Todos os capítulos de The Revenge of One Humiliated: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

ÉlianorThe question slipped into me like venom , sly, logical. It came one night as I stared at the ceiling, my hands clenched over my flat stomach where the unthinkable was beginning to take shape.Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Why hadn’t this obvious, practical solution imposed itself as the only reasonable way out?Abortion.The word echoes in the silence of my room raw, clinical. A procedure. An erasure. A return to the starting point, clean and neat, without visible trace. I could reclaim my life , or what remains of it. I could keep enduring school, the house, their stares, without this burden weighing down every step. I could take my revenge, light and untouchable, unchained by a child I never wanted.It would be ideal.The thought is clear, crystalline, seductively cold. The solution of a survivor , pragmatic and ruthless. What a strategist would do. A general at war: cast off the ballast to sink the enemy’s ship more surely.I sit on my bed, legs folded against my chest

ÉlianorThe station is a noisy belly, a monster of glass and steel that digests entire lives. The nasal announcements clash against the vault, creating a stifling cacophony, a constant buzzing that drills into my temples. Every laugh, every voice is a knife wound. I blend into the crowd, my modest bag pressed against me like a second skin, containing the remnants of seventeen years. I am a ghost among the living, a shadow moving against the current of embraces and "see you soon" that sound false to my ears. Every step is a betrayal, every breath, a theft.My feverish gaze is fixed on the ticket counter. One thought. One imperative. The farthest. The words loop in my head, a mantra of survival, a desperate prayer. Away from this suffocating room. Away from their gazes that undress and judge. Away from the specter of Raphaël and the venom of Liora. Away from this coffin-house.— A ticket for the first train that goes as far as possible, please.My voice is a throat scrape, hoarse, barel

ÉlianorFreedom tastes of salt and damp stone. It is heavy, too, with a weight I had not anticipated: that of absolute solitude. The chocolate croissant is nothing but a memory, a grease stain on the paper I keep folded at the bottom of my pocket, like a relic of this brief kindness.The day stretches, long and exhausting. I walk aimlessly, my steps guided solely by the need to find shelter. The houses of Penzance, so colorful from afar, reveal their cracks, their paint chipped by the sea wind. I search for a welcoming face, a modest inn, any sign indicating a room for rent. But everything seems closed, indifferent, or far too expensive. My money, which I mentally count over and over, is a mockery. It will not be enough for a night in most places I pass.The sky darkens further, turning leaden. The light fades, and with it, the little warmth that was there. A cold anxiety begins to creep in, more persistent than the wind. Where will I sleep? The question loops, mingling with the sound

ÉlianorThe cold of the granite has finally become my second skin. I am no longer separate from this wall oozing with humidity and oblivion, this cold stone that seems to absorb the last remnants of my vital warmth. Inside me, no more tears. They have evaporated, leaving behind a great white void, a cathedral silence after the final collapse. They took everything. Absolutely everything. Even that ticket, that tiny rectangle of paper that was my only tangible proof of having had a destiny, a direction, a possible elsewhere. Nothing remains but the hoarse breath of my panic and this presence within me, this small weight heavy with future that still anchors me to this hostile world. My child. Our child. My only, my last reason to resist the call of nothingness, not to let myself slide completely into the abyss.I have to move. Staying here means signing our death warrant. The cold will kill us, slowly, inexorably, or the next shadow lurking in this alley will finish what the others start

MarthaThe seconds that follow are a blur of blue lights and urgent voices. The paramedics are efficient, almost brusque. They lift her with a care that wrenches my heart. Her body is so slight, so broken, on the stretcher. I watch them, unable to move, glued to the asphalt as if by guilt itself.— Ma'am? Are you the driver?A police officer looks at me, notebook in hand. I nod, speechless. The words are stuck in my throat, mingled with tears and the taste of ashes left by the funeral.— I... I didn't see her, I finally manage to articulate. I was... distracted.Distracted by my daughter's face in the earth. Distracted by the silence that will now fill my house. Distracted by the gaping void she left when she departed.My gaze returns to the ambulance, its doors closing. The young girl. The stranger. Her pale face, her dark lashes against her waxen cheeks. In the madness of my grief, an absurd, desperate connection formed. It isn't Chloe, of course. Chloe is gone. But she is a girl. A