THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxxix. THE BOY WHO BLOCKED HIS OWN SHOT

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CHAPTER THIRTY NINE;

THE BOY WHO BLOCKED HIS OWN SHOT.

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        WHAT EXISTED AT THE END OF THE GODDAMN WORLD? Gilded ivory gates, beckoning souls into heaven's tender embrace? A scorching staircase, descending into the abyssal depths of hell? Or . . . was there a realm untouched by the hands of divine decree? Perhaps there existed a third place, a desolate expanse where lost souls roam. A realm twisted and torn at its very edges, an eerie limbo suspended between the ethereal glow of paradise and the infernal depths of damnation.

        Perhaps it was worse than either of them.

        For as long as Bellamy Blake could remember—it had always been himself, his sister, and their mother, a trinity bound by blood and undying devotion. He never asked for anything more, never dared to dream of a life beyond their tight-knit existence. The oath he'd taken to protect Octavia from the Ark's corrupt government was ingrained in his very being from the age of five. A life before her was a distant, irrelevant memory, one he never sought to recall—he didn't need to. Every sacrifice he made for her was worth it, each one justified by the simple assurance of witnessing her smile.

        Until, one day, it was no longer just them.

        On his first official day as a Cadet, a violent, thrashing fifteen-year-old was thrust into Bellamy's scrawny arms. She clawed at his forearms viciously, spewing curses and threats as he escorted her to her cell, each word a cruel dagger piercing his shaky resolve. In a desperate bid to mend the chasm between them, he offered a flimsy locket salvaged from her living quarters—an emblem of peace. Yet, as she beheld the token, her once-fiery gaze fractured, watery eyes reflecting the collapse of a thousand dying stars.

        He had been assigned as her guard that day because he was the only one who had managed to quell her thrashing.

For months, she continued to wield her silence like a weapon, an excruciating wall of indifference that stung far more than her earlier assaults. He dutifully escorted her to her doctor's appointments, a silent sentinel by her side, his hand always offered in quiet solidarity—only to be met with a dismissive flick every time she endured the sting of the needles.

       Until, one day . . . she reached for it first.

It was a silent truce.

        A subconscious surrender.

Just as Bellamy's couldn't pinpoint the moment his little sister became his entire world . . . he also couldn't pinpoint Haven's ascendance to the throne of his fucking universe. The genesis of his love for her eluded definition—it wasn't a singular event, but a continuous, ineffable force that had always coursed through his veins, intertwining with the very fibers of his being.
       
It was . . . beautiful.