I gathered everything I needed and dragged my failing body to the hospital.
"Director Swanson, Director James—you're living saints!"
"If it weren't for you, I'd have jumped off a building with my child by now!"
In the hospital courtyard, my parents stood at the center of an adoring crowd. Grateful families pressed close, voices trembling with emotion.
Their faces wore masks of humble kindness.
Reporters jostled for position, microphones thrust forward, cameras flashing.
The scene before me played like some grotesque film—a comedy so dark it circled back to absurdity.
I shoved through the crowd, forcing my way to the center.
And I screamed.
"I HAVE A KNIFE! I'LL KILL SOMEONE! GET BACK!"
The words "kill someone" hit like a detonation. The crowd scattered, stumbling over each other to escape.
A ring of empty space opened around me.
My parents' benevolent expressions vanished the instant they saw my face.
Their smiles froze—then turned to ice.
Their voices came at me in sharp whispers.
"Penelope, this isn't the time for your theatrics!"
"Get out of here. Now!"
I ignored them completely, turning to face the crowd of guests and journalists behind me.