Jenna felt her way around the room. Coming back to this house brought back memories: the family dinners when her and her mother had first arrived in Rosewood, Toby accompanying her piano pieces with his guitar, the unwrapping of the presents all gathered by the fireplace on her first Christmas in the Cavanaugh house. That was before Alison, before the accident, before her relationship with Toby became so complicated and layered. Those were the times where things were simple and straight forwards, before Rosewood engulfed each member of the family in its web of lies and mysteries.
She traced the edge of an oak desk, recognizing the indentation she had accidently caused upon carving wood for an Art project two summers before. She thought with a smile that it was the only survivor from the fire. The couch she knocked her hip against was no longer the leather one that had once stood there, instead it was made of a softer, more textile material she pained to identify with precision. Even the space against the wall that had been filled with a library was now empty. She guessed everything else had burned, her mother had been vague on the matter, too preoccupied with the well being of her daughter to divulge futile details on how badly the property had been damaged. She moved around the garage like a ghost coming back to haunt a room that had held a particular place in her heart, stretching her cane before her to detect obstacles. The Cavanaughs had attempted at rebuilding the room after the accident but their attempts had resulted in a room lacking character and passion, an empty shell that was destined to remind them of what had occurred in it on that summer evening.
Part of Jenna wondered if she should have come back to that room at all. The good memories she had of it, the long nights spent huddled on the sofa reading a book or watching a movie with Toby (before he ever lost interest in her of course, after she attempted to make a move on him, he would flee at the sight of her like a scared little boy) had faded. Instead, they had been replaced by the single, endless flashback of the night she had been blinded, shreds of images, scents and sounds interrupted by moments of blackness. There were entire chunks of that event she failed to remember, images that had fallen into an oblivion never to be recalled again. Not that it mattered, the only relevant detail from the accident was that she was blind. Blind, her lips curled in a bitter smile as the word rolled around in her thoughts. It was such a short word to describe the extent of her disability. Blindness to her was more than not being able to see: it was having to trust people to give her the correct change at the store, it was risking her life when crossing a street whose street light had no auditory signal, it was having to rely on a cane or on Toby to get around without injuries. Being blind to her meant above all losing control over her own life and for someone like her, a young woman used to calling the shots with a natural mistrust of others, losing control was losing every certainty she held.
Her mind wandered back to the night of the accident and the acrid stench of burnt wood suddenly filled her nostrils. Intense, terrifying just like it had been just over a year before, accompanied by the thick, nebulous limbs of smoke that reached out for her like fingers, slithering in her mouth and nose and tightening their death grip until she felt she was suffocating. The air around her burned once more, the floor becoming incandescent as the room torched. Then she felt the phantom pain attacking her face, burning her eyes as the agony became intolerable. Her heart pounded, her breath grew shallow and rapid in an attempt to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen and yet the knot in her throat failed to ease. She felt dizzy, her muscles turned to gelatin in despite of their readiness to burst into action. She felt trapped in her body, as if her soul was trying to escape its physical restraint by jumping out. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit but found herself incapable of doing so. A small voice in her head attempted to reassure her that she was fine, that everything was nothing but a misfiring of her fight or flight signal, but the larger portion of her grey matter screamed that she was dying, that this was the end of it and the knowledge that she could do nothing to help herself, brought the terror to new heights.
For what felt like an eternity, Jenna clung to her cane for dear life, sure her legs would give out from under her if she moved, attempting to regulate her erratic breathing without much success. Then gradually, her heart stopped galloping, the death grip of panic eased on her windpipe allowing for a mouthful of fresh air reach her lungs, and the uncontrollable shaking that had plagued her hands stopped. The urge to flee dissipated and left instead an unexplainable exhaustion comparable to that of an athlete after having ran a marathon. She eased herself onto the couch, curling up in fetal position as tears begun to trace vertical patterns down her marble cheeks. Coming back had fuelled her need for revenge, but it had placed her at the mercy of her own demons. She hadn't had a panic attack in months after all, not until now.
Jenna wrapped her slender arms around herself. She felt cold. Cold, vulnerable and alone.