Reborn To Escape His Toxic Love

Three days later.

Erich stood on the overgrown front lawn, the harsh afternoon sun stinging his eyes. He wore an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed his thin frame. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill his lungs.

The front screen door whined open. Brenda hurried down the porch steps, her fingers nervously gripping a set of car keys. She stopped and checked the front door lock three times, her eyes darting toward Erich as if she expected him to sprint down the street.

Keyla pushed past her mother. She wore a pair of beat-up headphones around her neck and a canvas messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

"Can we go? I have a shift in an hour," Keyla muttered, not looking at either of them.

Erich walked toward the rusted Chevrolet parked in the cracked driveway. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. The metal hinges shrieked in protest.

He slid into the backseat. The cracked vinyl upholstery smelled heavily of synthetic vanilla air freshener and old dust. His mind instantly flashed to the silent, climate-controlled interior of Erik's bulletproof Maybach. He pushed the memory away, his jaw tightening.

Brenda started the engine. The car violently shuddered before settling into a rough idle. She adjusted the rearview mirror, her worried eyes locking onto Erich's reflection.

"Did you sleep okay, honey?" she asked, her voice painfully bright.

Erich stared out the window at the passing rows of identical, rundown houses.

"Yes," he said. A single, flat syllable.

Brenda let out a quiet breath of relief and turned her attention back to the road. The silence in the car was thick and uncomfortable.

Keyla reached out and cranked the volume knob on the radio. Heavy bass and screaming guitars blasted through the cheap speakers, vibrating against the floorboards.

Brenda slapped her hand against the steering wheel. "Keyla! Turn that down! You know your brother can't handle loud noises right now."

She reached for the dial, but Keyla aggressively swatted her hand away.

"He's depressed, Mom, not deaf!" Keyla yelled over the music.

"Show some respect!" Brenda shouted back, her voice cracking with exhaustion.

Erich sat perfectly still in the backseat, watching them fight. The raw, unfiltered anger between them was completely foreign to him. In Erik's world, anger was expressed through calculated cruelty and frozen bank accounts, never through shouting matches in a crappy car.

It was chaotic. But strangely, it grounded him.

Erich leaned forward slightly.

"Turn it off," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a sharp, commanding edge that cut straight through the noise. "It's giving me a headache."

Keyla froze. She snapped her head around to look at him. Her mouth fell open slightly. The old Erich would have curled into a ball and cried. He never demanded anything.

She swallowed hard, her hand slowly reaching out to click the radio off. The sudden silence was deafening.

The Chevy pulled into the parking lot of a red-brick building. A wooden sign near the entrance read: Oak Grove Psychological Services.

Erich stepped out of the car. A cold gust of wind hit his face. He immediately reached up and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, hiding his features in the shadows.

Brenda hovered right beside him. She placed a trembling hand on his elbow, guiding him through the glass doors like he was made of spun glass.

The waiting room was suffocatingly quiet. The carpet was thick, and the walls were painted a muted, clinical beige.

Erich's eyes scanned the room. They landed on a series of abstract paintings hung above the reception desk. The brushstrokes were hesitant, the color theory completely flawed. It was garbage art meant to soothe anxious minds. His fingers twitched with the urge to fix it.

The receptionist handed Brenda a thick stack of evaluation forms. Brenda's hands shook so badly she dropped the pen.

Erich watched his mother bend down to retrieve it. A strange, heavy ache settled in his chest. It was the crushing weight of a mother's desperate love-something he had never experienced in his past life.

Keyla slumped into a corner chair, aggressively scrolling on her phone. But every few seconds, her eyes flicked up to check on him.

A heavy wooden door down the hallway opened.

Dr. Felicity Albright stepped out. She wore a tailored navy suit and a practiced, compassionate smile. Her eyes bypassed Brenda and locked directly onto Erich.

"Erich? We're ready for you," she said softly.

Erich's leg muscles tightened. He stood up. The next forty-five minutes were going to be a brutal psychological war.

Brenda took a step forward to follow him. Dr. Albright held up a gentle hand.

"Just Erich today, Brenda. We need some one-on-one time."

Erich walked past the doctor and stepped into the office. The door clicked shut behind him, instantly cutting off the hum of the waiting room. The silence was heavy, almost oppressive.

He looked around the room. His eyes landed on a long, black leather chaise lounge in the corner.

His stomach violently contracted. Bile rose in his throat. It looked exactly like the couch Erik used to make him sit on while lecturing him about his flaws.

Dr. Albright gestured toward a single fabric armchair opposite her desk. She picked up a thick manila folder.

Erich ignored the chair. He walked straight to the window, turning his back to her. He crossed his arms, locking his body down into an impenetrable fortress.

Dr. Albright flipped open the folder. Her pen tapped lightly against the paper.

"How have you been sleeping, Erich?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Erich stared at his own reflection in the windowpane. He took a slow, deep breath, letting the cold glass chill his forehead. He turned around, his eyes locking onto the doctor with a chilling, empty calmness.

It was time to lie.