When Love Becomes a Burden

I was an orphan.

When I was ten, my parents died in a car accident. It was then that the Specter took me in. Dad brought my bloodied, trembling self to a teenage Lucas and solemnly introduced me, saying, "From now on, he is your brother."

Lucas looked at me with a tenderness I had never known, promising to take care of me forever. From that moment, I clung to him with every fiber of my being. He didn't break his promise—he pampered me, loved me and indulged me.

Over the years, he gave me everything I wanted and my innocent dependence on him grew into a deep, consuming love. I loved him so intensely that I couldn't imagine a future without him. People whispered that I was a toad lusting after a swan, that I was repaying kindness with betrayal, even disregarding the sanctity of familial bonds.

Perhaps Lucas thought the same. To crush my hopes, he brought home a girlfriend on my twentieth birthday. I was devastated and hysterically tried to drive the woman away. That night, she was poisoned and I was accused.

The next thing I knew, Lucas had me committed to a mental institution.

***

After dinner, I managed to retrieve the keys to my old home from Dad. Before the accident, my parents and I lived in a small two-story house in the urban village. The yard was modest and old-fashioned and years of neglect had rendered it dilapidated.

Dragging my injured leg, I haphazardly cleaned up and settled in. The house was shabby, its walls marked with years of wear and tear and the furniture old and mismatched. Dust floated in the air, catching the soft glow of the moonlight that filtered through the thin curtains. Despite the worn surroundings, there was a comforting familiarity to it all.

The process of cleaning was painful and slow. Every movement sent sharp pangs through my leg, but I pushed through, determined to make the space livable. I wiped down surfaces, straightened the crooked frames on the walls and shook out the musty sheets. The effort was exhausting and by the time I was done, my body ached in places I had forgotten could ache. But it was worth it.

I stood back, taking in my modest handiwork. The small, cluttered room now had a semblance of order. It wasn't much, but it was mine. For the first time in years, I felt a sliver of peace. I gingerly lowered myself onto the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight. It was lumpy and uneven, but it felt like heaven compared to the cold, hard floors I had known recently.

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a wave of relief washed over me. I took a deep breath, letting the tension slowly seep out of my body. The quiet of the night enveloped me, the only sound the distant chirping of crickets. In this small, shabby house, I found a sanctuary. It wasn’t just the physical comfort, but the emotional respite it offered. Here, no one could hurt me, no one could find me.

I pulled the threadbare blanket over myself and closed my eyes. The simple act of being in a space that was mine, however humble, brought an overwhelming sense of safety. I drifted off to sleep almost instantly, the first good night’s sleep I had in three long years.

***

To survive, I started looking for a job the next day. When I was sent to the mental hospital, I was in my third year of college and hadn't obtained my degree. Even if I had, my current condition would make it nearly impossible to find a decent job.

After a long search, I finally landed a job as a cashier at a hotel. The moment the female manager saw my leg, her face darkened with disdain.

"Who hired this cripple? Are we that desperate for staff?" she snapped.

The supervisor apologized profusely. "I'm sorry, I thought she had a good image and her leg injury didn't seem too severe, so I kept her."

"A good image doesn’t matter if she's a cripple. It ruins our hotel's reputation." The manager glanced at my face with obvious jealousy. "I think the cleaning department is more suitable for her."

The supervisor, who seemed genuinely kind and sympathetic, approached me with an apologetic expression etched across her face. She hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words to soften the blow, before finally speaking.

"I’m really sorry," she began, her voice low and filled with regret. "Would you be willing to transfer to the cleaning department?"

Her question hung in the air and I could see the discomfort in her eyes. She knew it was a demotion and the last thing she wanted was to hurt my feelings. Yet, she was caught between a rock and a hard place, trying to balance the needs of the hotel with her desire to treat me fairly.

I looked around the bustling hotel lobby, filled with guests who probably didn’t even notice me, let alone care about my struggles. The weight of the recent humiliations and contempt I had faced was still fresh in my mind. From snide remarks to outright dismissals, I had been reminded repeatedly of my perceived shortcomings. The sting of those encounters had left me feeling small and insignificant.

But here was a glimmer of kindness in the supervisor's demeanor. She was offering me a way to stay employed, even if it meant taking on a more menial role. I thought about my situation—about how hard it had been just to secure this job. In that moment, I realized that beggars couldn’t be choosers. I needed this job, any job, to survive.

Swallowing my pride, I nodded slowly. "I understand," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’ll transfer to the cleaning department."

The supervisor's face relaxed slightly, relief evident in her eyes. "Thank you," she said softly.

As I walked away, I felt a mixture of emotions—relief at not being entirely cast aside, gratitude for the supervisor's kindness, but also a deep-seated sadness at my reduced circumstances. Still, I reminded myself that this was just a temporary setback. I had to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult the road ahead might be.

***

That very day, I was transferred to the cleaning department. The supervisor said that while the work was hard, it had its advantages—I wouldn't have to interact with guests or endure their disdain. I thought he had a point, but I was wrong.

In the cleaning department, I found a different kind of rhythm. The work was physically demanding but straightforward and it allowed me to avoid the judgmental stares of hotel guests. It wasn't glamorous, but it was honest work and for now, that was enough. I held onto the hope that this was just the beginning of my journey back to stability and self-worth.

That very day, as I was diligently performing my new duties in the cleaning department, I was unexpectedly reported by a VIP guest for no apparent reason. My heart sank as the supervisor informed me, her expression a mix of sympathy and frustration. Apologies and explanations whirled through my mind, but nothing could prepare me for what awaited me in that room.

Summoning my courage, I walked down the luxurious hallway towards the VIP suite, each step echoing my growing apprehension. When I finally reached the door, I took a deep breath and knocked softly before entering. The moment I stepped inside, my gaze was immediately drawn to a strikingly beautiful woman lounging on the plush sofa. Her poised demeanor and perfectly styled hair exuded an air of confident elegance.

And then it hit me—the reason for the complaint became painfully clear. It was Sharon, Lucas’s girlfriend—the very woman whose presence had been the catalyst for my devastating commitment to the psychiatric hospital. The memories of that night came flooding back, a torrent of pain and humiliation that I had been trying so hard to forget.

Seeing her sitting there, so composed and serene, I felt a wave of panic rising within me. My first instinct was to retreat, to escape the source of my trauma. I instinctively took a step back, my eyes wide with shock and fear and then turned to leave, hoping to avoid any confrontation.

But Sharon's sharp voice sliced through the air, stopping me in my tracks. "Well, well, if it isn't Wendy," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "Long time no see."

I turned back slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. She was smirking, clearly enjoying the power she held over me in this moment. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the weight of our shared history.

Sharon, striding over in her high heels, looked me up and down like I was garbage. "Cured in just three years? It seems Lucas picked a very effective mental hospital for you."

She glanced at my leg. "Oh, what happened to your leg? It looks odd. Did they break it in there?" I heard the place is full of crazy doctors and patients and the treatment methods are like hell itself. Is that true?"

Her words triggered a flood of traumatic memories—electroshock therapy, solitary confinement, verbal abuse and beatings that only stopped when I begged for mercy. The stark images of my time in the psychiatric hospital flashed before my eyes: the cold, sterile rooms where I was strapped to a bed, the relentless buzz of the electroshock machine, the suffocating darkness of solitary confinement and the cruel faces of the staff who took pleasure in my suffering.

Each word Sharon uttered seemed to drag me back into that hellish place. The humiliation of being told I was insane, the isolation from the world outside and the overwhelming fear that I would never escape—it all came rushing back with such intensity that I could barely breathe. My body started to tremble and I felt a wave of nausea rising in my throat.

"No—" I felt my mind exploding and I crouched down, screaming, "No! I won’t do it again! I’m sorry—"

Sharon’s voice continued from above. "It seems that Miss Helena's illness isn't cured at all. She probably needs another three years."

Hearing that, I collapsed into silence, curling into a ball, trying to shrink into the corner.

At that moment, Sharon ran down the hall to Lucas, who had just arrived. She threw her arms around him, saying, "Lucas, you're finally here. We’ve almost finished eating."

"Sorry, I got held up." He looked at her tenderly. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you. Is that a gift for me?" She snatched the paper bag from his hand, peeking inside and exclaiming, "Wow, it's my favorite brand! Thank you, Lucas!"

"As long as you like it," Lucas replied softly. He hadn’t noticed me trembling in the corner. It wasn’t until Sharon pointed me out that he looked over, shocked to see me.

He pulled me from the corner, his grip firm but not painful. "Helena, why are you here?"

His voice was filled with surprise and concern as he examined me closely. He held me tightly, his hand gently patting my cheek in an attempt to bring me back to reality. "Helena, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you speaking?"