I didn't particularly hate that trip as much as I thought I was going to. There was wine, there was cheese, and I had an amazing time. I love adventurous food, especially cheese. I adore cheese, the weirder the better. Maybe it was because of the dishes I ate as a child.
Vancouver had a lot of really good restaurants. I really loved this city. It was hard to imagine having to leave it behind.
Harlan arranged transport for me, and all I had to do as I got into a very expensive-looking car was give my address. The driver, who later introduced himself as Dean, took me to my apartment.
My apartment building was nice, not too expensive considering my salary. It was a mostly reasonable place to live for a boring and reasonable person like me. Don't get me wrong, I loved my apartment. I just suddenly came to realize I never lived life on the edge. I always did what was best for my future and never made an impulsive decision.
Therefore, as I entered my building and subsequently my apartment with the help of my landlord, I felt something I couldn't quite discern. It was the feeling you get when you walk into a place you made great memories in but in a different stage of your life. You love that place, yes, and it brings you good memories, but it also brings a sense of loss. Maybe more like a yearning for something that you know will never happen again.
That place didn't feel like my house anymore. The person that lived there seemed so different from the one that was standing there. So much had changed in so little time. The things I knew to be true had changed. I had changed.
I walked around what was a mostly undecorated apartment. I never really spent that much time here. I was always at work. My apartment felt so lifeless. Except for a picture of me and my grandmother, I didn't have any memorabilia. I had plants, though. Mostly cacti because of my lifestyle. I walked past my living room and into the kitchen, where I opened the fridge and saw that same bottle of ketchup that had been there since I moved in.
I sighed as I went to one of the bedrooms, which was filled with smutty books, the only sex life I'd had for years, just me and my pink little friend. That fact was so depressing it made me snort. I'd like to keep these books. I think I've grown attached to them.
I glanced over to my desk, filled with case files and stacks of paper I never got around to throwing out. I wouldn't have the heart to now. It all just seems like walking through a museum.
Finally making it into the room, I plopped down on my bed, savoring the softness of my mattress. This was my favorite thing in the place, this bed. I looked around the mostly empty room and sighed, feeling an overwhelming sadness for something I couldn't quite explain.
This wasn't my room anymore. These weren't my things. This apartment belonged to the woman that died in the woods that night. This life wasn't mine anymore. And I didn't quite hate it.
I wanted to be someone who had tons of pictures of the people she loved in her house. I wanted to be able to decorate with the art I liked, and I wanted to paint the wall a thousand different colors. I wanted to have a balanced life. I wanted to fall in love and have kids.
I thought the only way I could be someone was if I was as accomplished as my mother and if I managed to contribute as much as she did. And I love my field. I love my patients, but I was losing myself. I prevented myself from becoming who I really was because I never gave myself the chance.
Maybe that was why I survived that night. Maybe this was my second chance. Change can be good, I used to say to one of my patients. Well, it's about time I practiced what I preached.