2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Sunshine
Four Years Ago
This place is massive; the biggest campus I’ve seen in my seventeen short years. It dwarfs my high school by a few buildings, my Sunday school, the church, and my childhood home combined—none compare to the sheer size of this place.
Buildings scatter about, piercing the clear blue skies and protrudes beyond the lush treetops.
The oval-shaped placement herds everyone into a central area, more compound-like than a university.
Then, to top it off, the student population rivals that of a small city as we all rush past each other without daring to say hello.
I chose this university because of the gardening—it’s beautiful, dense, and I swear I can get lost in the foliage for hours.
When I first toured, I was sidetracked more than a few times, causing me to scramble and catch up with the guide before being labeled as MIA.
The same could be said for my second visit; I’m hoping to get it out of my system before classes start.
Today, though, is the last day I have to explore and reassure myself of my new reality—college.
I have to be certain this is where I want to obtain my education and make sure nothing stabs my triggers while I roam.
With so much reminding me of home and the trauma I went through, I can’t be too careful.
I mean, my mom and dad won’t be close enough to save the day if anything happens, so it’s all on me.
There were five schools on my list of acceptable options.
My parents helped me narrow them with a few vital parameters: location, programs, accessibility, and of course, safety.
Three were immediately disqualified because they’re too far from home.
At first, I fought this, wanting to be away from my worried parents, but I understood the reasoning.
My dad convinced me, telling me he can’t teleport to me if one of my riders decide to take over and wear me like this year’s Halloween costume
He’s paranoid now, especially after how close we all came to losing one another.
We were all in pain; Death was raking its slimy tongue along the back of my thighs, waiting for my demise.
Thankfully, after several nights of fighting for survival, the demon relinquished his taste for me and disappeared. It’s been quiet since, mostly.
A few other schools, despite being within distance, have terrible commencement statistics—if the students aren’t passing, that’s saying something about the teaching staff or the lack of student responsibility.
For my sake, I don’t want people around me who don’t hold themselves accountable.
I need to hold myself to a high standard, which is difficult if you’re constantly surrounded by imbeciles.
Now, I know I didn’t aim for Harvard or Yale, but it’s still important that the school I choose has student advancement in mind and not just existing to collect funding.
One school’s aimed more toward blue-collar jobs and equine science—not the type of medical degree I want—while the one in Jersey’s too busy for my tastes.
Enter Thatcher-Hayes University: a moderately populated campus tucked in a booming suburb of Pittsburgh, packed with young adults who have more money than sense, and gothic architecture that haunts my dreams. It’s perfect.
Mom never had an opinion on where I choose to go to school as long as I’m happy, comfortable, and will be safe.
Dad, however, tried several times to consider online classes.
He wants me to be within ten miles from home—a better distance to keep his eye on me and not have to fight with campus security.
I’ve stood my ground each time he brought up online classes—those were the nights hell broke loose at the kitchen table.
They both had valid points and concerns—worry warts on steroids—but my therapist had my back.
She taught me to stand up for myself and live my life the way I want to, not how others think I should.
She also taught me the importance of community; how it’s better to have one or two people in a tight-knit group than solitude.
And after being alone for so long, it made sense.
The only issue I had with my therapist is how she didn’t believe in my sickness.
She’d stare at me, waiting for me to stop describing my mental plagues, complaining about voices, or asking for something to help take the edge off.
Not once did she believe the voices are real; trust me when I say they are.
Early in my sessions, we would argue over my hallucinations and the impossibility of possession. As a non-religious woman, she saw my demons as things to medicate. Therefore, I walk around as a husk of what I used to be.
I was in a constant state of mental misfire. Paired with the fog and my ostracized upbringing, the only place my insanity to go was internal, where it’s since festered.
Finally, we agreed that I’ve been alone long enough. Being in school, around people my age from various walks of life, is supposed to help. I’m not quite sure how, but I’m willing to try.
Standing in the center of the courtyard, trees circle a water fountain where gargoyles and angels fight with their weapons of destruction.
The stonework’s shadow spills across pathways in long reaching arches as the sun rides the wheel in the sky.
It’s deceivingly beautiful, but I love having lunch here—sitting on the edge of its raised walls to stare at the water within.
Directly behind the fountain sits the rec center, just as ominous as the rest of the property despite being the newest building. It has an indoor heated pool, a suspended track running the circumference of the pool, and every piece of gym equipment you could imagine.
I think the inside pool is cool. I’ve seen plenty of outdoor ones and lakes, where the sun singes my skin.
When I was little, my adoptive parents took me to Lake Michigan a few times but never an indoor pool—which would have been better, since Lake Michigan is known to be the home of thousands of unmarked graves.
There’s also a huge auditorium the drama program uses, a football field used mostly by the marching band, and a cafeteria the size of a department store.
The dorms, though? A city on their own. Ten stories tall, with a couple hundred rooms. There are group showers, a laundry room on every floor, a game and media room, a community kitchen, and some small shops for necessities.
Everything a student could need or want sits within walking distance. There’s no need to have a car, use Uber, or risk public transportation. For the price of tuition, having everything in arm’s reach is a significant selling point.
Fuck dorms, though. Do you realize how disgusting it is to share space with a bunch of girls who may or may not know how to clean up after themselves?
What if they don’t practice good hygiene?
Mom and Dad have told me horror stories from their prison days that make me want to puke.
Sitting in a classroom full of strangers who’ll sneeze without covering their face is enough. Living quarters? Gag.
Vehemently against the idea of having a roomie, Dad bought me a high-rise condo off campus.
It gives me quick access without needing to drive—not that I have a vehicle anyway.
The condo is soooo nice. It’s all dark countertops and stainless steel appliances, silver speckled black marble flooring, floor-to-ceiling windows on the back wall behind the living area, and a closet almost as big as my bedroom back home.
It’s wonderful; I swear I can see the curve of the Earth from my bedroom window.
That’s until my sane side reminds me I’m not high enough to see the bend.
Still, waking up to watch the sun creep slowly out of the black of night and bathe me in its warmth is the most calming thing I’ve ever experienced.
I know, deep down, I have the capacity for love—though my therapist says sociopaths don’t—because when I look at the view, I can feel it in every atom that makes me.
Anyway, today’s the last day students can move onto campus before classes begin.
Technically, a few have already started if you’re a go-getter—a new program rolled out by the administration for this semester.
Others are using today to locate their lecture halls and get a feel for the campus as a whole.
That’s code for ‘get here now, so you don’t get lost later.
’ Which, if you want it straight, I’m more worried about getting turned around and losing my shit.
I’ve mapped out the whole property—in my noggin, of course—so if someone asked me to help them find a specific room, I could supply them with three different routes depending on what they want to do between point A and point B.
This type of change is a lot as I’ll be doing everything on my own, but this is how I keep control of my mind…my life. I’m thirsting for independence. No, scratch that—I’m ravenous for it. There’s absolutely nothing that will satiate me other than being on my own.
Yes, I love my parents. Meeting them has done something to my heart I’ve never thought possible.
But on the other side of that coin, they’re scared.
Doesn’t mean I want to suffocate under their insistent need to know every damn thing I do.
Give me some space, you know? I’ll be an adult soon, trying to figure out the world with a broken mind, and doing everything possible to be normal and not a monster.
I know they mean well; I know it hurts my mom’s feelings when I pull away.
I know Dad doesn’t know how to manage her emotions and my outbursts, but we’re trying.
I’d rather try from my fortress in the sky, and in a place with people my age who will look past me, and never notice there’s a weirdo standing a few feet away.
While most people want to be seen, for others to take note of them, I want to melt into the background. There are parts of me I’m ashamed of, that I don’t believe will ever be fixed, and I’m praying this little college experiment is what helps break me out of my shackles.
Against their pleas, I came alone. Mom wanted to escort me; told me once upon a time she dreamed of being a college student, and around the time she was making her decision, life happened. The day I told her I wanted to be a medical student, her face brightened.
To her, this was an opportunity to live vicariously through me—walk the property, see the lecture halls, participate in events—but I squashed that. She’s not using me, I know she never truly would, but being escorted by my mom? Come on
When we try to talk, her feelings get hurt, which pisses me off. How dare I do that to her, make her heart squeeze and ache when all she’s ever done is support and love me? What’s the purpose of breaking her heart every day by denying her an experience we could enjoy together?
Space.
I need freedom from the weight of three extra minds swimming in my head.
I’m barely staying afloat without them adding in their two cents, then when my parents get going?
It’s a runaway train to psyche-out city.
In the end, Mom’s disappointment left me feeling so ashamed of myself I didn’t dare come out of my room for a whole week.
Anyone who tried to coax me out met a solid brick wall—my medication, on the other hand, was a chore all on its own.
Dad understands better than she does—at least, I hope he does, because he never says anything.
The way he showcases his support contrasts my mom’s.
Always waiting for me to come to him; allowing me time to feel him out following an episode.
In the beginning, he gave me the distance I needed to get comfortable with him and discover that he’s safe and not just another person wanting to hurt me.
The same can’t be said for my nuisance. At first, he was silent; then he began to appear like the demons in my head—there one second, then missing once I’m ready to find him.
The asshole shifts in and out of my peripherals, easing his way into unexpected proximity, and always ensures me he's never so far away he can’t hear me cry.
Which I do NOT do.
Keep telling yourself that, Sadie.
Elias Sullivan, the man who helped me re-home kittens from Canada and made me feel safe even as I attacked him.
He stood by me while I physically and mentally ripped myself apart.
He protects me from myself, and apologizes to ME when he turns up hurt from my own wretched hands.
Knowing people is not something I want to do, but he fits somewhere in my life, even if he’s filling the jagged spaces he has to break to fit into.
Considering my super small circle, Elias is the only one who didn’t try to tag along on my first day.
That doesn’t mean the jerk isn’t mulling around.
I catch him here and there, watching me across whatever room I’m in, before he’s gone again.
The last time I mentioned college, however, he grunted and walked away.
Being the emotionally stunted thing I am, it pissed me off so he’s been on my shit list since.
The least he could do is tell me congratulations or something, right? Today, my metaphorical wings have completed their final stretch. They’re now spread and ready to fly.
A soft breeze escorts me as I make a beeline across the courtyard, pushing me faster like it’s as excited as I am to start the next chapter of my life.
Clinging to my schedule of classes despite having memorized the room numbers, students filter by me with pieces of luggage and parents who snap photos at every landmark.
Yeah, get a good look, it won’t be that interesting in a few months.
Spotting the entrance to the science building, the soft pad of my combat boots carry me up to the landing while dodging strangers. This is it; THIS IS IT!
Wrenching the door open, I step into the cooler air and crash into another student. She drops her purse, as the baggage she’s pulling behind her begins to roll away when she lets go. Instead of an apology, I see the ugliest puke green and burnt yellow aura ever.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going, bitch.”