Page 4 of Ruined
My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached my coffee table. I could have been mistaken, but I was almost positive that I hadn’t left my magazines spread out. The loud whooshing in my ears was almost deafening as I scrambled to flick the light switch.
Frantically, my eyes bounced from corner to corner. It only took seconds for me to find that there was no one in my house except me and my overactive imagination. I turned to head upstairs but stopped abruptly when I spotted my uncovered easel.
Since the start of this whole ordeal, I hadn't been able to draw, let alone paint. One thing I was absolutely certain of was that my easel had been covered when I’d left the house. I distinctly remembered the pang of hurt that'd flooded through me as I had run my fingers over my veiled passion.
Caution had me taking slow strides toward my painting spot, placing my mug on the coffee table along the way. I balled my trembling fingers into tight fists at my sides, willing the lump in my throat to go down.
My brow furrowed the instant I finally reached my destination. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. My brushes and paints were still as I’d left them, the half-done sketch still clipped to the wood.
Is this how it feels when you lose your mind?
I looked around my little living room again and I swear I heard the crickets mocking me. Usually, all I needed to do was close my front door to shut out the world outside. Unfortunately for me, my demons had learned how to pick locks. The space that had always been my refuge now felt like my prison.
I wanted — no, needed — out.
As I raced up the stairs and yanked my suitcase out of the closet, I tried my best to convince myself that I wasn't running away. By the time I drove past the city limits, I still wasn't sure if I believed that.
