1. Dolly

1

DOLLY

I stood at the edge of the bustling street, the lights of the little city I was currently in flickering around me and making everything seem more alive.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread coming from a nearby bakery, a sweet, buttery aroma that made my stomach growl. Coming from a sleepy small town in the Midwest of America, for me, the hustle and bustle of even the tiniest European village had been sensory overload. It was a far cry from the suffocating quiet of my life back home.

Home… if I could even ever call it that.

But here—ever since I got off the plane and stepped outside—I could suddenly breathe.

I could do anything.

I could be anyone.

I had needed this so damn badly. God, had I needed this like a shock to my dying heart, and fresh oxygen in my depleted lungs?

Booking a one-month-long trip through Europe had been a spontaneous decision, and a once in a lifetime experience. I hadn't even had a second thought about doing it. I drained my savings, didn't say a word about it to anyone, and just left.

My family problems were like chains around me and, eventually, would have dragged me six feet under.

As I sat on the patio of this little cafe, I couldn't help but think about the only place I'd ever known.

My parents' words still echoed in my mind, such cruel and deep-cutting remarks. My entire existence, I had been used as their personal punching bag—nothing but abuse. They'd chipped away at any sense of self-worth I tried to hold on to. They never saw me as enough in their eyes—not smart, pretty, or good enough for anything.

Yet, not even when I started working and got my own place on the outskirts of town could I escape the hostile world I'd been born into.

Because I fell right into the arms of a man who was even more abusive than my parents had been. And since I'd been conditioned to accept all shit that was thrown at me, I hadn't left him fast enough, so he'd been given the opportunity to leave some lasting scars on my body and on my soul.

Looking back now, I realized I hadn't even given space to that piece of shit in my thought process when I decided to take this trip.

Like all abusers, my ex-boyfriend had seemed so caring at first. Maybe even overly sweet, if I were being honest. He love-bombed me, and because I'd gone my entire life without that type of emotion and affection thrown my way, I absorbed it like I was in dire need of vitamin D and was able to bask in the sun for the first time ever.

But it wasn't long before the cracks in his fa?ade showed. And I took it for a while, since it felt… familiar, until I understood with shocking clarity that I didn't have to get stuck in the same pattern of abuse and manipulation I'd been subjected to my whole existence.

So I ran as fast and as far as I could, not giving him a chance to swindle his way back into my life. I might have been weak once but not anymore.

I drained my bank account, packed two bags of clothes and personal items, bought a plane ticket, and somehow found myself on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. God, I had been so ready to disappear into the nothingness and strangeness that a new place offered.

I'd been saving like crazy since I started working, and I had a nice cushion, but still, I penny-pinched and stayed in quaint hostels—at least at first.

Hostels had no frills, with just a bed and the sound of strangers talking softly close by. Yet, there was something oddly comforting about the fact that people who didn't know who I was, nor my backstory, surrounded me.

It made me feel like I could just… exist.

But at the end of it all, being alone was what I strived for. So, I spent a little more and, at my next stop, rented a little apartment on a quiet street. It overlooked a coffee shop I now frequented every morning.

I let my mind wander back to the present and finished my pastry and coffee.

Sightseeing became my escape. Day in and day out, I wandered through streets that were off the beaten path. In Europe, there was so much history at every turn. It was like there was an ancient story that needed to be told and seen.

And I absorbed it all.

I'd started my trip in Greece, with its crumbling ruins. I went to Italy next, exploring its grand cathedrals, and then landed here, in France. Every eerie little village I passed through on my journey to Paris, I immersed myself in. It was a stark reminder that life had so many more layers than the corroded slice I'd been living in.

And I'd taken my time, soaking it all in. And the longer I stayed here, the more clearly I knew I didn't want to leave.

I should have made this an open-ended trip instead of just the one-month time frame I'd set for myself.

This trip had started with me running, but I wasn't anymore. I was living.

For the first time in my life, I had control over… everything.