The fall

Chapter 34

Blake

I'm losing it.

I can feel it. The walls are closing in around me, every tick of the clock growing louder, every minute stretching into hours, each hour a weight I can't escape. I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that I'm not going insane.

Penelope's gone. She's been gone for weeks, and every day, the memory of her haunts me. I tell myself I'm fine—like some dam fool—but I'm not. Every time I close my eyes, it's her face I see, her eyes full of anger and disappointment, her voice echoing in my head, her name a constant refrain that I can't escape.

I should've never let it this far.

Penelope.

The word tastes like ash on my tongue. I want to scream it, to shout it out loud, but I don't. I can't. It's like I'm afraid of there truth that's buried deep inside me, the truth that I've been avoiding for too long. The truth that It's my fault she left.

I should've seen it, I should've understood her sooner. But I was too blind, too stupid, too consumed by my own pride and fear to have my dad's approval. I pushed her away. She didn't only disappear because of the grand conspiracy my father had, she disappeared because I hurt her. Because I was weak. I couldn't protect her from the truth. I couldn't love her the way she deserved.

I wipe my hand across my face, trying to erase the guilt. It doesn't work. It never works.

Penelope killed my father.

I scribble the words in my notebook, the pencil trembling slightly in my grip. I can't stop myself from writing it again and again, as though repeating the words will somehow make sense of this twisted, broken mess. She killed him. My father, the man who destroyed her, the man who molded and manipulated her into something cold and unforgiving.

That night—the night we shared together—the morning we shared together was the last time we saw each other. Something broke in her. Something snapped. And I wasn't there to stop it.

Penelope. Her name burns in my throat as I write it over and over in my notebook. I really am turning insane.. Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.

I clutch the pencil tighter, the wood groaning under the pressure of my grip. My knuckles turn white, the pain sharp and real, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this—this obsession with finding her. This unrelenting need to understand what happened that day. Why she vanished, why she left me.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear my mind. But all I can see is her face—her anger, her fear, her pain. She killed my father, then disappeared into the shadows, and I couldn't stop her. I didn't even try.

I slam the notebook shut, the pages rattling.