The Class Reject: A Martyr in Maelstrom (Book III)

30 | sometime in the immediate, but unspecified future

With a labored breath, Penelope's grip tightened against the hem of her black dress. Tears continued to spill out of her eyes even though she had been crying for hours. And hours before those hours, she couldn't even bring herself out of bed.

Her life was over in more ways than one—the universe had spoken and she couldn't refute this reality. She gritted her teeth as she peered out the window of her dorm, before hardening her grip, her knuckles turning as white as the residual March snow.

March.

Miren would have been seventeen now. She choked on another sob, fighting thee urge to scream. But she was dead.

Dead.

"I'm sorry," she pleaded to no one in particular, biting her bottom lip so hard that she drew blood. "I'm so sorry."

But she knew apologies wouldn't fix anything—not when everything was broken beyond repair. Not when she was so lost, and there was not a friend to be found. When her phone beeped, she briefly withdrew that motion as she moved toward the device slowly and choppily, like a robot that needed to be charged and oiled. The text from her father only confirmed that she was alone in this universe.

Dad: Your mother and I changed our minds. You'll be heading to Colombia in two weeks. This is not up for debate. And you are no longer invited to Ben's research recognition banquet tonight. You have disgraced us enough.

No 'be safe'.

No 'You'll get through this'.

No 'I love you'.

She was officially a nobody in her family—the unwanted, obligatory plus one. With an animalistic grunt, she threw the phone toward the wall. The device collided against the objects of her dresser, knocking over a beauty bag, her pills. She cursed. So much for that suicide attempt. But she had made up her mind—she was going to kill herself.

Her tear-stricken eyes searched the room frantically. But as one would accept, a Catholic hostel was probably the dullest place in the universe. They weren't even allowed to have vibrating toothbrushes.

However, her feet started moving toward her avenue of escape before she had even

realized she had found it. With a strong, upward pull, she had the window open. Her bare feet landed on the fire escape, and before she could note how cold it was, she climbed over the railing. Her toes and fingertips were literally the only thing keeping her from falling three stories into the cement garden path that divided St. Rosemunde and Rinzen. She snarled—oh how much she hated both institutions.

Refusing to let anger wash over her, she flexed her hands against the grip of the railing as she tried not to focus on the world below her. Instead, she made a mental note of her room, tried to find peace in the suicide note she'd left on her phone.

Peace.

This wasn't suicide—this wasn't a sin. This was just the only way to achieve it.

She closed her eyes, refusing to let the gravity of the moment hit her as she readjusted her feet along the floor of the rail. She sucked in a breath, her mind finally clearing as she fell backward.

And flew away to salvation.