Chapter 6

The nightmare broke, and I woke up drenched in sweat. My sheets were damp. My head was still pounding, and my throat felt like sandpaper.

I wanted a drink, but the pitcher was empty.

Supporting myself against the wall, I dragged my weak body downstairs.

My head felt light, almost floating. When I reached the second-floor landing, I froze.

Whispers drifted from down the hall. It was Charles and a doctor in a white coat.

Their voices were hushed.

"She had another episode today," Charles said, his voice dripping with exhaustion. "Just because she caught a glimpse of the kid in the yard."

The doctor sighed. "That's typical for PTSD. Any trigger related to her trauma can cause a severe panic attack."

Charles let out a bitter laugh. "Ever since that bastard drove our father to his grave, this family has been broken."

"But the child needs a mother..." the doctor gently reasoned.

Charles cut him off, his voice cracking. He stared at the floor. "Do you know who my sister used to be? She was the pride of the Vance family. A brilliant artist. Now, she’s too terrified to even step outside."

"Is there... no other way for the child?" Charles asked.

"As long as she is here, Evelyn will never heal. Every time she looks at that kid's face, she’s reminded of how that monster conned her. She’s reminded of how our father died."

The doctor went silent for a long time before speaking. "But legally..."

"I know," Charles interrupted. "That's why I'm only venting to you. What choice do we have? We'll raise her. The Vance estate can afford another mouth to feed."

"But I'm terrified. I'm terrified Evelyn won't survive this. I'm terrified she'll wake up one day, see that kid standing at her door, and completely lose her mind."

"What does Evelyn say?" the doctor asked.

Charles was silent for a few seconds.

"She said..." his voice was barely a whisper, "she wishes the child had never existed."

My fingernails dug deep into the wooden railing.

Then, I heard my mother's voice.

"Charles," she said.

"Evelyn? Why are you out of bed?" Charles’s voice panicked.

"I couldn't sleep," Evelyn said quietly. "I heard everything."

I held my breath, freezing in the shadows of the staircase.

Then she spoke. "Doctor, I have a question. In my condition... if I never see her, will I really start to heal?"

The doctor carefully weighed his words. "Avoiding trauma triggers is indeed a common strategy in the early stages. But in the long run..."

"Yes," Charles interrupted. "You absolutely will. As long as you don't have to look at her, as long as you aren't constantly reminded of that man, you will get better. Evelyn, trust me."

Evelyn didn't reply.

In the heavy silence that followed, the only sound was the pounding of my own heart.

Finally, she said, "Then let's not meet."

I leaned against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. My forehead was burning, my throat parched, but I didn't want water anymore.

I only had one thought: *I wish I didn't exist.*

If only the police had never found me. If only they had left me in an orphanage... if only she had never given birth to me.

I slowly stood up and dragged myself back to the dark attic.

My fever raged higher, and my eyelids grew heavy.

*If only I could fall asleep and never wake up. Everyone would be so much happier.*

Hours later, I felt the door creak open.

A cool, gentle hand pressed against my burning forehead.

It lingered there for a long time.

Then, the hand withdrew, and the soft footsteps faded away.

The door clicked shut.

Was it Mom?

I couldn't tell if it was a dream or just a feverish hallucination.