The walls in his childhood home were just as thin as they had been when he’d left.
“Bobby, listen to me—something isn’t right!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Sharon? Of course something “isn’t right;” we just picked our son up from a mental ward for chrissake!”
“That’s not what I mean.” A frustrated sigh. “I—I don’t know what I mean. I just…it’s like he’s not our son any more. We hardly know him!”
“He’s been sick. He’s also…grown up a lot.”
“Oh, Bobby. What were we thinking, sending him away for school all those years?”
“We did what we thought was best.” Aiden could practically hear him put his arm around his mother. There would be tears in her eyes. The wall clock caught his eye and he knew it was time to take his medicine. Anti-convulsives, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics.
He swallowed his pills and laid back down on the bed, closed his eyes and imagined he was listening to a neighbor’s soap operas through the floor.