Reborn To Escape His Toxic Love

His eyes snapped open.

The air tearing through his throat sounded like a rusted saw blade cutting through bone. Erich's hands clamped down on the bedsheets, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white.

He tried to roll over. A violent cramp ripped through the pit of his stomach, burning like battery acid. The sheer force of the pain slammed his spine back against the thin mattress.

He gasped for air. His lungs expanded, pulling in the scent of cheap pine air freshener and rotting floorboards.

This wasn't Malibu. There was no crisp ocean breeze. No scent of Erik's expensive cedarwood cologne.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thudded in the hallway.

Erich's pupils dilated. His body reacted before his brain could process the movement, curling into a tight, defensive ball. His shoulders hiked up to his ears. He braced himself for the blow. He thought it was Erik Patton coming to punish him again.

The flimsy wooden door flew open, slamming against the wall.

A middle-aged woman with disheveled hair and swollen, red-rimmed eyes rushed into the room. A glass of water slipped from her trembling hands, shattering onto the faded carpet.

She let out a guttural sob. "Oh, God!"

Brenda threw herself at the bed. She didn't hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Erich's rigid body, pulling him into a crushing, desperate hug.

The sudden physical contact sent a violent shockwave through Erich's nervous system. The trauma of being forcefully held down, of being touched against his will, ignited in his veins. He started shaking uncontrollably.

He raised his weak, trembling arms, shoving at her chest with everything he had.

A young girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a frayed denim jacket. Keyla crossed her arms tightly over her chest and bit down hard on her lower lip. Her eyes were wide with panic, but her voice dripped with forced sarcasm.

"Look who finally decided to wake up."

Erich's cracked lips parted. He wanted to scream at them. He wanted to demand who they were and where Erik was. But the words died in his throat, replaced by a fit of coughing that felt like his ribs were splintering.

Brenda released him, her face pale with terror. She spun around to face the girl.

"Keyla! Go to the kitchen and get him some warm water. Now!"

Keyla uncrossed her arms and vanished down the hall.

Brenda turned back, her hands hovering uselessly in the air. Erich didn't look at her. He lowered his chin, staring at the hands he had just used to push her away.

They weren't his hands.

These fingers were pale, bony, and completely devoid of the cigarette burns Erik had left on his knuckles.

His heart skipped a beat. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He ripped the heavy blanket off his legs, staring down at the emaciated thighs hidden beneath the cheap hospital-grade sweatpants.

This was not his body.

Keyla stomped back into the room. She held a bright blue plastic mug. She shoved it toward Erich's face with a jerky, uncoordinated motion.

Water sloshed over the rim. A few ice-cold drops landed directly on Erich's bare collarbone.

The cold moisture hit his skin. His vision went black.

The memory of Erik's hand wrapping around the back of his neck, forcing his head under the freezing bathwater, hijacked his brain. His lungs locked up. He couldn't breathe.

Erich let out a choked gasp and swatted his hand outward.

His palm collided with the plastic mug. It flew across the room, bouncing off the hardwood floor with a loud, hollow clatter. Water sprayed across the wall.

Brenda sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands shook violently as she reached out, barely grazing his cheek.

"Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts." Her voice cracked, thick with begging.

Erich scrambled backward until his spine hit the hard wooden headboard. He pressed himself into the wood like a cornered stray cat. His chest heaved. His eyes darted wildly between Brenda and Keyla, scanning the cramped room for a way out.

Keyla rolled her eyes, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the doorframe.

"If he has the energy to throw a tantrum, he's not dying," she snapped.

Erich forced himself to swallow the bile rising in his throat. He inhaled through his nose. He was alive. He wasn't in the freezing cabin where he had died. He was in a stranger's house, in a stranger's body.

Brenda took a slow, cautious step forward.

"Erich?" she whispered.

The name hit him like a physical blow to the jaw. It was his name. The exact same pronunciation.

His head snapped up. His eyes darted wildly, scanning the woman's tear-streaked face with pure, unadulterated terror. He opened his mouth, but only a broken, animalistic wheeze escaped. His chest heaved as he struggled to connect his shattered thoughts. Finally, his vocal cords scraped together, forcing out a fragmented, breathless whisper.

"...Where...? Who... are you?"

The air in the room instantly evaporated.

Brenda's face crumpled. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, tracking through the deep lines around her mouth. She looked back at Keyla, her expression completely shattered.

Keyla dropped her arms. She took a threatening step toward the bed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch.

"Did you fry your brain with those pills? You don't recognize your own mother and sister?"

The words triggered a catastrophic reaction inside Erich's skull.

A massive wave of foreign memories crashed into his brain. Images of swallowing handfuls of white pills. The crushing weight of depression. The smell of cheap paint.

The new memories violently tangled with his own final moments-the sound of the lock clicking on the abandoned cabin door, the freezing wind, the realization that Erik wasn't coming to save him.

Erich let out a low, agonizing groan. He grabbed his own hair, pulling hard enough to rip the roots.

The room spun. He lost his balance, his upper body pitching forward off the edge of the mattress. He gagged, dry-heaving bitter stomach acid onto the floor.

Brenda screamed. She dove forward, catching him by the shoulders before he could hit the ground.

"Keyla! Call Dr. Albright! Call her right now!"

Brenda wrapped her arms around him again, pulling him tight against her chest. The smell of her laundry detergent filled his nose. It was suffocating.

Panic clawed at Erich's throat. He needed to get away from her touch. He needed to run. But his muscles were entirely useless.

If they called an ambulance, they would lock him in a psych ward. He couldn't let that happen.

Erich bit down on the inside of his cheek. He bit down until he tasted the sharp, metallic tang of his own blood. The physical pain sliced through the panic, forcing his brain to focus.

He went completely limp in Brenda's arms.

"I'm fine," he rasped out, his voice dead and hollow.

Brenda sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. She carefully pushed him back onto the pillows, tucking the blanket under his chin like he was a toddler.

Erich didn't fight her. He stared blankly at the yellow water stain on the ceiling. He had just hijacked the life of a pathetic, suicidal stranger who happened to share his name.

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.

Dr. Albright's pen hovered over the lined paper. Her eyes were sharp, analyzing his posture, his breathing, the tension in his jaw.

Erich slowly walked away from the window. He sank into the fabric armchair, intentionally slumping his shoulders. He dropped his gaze to the geometric pattern on the rug, forcing his eyes to lose focus.

"I don't remember," he said. His voice was dry, cracking slightly at the edges. "My head feels like it's packed with wet cotton. Even breathing feels exhausting."

Dr. Albright frowned. She lowered her pen and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk.

"When you say you don't remember, Erich, are you referring to the night of the incident? Or before that?"

Erich laced his fingers together in his lap. He pressed his right thumb hard into his left knuckle, digging the nail in until a sharp spike of pain shot up his arm. The pain forced a genuine rush of moisture to his eyes.

"Everything," he whispered.

Dr. Albright quickly flipped through the pages in his file. "An overdose of that magnitude can certainly cause short-term memory fragmentation. But it usually presents with severe cognitive delay."

She was testing him.

Erich didn't miss a beat. "Today is Thursday, October 14th. We drove here down Route 9. The receptionist was wearing a green sweater." He recited the facts with terrifying clarity.

Surprise flickered across Dr. Albright's face. The hysterical, weeping boy she had treated for six months was gone. The person sitting in front of her was completely lucid, yet emotionally dead.

She decided to push harder. She went for the open wound.

"Do you remember New York? The art academy? The reason you had to leave?"

Erich's heart slammed against his ribs. He had no idea what she was talking about. But he kept his face completely paralyzed. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"So what?" he asked, his voice dripping with absolute apathy.

Dr. Albright blinked. She was used to Erich breaking down into hyperventilation the second the academy was mentioned. This icy indifference completely threw her off balance.

She picked up her pen and dragged a heavy line across the paper. Emotional isolation mechanism activated. Suspected post-traumatic dissociation.

Erich watched the movement of her pen. The tension in his chest loosened slightly. He had won. He had successfully weaponized psychology against the psychologist.

To solidify his control over the narrative, Erich suddenly stood up.

He walked over to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. He stared at his reflection. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess that hung past his shoulders, completely obscuring his face.

It was the exact same length Erik had forced him to keep in his past life. Erik liked pulling it.

A wave of nausea hit Erich so hard he had to grip the edges of the mirror to stay upright.

He turned his head to look at Dr. Albright. His eyes were burning with a manic, desperate intensity.

"I need to cut it off," he demanded.

Dr. Albright froze. "Your hair? Erich, for the past six months, you've refused to let anyone near you with scissors. You said it made you feel safe."

"It's too heavy," Erich said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It's suffocating me. I want it gone. I want to start over."

The double meaning of his words hung heavy in the air. It perfectly fit the narrative of a suicidal patient seeking a drastic rebirth.

Dr. Albright stared at him for a long moment. She offered a warm, practiced smile, but internally, her clinical alarm bells were ringing. She made a mental note: Abrupt personality shift. Monitor for potential manic episode or other underlying issues. The recovery seems... too clean. Finally, she let out a slow exhale and signed her name at the bottom of his evaluation form.

"This is a massive step, Erich. It's a positive sign. I will tell your mother to support this decision."

"Thank you," Erich said flatly.

The session ended. Erich pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the hallway. A cold sweat had soaked through the back of his t-shirt, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

Brenda shot up from her chair the second she saw him. She looked past him, her eyes pleading with Dr. Albright for a verdict.

Dr. Albright offered a warm, reassuring smile. "He's experiencing some memory fog, Brenda. But his survival instinct is kicking in. He's making progress."

Brenda covered her mouth with both hands. A choked sob escaped her lips. She looked at Erich like he was a ghost that had finally decided to stay.

Keyla stood up from her corner. She didn't say anything, but the rigid tension in her shoulders visibly melted away.

They walked out into the parking lot. The wind whipped around them.

Brenda unlocked the Chevy, her hands still shaking with relief. She looked at Erich over the roof of the car.

"Do you... do you want to go straight home? Or do you want to stop somewhere?"

Erich stared at the reflection of the trees in the car window. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cold, humorless smirk.

"Book me an appointment at the barbershop," he said.

He was going to kill the old Erich Colon today.