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I am happy to share that Goldie Parker, resident of Eugene, was found alive and well after being declared missing over two months ago. Details of her capture have not been made public at this time, but we can confirm she was being held against her will and was found with a minor sixteen years old. Both were taken and treated at Holy Cross Hospital, here in Eugene. The minor, who we will be referring to as John Doe for his safety, has been placed in the custody of the state and is undergoing treatment at this time.

We have followed up with Miss. Parker but have received no comment. We can report that she has been discharged and is back home with her loved ones.

The details surrounding their captivity are being investigated at this time and more information will be released accordingly. Detective Ransom, the lead detective on the case from Cherrytree Hills, can confirm there is no danger to the public at this time, but asks all to remain vigilant.

This is a developing story and stay tuned as more information is released.

Back to you, Bill.

Goldie

Istood in my living room, glancing around at the pristine surroundings of what was supposedly my home. The walls were a deep red brick, the ceiling light high and warm. But it felt almost too bright. It was strange, my aversion to both the light and the dark. The light was painful, showing the realities of my life now. The dark was a nightmare, reminding me of what I had lost and what I had lived through. There had to be somewhere in the middle that was safe, but I hadn’t found it yet.

Fai stood by my open front door, obviously reluctant to leave. In the two hours since he had dropped me off, he had been attempting to leave the entire time. It took ten minutes for him to get a single step closer to the door. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by asking him to go. I was grateful that he cared enough to want to be here for me, but I was so incredibly overwhelmed. I needed to just… be.

“You should have food…” Fai began rambling again, and I shot him a tentative smile, though I was worried it looked more like a grimace.

“I know,” I interrupted. “I have food in the fridge—pre-made meals and ingredients. You cleaned everything, even did the laundry. My bills have been kept up while I’ve been gone, but if there’s an issue, I should call you.”

He smiled back sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m nervous to leave you. I’m not inclined to let you out of my sight. My number is in your phone, but I also put it on—”

“A sticky note on my fridge, I know. You also wrote my computer and phone passcodes next to it,” I interrupted again. “I promise I’ll be okay—” physically, at least “—I just need time to… well, to be alone. To breathe. To process.”

Fai sighed and finally stepped out onto my porch, the sun setting in the distance, just over the horizon. He was the embodiment of worry. “It feels wrong to leave you alone.”

“Maybe, but it’s what I need right now,” I explained. “It’s what I want. Please try and respect that.”

He swallowed hard and gave me a fast, reluctant nod in acknowledgment. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check in, okay?”

“Okay.”

He shut the door behind him, and I followed close behind, flipping the lock and sliding the chain into place. I looked around what was my home and felt the panic begin to slip into my mind almost immediately. I ran from window to window, making sure each one was locked, even taking two stairs at a time to my upstairs loft, my breath coming in quick panic bursts as I checked those locks as well.

The space up here had suddenly shrunk, the shadows pressing in against my chest until I couldn't catch a full breath.

It was too dark, too tight; the walls were closing in, and I could feel the cold, suffocating edges of my nightmares creeping back into my mind. There was no way in hell I could stay up here. Not tonight.

Panic surged, sharp and unreasoning. In a blur of desperate motion, I ripped the bed pillows from the mattress and hurled them over the railing, barely waiting to hear them hit the living room floor below with a soft, muffled thump. My blankets were quick to follow, yanked free and tossed blindly over the railing.

Nothing about my actions was rational as I threw open my closet door. My hands moved on pure adrenaline, grabbing at random armfuls of clothes, hangers, and loose items, not even caring what I was holding as I flung them over the edge after the bedding.

By the time the loft was stripped down to the bare mattress, my chest was heaving, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs. The blind panic finally subsided just enough for my legs to carry me back down the spiral stairs.

I reached the main floor and looked at the mountain of bedding and tangled clothes strewn across my hardwood floor. A breathless, incredulous laugh bubbled up in my throat. I stood there in the quiet studio, surrounded by the physical proof of my own unraveling mind, and slowly sat down in the middle of the pile to start putting the pieces back together. It seemed I was moving into my living room.

I was a horrible cook; I couldn’t deny that fact any longer. In the week I had been home, I had burned everything I tried to bake in the godforsaken oven, boiled pasta for so long it was mush, and learned I had no idea how to properly season my meals. I knew what tasted good; I simply couldn’t recreate it.

I stared at today’s disaster on the stove. I had tried to make a simple quesadilla. I figured it couldn’t be too hard, yet somehow the tortilla was burned and the cheese was still cold. I flipped off the burner, moving the pan into the sink, practically throwing it into the metal basin, where it landed with a loud crash. I turned on the faucet, the pan hissing as water hit hot metal, steam billowing up and around me.

I fought back the tears that threatened to spill. In the week I had been home, I hadn’t yet cried. Not when sleep was just a revolving door of horror, tearing me awake every few hours with the echoes of my own nightmares still ringing in my ears. Not when I stared at the books on my shelves, the obvious well-loved stories in the worn books with cracked spines, and couldn’t remember a single one. Not even when I met with my new therapist every day—the hour-long, remote meeting that happened every morning, where she tried to get me to dive into the worst recesses of my mind, where I was hiding the truth of what happened to me. Not even she could force the tears out of me.

But this damned, inedible quesadilla was the first thing to try and pull the reluctant tears forward. I looked up at the ceiling, willing them away.

I was fine. I was fine.

I had to be. I just wanted to move on. I wanted my mind to be healed, my memories back, my life back, but it was all out of reach. Not a single memory had slipped back in; the only thing my mind could count on was the persistent headaches—headaches painful enough that the light burned when on. But when the lights were off, the panic slipped in. So my options were cower in fear or suffer through the pain.

And I had been suffering. Every light in my home was on, and new lamps purchased were plugged into every available outlet. My power bill would be through the roof, and I didn’t even care. Maybe I should. I had no understanding of what money I did have. I didn’t even know who I banked with. Fai would tell me if I asked. He was here every day, cleaning up my kitchen, dropping off takeout, and doing his best to hide his sad and worried glances that I would catch out of the corner of my eye.