Page 75 of Twisted Addiction
“Probably a raccoon,” the other said, his tone dismissive.
The light passed. Their footsteps faded.
I didn’t move until I couldn’t hear them anymore.
Then I crawled from the shadows, keeping low, every nerve alive.
The garden stretched before me like a battlefield—floodlights sweeping, statues glistening, fountains whispering.
I darted between them, the night alive with the sound of my own ragged breathing.
A guard dog stirred nearby, its chain clinking softly.
I stilled, whispering a prayer I didn’t believe in, until it settled again.
Every inch brought me closer—to the house, to her.
To the wound that would never close.
At last, I reached Penelope’s window.
The glass was still fractured from before, the cracks catching the light like veins of ice.
I peered inside.
The room was empty—no movement, no sound. Just the disheveled bed, the pale curtains stirring with the draft, and the faintest trace of her perfume, warm and floral even through the rain.
Relief hit first. Then disappointment.
And then—the voice.
“Freeze!”
I spun around. A guard stood ten paces away, flashlight blazing, gun raised.
The light seared my vision, but I didn’t need to see his face to know what came next.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
I hurled the letter through the broken pane—watched it tumble into her room like a dying bird—and ran.
My feet pounded the wet grass, thorns tearing at my clothes, lungs burning as shouts erupted behind me.
“Stop! Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
I vaulted the hedge, slipped on the slick stones, caught myself, kept running.
The rain roared in my ears, drowning out everything—my fear, my guilt, the echo of her name.
The only thing that existed was forward, the need to escape, to survive long enough for her to find that letter.
It was all I had left to give her.
And all she’d ever have left of me.
The guard’s whistle cut the night like a blade.
I ran—no thinking, only motion—launching over a garden bench, slaloming past a marble cherub, my jeans catching on a jagged stone.
