Chapitre 16: Penélope - Origins (Final)
Sorry Uploaded Unfinished Chapter
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Three years later, Penélope's life had become a dizzying blur of confusion, desperation, and poor decisions.
The once hopeful girl who had imagined a new beginning in the small town had all but vanished.
In her place was someone hardened, someone who had clung to the wrong things in an attempt to escape the trauma of her past.
Her relationship with Robert had consumed her entirely.
She had begun spending more and more time at his place, skipping classes, avoiding the couple who had taken her in.
Her studies had become a distant memory, and the small hope she had once nurtured of a better life was slowly slipping away.
It wasn't just her grades that had fallen apart—her life at the couple's house had deteriorated as well.
At first, they had tolerated her absence, grumbling about her being lazy and ungrateful, but as time went on, their patience wore thin.
They had no real attachment to her, no genuine concern for her well-being.
She was a burden, nothing more, and as she spent less time at home, they decided they had had enough.
Penélope remembered the day they kicked her out.
It had been raining, the sky a heavy gray that matched the weight in her chest.
She had come home late one evening, drenched from the downpour, only to find her things packed up and left by the front door.
The couple had stood in the doorway, their faces twisted in disgust.
"You're never here," Mary had said sharply, her arms crossed over her chest.
"You think we're going to let you live here for free when you don't even bother to do your chores anymore? We're not running a charity."
Joseph had nodded in agreement, his eyes cold.
"You're not a child anymore. If you want to spend all your time with that boy, then you can go live with him. We've done more than enough for you."
Penélope had tried to plead with them, but it was useless.
They had already made up their minds. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
The safety she had once clung to had been nothing more than another illusion.
And so, she had left, taking what little she had with her.
She went straight to Robert's place, hoping he would offer her comfort, but what she found instead was a twisted form of solace that only deepened her despair.
---
It was late that night when Penélope found herself in Robert's room, the air thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and something darker she couldn't quite place.
She had grown accustomed to the haze of drugs that seemed to hang in the air whenever she was with him, though she had always been careful to avoid them herself.
She had watched him and his friends indulge countless times, their eyes glazed over, their movements slow and detached, but she had always told herself that she wouldn't sink to that level.
Until tonight.
Penélope sat on the edge of his bed, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her thoughts were muddled, her mind a swirling storm of anxiety and regret.
She had jeopardized everything—her studies, her future, the fragile stability she had fought so hard to maintain. Now, she had nothing left.
Robert, sprawled out on the bed next to her, glanced over with a lazy smile.
His eyes were glassy, his movements sluggish, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made her uneasy.
He reached over to a small, beat-up box on the nightstand and pulled out a small bag of powder, holding it up between his fingers.
"Come on, Pen," he said softly, his voice dripping with false affection. "You need to relax. You're too tense."
She shook her head, her stomach twisting in knots. "No, Robert. I don't want to. I told you, I don't do that stuff."
He chuckled, shaking his head as if she had said something foolish. "It's not a big deal, babe. Just one time. It'll help you feel better, I promise."
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered in her ear. "You trust me, right?"
Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the bag in his hand.
She did trust him—at least, she had convinced herself that she did.
He had been the only constant in her life for so long, the only person who had paid attention to her, who had shown her any kind of affection, even if it was twisted.
And now, with nowhere else to go, she felt trapped.
She wanted to say no, but the fear of losing him, of being completely alone, gnawed at her.
Robert saw her hesitation and pressed further, his voice soft and soothing, but there was a darkness beneath it, an edge of control that she couldn't ignore. "Just try it, Pen. For me."
Her hands trembled as she reached for the small bag.
She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, her mind screaming at her to stop, but her body betrayed her.
She was desperate—desperate to forget, desperate to feel something other than the crushing weight of her life.
She hesitated for just a moment longer before giving in. Robert guided her through the motions, his hands gentle but insistent. He made it seem so easy, so harmless, and she wanted to believe him.
She wanted to believe that this would help, that it would make the pain go away.
But she was wrong.
After that fateful night, Penélope's life spiraled into a haze of drug-fueled numbness. Days bled into nights, and the world outside Robert's room became a distant memory. She never fought back against him; she didn't have the strength or the will anymore. The drugs he gave her dulled her senses, clouding her thoughts, making everything feel distant, surreal. Robert's touch, once just manipulative, now became a constant, his presence always there when she drifted back into consciousness.
She never resisted him. In the beginning, there had been flickers of shame, flashes of her former self trying to surface. But Robert was always quick to soothe her, whispering in her ear as he held her close.
"It's alright, baby," he'd say, brushing her hair out of her face with a gentle smile. "You're so beautiful when you just relax. Just let it happen, don't fight it."
Penélope would stare up at him with glassy eyes, barely comprehending his words, her head swimming in the fog of the drugs. There was no fight left in her, just a hollow acceptance of her new reality.
"See?" Robert would murmur, kissing her neck. "I love you, Penélope. No one else is going to take care of you like I do."
And she believed him.
Or, at least, she wanted to. In her drugged haze, his lies became her truth, and she found herself leaning into him, needing his presence just to feel something, anything.
His manipulation had taken hold of her completely, and she no longer questioned the wrongness of it all.
It was easier to accept than to confront the horror of what her life had become.
Weeks turned into months, and Robert's control over her deepened.
Penélope found herself waking up to unfamiliar faces more and more often, her body used by men she didn't know.
She would stir from her drugged slumber, her vision blurred, only to see two or three men in the room with Robert, all of them laughing and talking as if she wasn't even there.
"She's perfect slut , man," Robert would say, grinning as he poured drinks for his friends. "Doesn't fight, doesn't complain. She's exactly what you need after a long day."
Penélope never said a word.
She couldn't.
The drugs kept her docile, her mind too foggy to form coherent thoughts, let alone resist.
She lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling as they took their turns with her, feeling nothing but the distant echo of pain and humiliation.
"Just relax, Penélope," Robert would say as he pressed himself against her. "Everything's fine. You're mine, and I'll always take care of you."
And in her weakened state, she accepted it.
She had no one else, nowhere else to go.
This was her life now—numb, broken, and at the mercy of the man who had once promised to love her.
---
Penélope had forgotten what it felt like to resist.
For months, she had slipped deeper and deeper into a hollow acceptance of her existence, her will eroded by the constant cycle of abuse and drug-induced stupor.
She had come to believe that this was all she was now—a slave, a creature beneath humanity, living only to serve the desires of men who viewed her as nothing more than an object.
Her mind twisted and contorted to survive, adapting to the role she had been forced into.
Numbness was easier than the pain.
Until it wasn't.
One day, Penélope awoke from her fog, the weight of something different in the air pulling her from her usual oblivion.
Her head throbbed as her vision came into focus.
The familiar dull ache in her body lingered, but something was off.
The usual sounds of Robert's voice or his friends' laughter were absent.
Instead, a heavy silence hung in the room like a storm about to break.
She blinked, slowly pushing herself up on trembling arms.
Her eyes widened as she took in the scene around her.
Corpses. Lifeless, bloodied bodies lay strewn across the floor, their eyes open in permanent terror.
The stench of death filled the room, and Penélope's heart pounded in her chest, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin.
Robert's friends—men she had seen countless times—were reduced to grotesque, twisted shapes, their bodies mangled and necks with bite marks.
And then she saw her.
A blonde woman stood in the center of the room, holding one of Robert's friends by the throat.
The man's body twitched weakly, his face contorted in agony as the woman's sharp teeth sank into his neck.
Blood poured from the wound, staining her lips and chin as she drank deeply.
Penélope's breath caught in her throat, frozen in terror as she watched the woman feed.
The man's struggles weakened, his eyes rolling back as his body went limp.
The blonde woman carelessly tossed him aside, like a ragdoll.
His corpse hitting the floor with a thud.
The woman turned to face Penélope, her eyes glowing a deep, blood-red hue.
Dark veins pulsed around her eyes, and her mouth, smeared with fresh blood, twisted into a cruel smile.
The sight was monstrous—something out of Penélope's worst nightmares.
Their gazes locked for a long, horrifying moment. Penélope couldn't move, couldn't breathe. She was too terrified to even scream.
The blonde woman looked her up and down, her expression curling in disgust. "Pathetic," she muttered ina thick accent, her voice cold and filled with contempt.
Without another word, the woman disappeared in a blur, leaving Penélope alone in the room of death.
Penélope sat there for what felt like an eternity, her mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
She slowly brought her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly as she trembled uncontrollably.
She had no idea what that creature was or why she had been spared.
All she knew was that the nightmare she had thought she was living in had just become something far worse.
She wasn't sure what was more terrifying—that she had lived through months of abuse without a shred of resistance, or that something so monstrous had decided she wasn't even worth killing.
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