managed to retrieve the keys to my old home from Dad. Before the accident, my parents and I lived in a small two-story house in the urban village. The yard was modest and old-fashioned and years of neglect had rendered it dilapidated.
Dragging my injured leg, I haphazardly cleaned up and settled in. The house was shabby, its walls marked with years of wear and tear and the furniture old and mismatched. Dust floated in the air, catching the soft glow of the moonlight that filtered through the thin curtains. Despite the worn surroundings, there was a comforting familiarity to it all.
The process of cleaning was painful and slow. Every movement sent sharp pangs through my leg, but I pushed through, determined to make the space livable. I wiped down surfaces, straightened the crooked frames on the walls and shook out the musty sheets. The effort was exhausting and by the time I was done, my body ached in places I had forgotten could ache. But it was worth it.
I stood back, taking in my modest handiwork. The small, cluttered room now had a semblance of order. It wasn't much, but it was mine. For the first time in years, I felt a sliver of peace. I gingerly lowered myself onto the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight. It was lumpy and uneven, but it felt like heaven compared to the cold, hard floors I had known recently.
As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a wave of relief washed over me. I took a deep breath, letting the tension slowly seep out of my body. The quiet of the night enveloped me, the only sound the distant chirping of crickets. In this small, shabby house, I found a sanctuary. It wasn’t just the physical comfort, but the emotional respite it offered. Here, no one could hurt me, no one could find me.
I pulled the threadbare blanket over myself and closed my eyes. The simple act of being in a space that was mine, however humble, brought an overwhelming sense of safety. I drifted off to sleep almost instantly, the first good night’s sleep I had in three long years.
***
To survive, I started looking for a job the next day. When I was sent to the mental hospital, I was in my third year of college and hadn't obtained my degree. Even if I had, my current condition would make it nearly impossible to find a decent job.