Fallen Angel [Bellamy Blake]

Chapter 5: Tree climber

‼️TW: mentions of suicide and depression.

AFTER I LEFT WELLS, I didn't have the energy to build my own tent. The conversation about my father and remembering Selina had made the weight on my shoulders feel heavier than usual. All I wanted was to escape reality for a while.

Back on the Ark, whenever I felt like this, I'd sneak up to the top floor of the ring. It had the best view of Earth and was the most secluded room in all of the twelve stations—my personal sanctuary. Now, I just needed to find a place here where I can be high enough off the ground to make it mine.

As I started towards the woods, I notice Bellamy jogging over. His arrogance radiated off him like heat from the sun, and I could already feel my annoyance rising.

"Can I help you?" I asked, my voice dripping with hostility.

"You actually can, angel," He said, smirking.

I stopped and turned to face him, arms crossed. I choose to ignore the irritating nickname—just for now. Shifting my weight, I waited for him to get to the point. Whatever it was my answer was going to be the same. I wasn't giving Bellamy Blake anything.

After a pause, he finally said, "You can give me your wristband."

I threw my head back, laughing, and continued walking. I had almost forgotten about the metal band around my wrist. Admittedly, I was already planning on taking my wristband off myself, but now that I know he wants it, there was no way I was going to do it. The middle finger to my father would have to wait. I wanted to give a middle finger to Bellamy Blake.

I shake my head as I walk off. "You're going to have to pry it off of my hand, Blake."

I could feel his eyes on my back as I make my way towards the far corner of the camp.

Finally alone, I hoist myself up on a tree. I continue to climb until I'm high enough to see far over the canopy of the forest. I lean on the trunk and stare down at my wrist. Why did Bellamy even want my stupid wristband anyway? The silver gleams in the sun and shines back at me. Would my father even care if I was dead?

I stuff my hands into my jacket pocket, wanting to hide the wristband from view. But, as I do, I feel something prick against my skin on the inside of the jacket pocket. I pull out an envelope, my name scrawled  across the back of it in my father's handwriting.

The letter he wanted to give me.

I scoff before stuffing it back inside the inner pocket. He actually had the nerve to put the infamous apology letter in my jacket. The last thing I wanted right now was to read whatever he had to say to me. His explanation was 18 years too late.

I already knew the truth. Not because anybody told me but because I found out the truth about what happened to mom myself.

My entire childhood my father made me believe that she died during labor. For years I blamed myself for her death and believed that my father blamed me too—I mean it was the only explanation for why he was so distant and cold toward me. However, whenever the topic of my mother came up everyone was always so closed off about any details. I knew something wasn't right. There were pieces of the story that didn't add up and I was tired of no one being honest with me. So I decided to find out for myself, and that's when I discovered that she had actually stolen a pod from the Ark to escape from my father.