Chapter 4

I was woken in the middle of the night by the cold draft coming through the window, which cleared my head considerably.

I contacted the restaurant owner and requested the surveillance footage from that night, hoping to figure out what happened.

Was I just too stressed from work, or had I developed dissociative identity disorder, doing something outrageous?

Is that why everyone turned on me the moment I ate a chicken drumstick?

I watched the footage from sunrise to sunset, my eyes bloodshot, but I found no signs of dissociative identity disorder.

After much deliberation, I booked an appointment with a renowned psychiatrist.

After I explained the whole situation, the doctor patted my shoulder and comforted me:

“It's normal for people today to experience high stress, sometimes leading to dissociative identity disorder or memory loss.”

I clutched at that lifeline, pulling out my phone to show him the surveillance video from that night.

But before I could even take my phone back, the doctor shoved it into my hand and pushed me out the door:

“You’re beyond help. Please find another doctor.”

“Or perhaps it's best not to treat you at all. Even if cured, it won't erase the evil within you.”

I stood outside the door, helplessly wringing my hands, tears streaming down my face like a broken string of pearls.

I stumbled back to my apartment complex in a daze, only to bump into my landlord. She angrily declared:

“Get out within an hour! You disgusting creature, renting my apartment! Who knows if anyone will rent it after you’re done with it.”

“If I’d known what kind of person you were, I never would have rented to you.”

My entire body went limp, and I knelt at my landlord’s feet, begging for an explanation like a beggar.

But she just kicked me away, refusing to even look at me, and walked off without a backward glance.

Dragging my luggage, bag after bag, I had nowhere to go.

So I called Eleanor, my mom.

When I finally threw myself into Eleanor’s arms, all the hurt and frustration of the past few days spilled out. I hugged her and cried for over ten minutes.

Eleanor didn't say a word, didn't ask anything. She just held me, gently stroking my hair.

Ethan, my brother, also took time off work to come home, saying he missed me.

The days with Eleanor were peaceful and wonderful, gradually allowing me to lower my guard and forget what had happened.

Six months passed peacefully. Eventually, I needed to get back to life, so I interviewed for a company online, ready to resume working.

Seeing me getting better, Eleanor smiled with relief and started bustling around, insisting I eat a full meal before leaving.

Eleanor cooked many dishes, all my favorites.

Just as I put down my fork and was about to go pack more things.

Eleanor brought out a bowl of chicken soup!

I looked at the greasy chicken soup and suddenly felt nauseous, the room spinning around me.

“Mia, Mom made this chicken soup for you herself. Simmered slowly, so nourishing and delicious.”

“You really should eat a big bowl. You won’t find anything like this anywhere else.”

My head throbbed. All those painful memories flooded my mind at once.

I was trying to think of an excuse to escape, but then I noticed Eleanor’s hands, red and blistered from burns.

Eleanor noticed my gaze and tugged at her sleeve, trying to hide them:

“It’s nothing, just accidentally burned myself with the pot while making soup. I’ve already put ointment on it.”

My throat tightened, and I couldn't bring myself to refuse her:

“Thank you, Mom. I’m definitely going to eat a big chicken drumstick.”

Eleanor looked at me gently,

“Eat up, eat up. It’s all yours.”

With that, Eleanor started to clear away the other dishes, letting me eat slowly.

Seeing nothing amiss, I lowered my guard. After all, I’d always loved Eleanor's chicken soup the most.

I picked up the bowl and took a sip of soup. A warm feeling spread through me instantly, leaving a sweet and savory aftertaste.

Eleanor freed one hand to wipe a spot of grease from the corner of my mouth.

But as I picked up the chicken drumstick and took a few bites,

Eleanor slammed the cleared dishes onto the floor, shattering porcelain pieces across the floor.

Before I could react, Eleanor's slap already stung my cheek.

“Mia, how could I have raised such a monster? I'm going to beat you to death!”

With that, she grabbed a broom and swung it at me.

Just as I raised my hand to block it, Ethan stepped in front of me.

“Mom, what did Mia do wrong? How can you hit her?”

Eleanor's chest heaved violently, and the veins on her forehead bulged.

She yanked Ethan aside and whispered something in his ear:

“I served Mia chicken soup, and she actually…”