The Retreat

Harrison’s shoes squeaked on the hardwood, a clinical, predatory sound that signaled the end of the intervention and the beginning of the assault. I didn't wait for him to close the gap. As the syringe leveled toward my arm, I didn't scream; I bolted.

I lunged past Arthur, my shoulder clipping his judicial robes, and scrambled toward the bedroom door. Behind me, the mask of brotherly concern shattered. The soothing tones were replaced by a sharp, authoritative bark that I hadn't heard since the winter of 1998.

"Eleanor! Stop this instant!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing off the stripped rafters.

I hit the landing, my socks sliding on the polished oak. I could hear them behind me—the heavy, rhythmic thud of Arthur’s wingtips and the lighter, more agile pace of Harrison. They weren't calling for a nurse anymore. They were hunting a variable.

I reached the stairs, my heart a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs. I didn't go down. I knew the foyer was a kill box, the front door likely locked from the outside by the "wellness team" Harrison had promised. Instead, I turned back toward the master suite, my boots finding purchase on the hallway runner.

"She’s heading for the room!" Harrison’s voice was high, edged with a clinical panic. "Arthur, the sedative won't work if she locks herself in!"

I reached the heavy oak door of the master bedroom and threw my weight against it. I didn't look back. I didn't look at the men who had spent twenty-eight years pruning my sanity like a hedge. I slammed the door shut and fumbled for the iron bolt, the metal cold and unyielding against my sweating palm.

*Clack.*

The bolt slid home just as a heavy weight threw itself against the other side. The wood groaned, the antique hinges screaming in protest. I backed away, my chest heaving, my eyes fixed on the vibrating panel.

I wasn't safe, but I was inside. I looked at the jagged hole in the closet wall, the entrance to the void where the truth was currently streaming to a server in Oregon. The architecture of my prison had finally become my fortress.

I grabbed the heavy dresser, my strength doubled by the adrenaline of a cornered architect, and began to drag it toward the door. Every inch felt like a mile, the wood scarring the floorboards I had once planned to refinish.

Arthur's shoulder hit the door. It wouldn't hold for long.