Page 62 of Sweet Venom

My stomach churns as my mouth starts to fill with saliva. I look over, see a trash can next to the butler's pantry, and make a bee-line, falling to my knees just in time. My body expels all the sandwiches until there's nothing left in my stomach. How could I not have known my parents were dead? Why would my mother do this after all this time? I saw them in the local papers walking hand in hand through downtown St. Charles when I returned home to sell off my assets. The fuckers were happy.

I crawl back over to the table and grab a napkin to wipe my mouth before reclaiming my chair and asking, "When did this happen? Was there a note? I don't understand. I was the thing that kept them apart. I left the damn state."

"The maid found them on Sunday. I've paid a lot of money to ensure I control what the media puts out regarding his death. As of this morning, a statement was released saying Julian Fiori was found unresponsive in his home Sunday morning. The cause of death is still under investigation. I can't tell you for certain what went on behind closed doors. The events following your departure kept us more apart than ever. As for a note…" She trails off before slipping an all-too-familiar piece of paper from underneath a napkin.

"She did leave a suicide letter of sorts, if you will." Her brow rises as she holds a powder pink piece of paper folded into the shape of a heart between two fingers and adds, "I think you might know it." Then she slides it down the table for me to take.

Dear heart,

You tore my family apart,

We are now broken and missing parts.

Why can't you find it in you to care?

Aren't you always supposed to be there?

Maybe it's there I need to go

Because it's where the tears won't flow,

And if it's time to say goodbye

Then I won't feel so bad inside.

She's right. I do know it because I wrote it. When I was ten. A million memories of the countless hours I spent in solitude under my father’s roof settle on my chest, the weight threatening to steal my breath, but before it can consume me, my mother’s handwriting catches my eye. At the bottom of my letter, she wrote:

No amount of words or penitence could ever be enough. It’s too little too late. I didn’t know, and now that I do, I can’t go on.

I pull in a deep breath before looking back to my grandmother and asking, "Do you know how she got this?"

It's a valid question. The journal this note was stuck in was one I kept at my father's place. It was hidden under a loose board in the window seat I would sit in for hours as I stared out at the backyard wishing for a new life. I wasn't allowed to have anything in my room, but I remember one day I was able to sneak a journal in when one of his girlfriends distracted him. I doodled in it for hours. Every page of that journal was filled with words and pictures that I created in my head. My thoughts were the only companion I had while at his place. While I often wished for death, I never considered taking my own life. I simply dreamt of a life where I didn't exist. I was tired of being hurt by those who were supposed to care and love me most. At some point, you wonder what you are fighting for. I couldn't think of anything I would miss, and that's where those thoughts came from.

"Your mother moved into Julian's house a week before their bodies were found. If I had to guess, the discovery of your room took her by surprise. I'm sure you are more than aware that your family made a great deal of saying nothing. I believe your parents thought you lived a very different life when you were not under their respective roofs. I think your mother thought you were living a privileged life while at your father's house and resented you for it. In her eyes, you stole her man and got to live her life and vice versa. Their bodies were found in your old room. From the way the room looked, it appeared they were renovating it. I think your mother found that journal and couldn't live with the truth of what had really happened."

Rising from my chair, I say, "If that's everything you came to tell me, I'd like to go now."

I don't care to hear any more thoughts that seek to pardon their treatment. Am I supposed to automatically forgive, all because my mother did the ultimate act of repentance by taking her own life? I never would have asked for such payment.

When my grandmother says nothing. I turn and leave without a word. I refuse to be guilted into forgiveness.

* * *

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this, Charlie. You realize this is ridiculous, right?"

"I know, I know, but I'm freaking out. I took a test this morning when Mason went on his morning jog, and it was positive. It was hard not to say anything when he returned, but I wanted to be absolutely sure. Do you have any idea how many times people get false positives?"

I tear off the wrapper on a pregnancy test as I sit in a stall next to Charlie in my locker room before replying, "Charlie, I'm pretty sure you're confused. False negatives are a thing, not the opposite."

I hear her huff out a breath of frustration before asking, "Are you peeing?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm trying. You do realize I'm doing this for you with a crowd full of people outside, right? Plus, I didn't really have to go. My nerves are shot, between the opening, my parents, the guys…" I trail off before finally sprinkling a few drops onto the stick. It's Opening Day, and everyone is here. I was mingling and talking with guests and reporters when she pulled me aside and said she had an urgent matter to discuss. The pressing issue being that she's pregnant and maybe in denial.

"I know. I'm sorry. You have a lot going on. I'm being incredibly selfish."

I flush the toilet and exit the stall. "No, Charlie. You're important to me. Your reasoning is slightly impaired, but the growing fetus in your womb is probably taking all your extra brain cells."

She comes out of the stall and slaps me on the shoulder before washing her hands at the sink beside me. "It is not. This makes perfect sense. If your test looks like mine, that means I'm not pregnant and that I was just reading it wrong."

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