Page 1 of The Bitterness of Venom

PROLOGUE

Past

Age Fifteen

My bare feetslip over the edges of the wooden railroad ties of the train track, leaving behind specks of blood on the rocks. The wind against my face makes the tears that fall cool against the sweat clinging to my skin. My heart pounds out of my rib cage, but I’m not sure how it’s still beating with my chest aching as if I’m having a heart attack. My toecatches on a piece of the train track and I fall, palms flat against the rocks as my head bangs on it. Blood covers my right eye’s view, but I wipe it away, smearing the sticky metallic liquid over my forehead and cheek. Pushing myself up, I pick up speed. Instead of ignoring the physical pain I’m in, I consume it like a candy bar, letting it melt and dissolve over every thought and feeling. Focusing on the pain on my face instead of the one in my heart is easier, if not necessary—for survival.

Maybe if I run forever, time will stop and none of this will be real?

Once the tracks begin to turn smoother and less jagged—because this side of town is more updated since it houses the rich—I slide down the hill, opening the first gate and quickly climbing the tree, not caring about my fear of heights. I hit the bottom of the tree house, popping open the door. I don’t expect him to be here, but he is. His dark hair hangs in his face as he looks down at a manga. His eyes widen when he sees me, dropping the book and reaching a hand out to pull me up. Quickly shutting the door behind me.

“What the hell happened to you?” He pushes the bloodstained sandy blonde strands out of my face.

Desmond Rickman is my best friend. My only friend. My favorite human in the entire universe. He didn’t care that I was from the wrong side of the tracks when we first met, that my clothes weren’t as nice as his, or that I wore the same shoes as last year. All he cared about was…me.

“Blaise.” He shakes my shoulders. “What the hell happened?”

“She…” My lips tremble, the words like dry cinnamon in my throat, refusing to go down as I choke on them. “She died. My mom is gone.”

“Fuck.” He sighs, pulling me in for a hug. He doesn’t care that I am bleeding and dirty, messing up his pristine white shirt. “Come on, we need to get you cleaned up.”

I grip his shirt, shaking my head. “Just stay with me likethis for a minute.”

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers.

Desmond’s house is huge,everything made of the finest of materials. I’m always so scared to touch anything. Afraid I’d stain it with my poverty-laden hands. He’s often alone; his father travels for work and his mom goes with him. His parents have never treated me different, but I can tell they don’t approve of me. It’s in the subtle glances, the ones that tell me I’m not good enough for their son. Maybe they’re right.

Actually, I know for a fact that they are.

Desmond has always been too good for me. I’m not even sure why he bothers most days. I come with so much baggage it physically weighs me down as I walk.

I lay Desmond’s shirt over my aching body after getting out of the shower, his shorts far too big, but after rolling them, they seem to fit better. I wish I could say this isn’t a normal occurrence, me sneaking over and crawling into his bed, but that would be a lie. My home life is not the best. My mom and dad are into some shady things that often lead to me having to escape out my window in the middle of the night. Things I can’t talk about, not even to Desmond. I think he suspects but isn’t one hundred percent sure.

I climb on his bed, the mattress so soft yet supportive. He has the fluffiest pillows. I always get my best sleep here. I’ve been sneaking over for the past five years. Even though our friendship stretches back to preschool, I only got comfortable enough to start sneaking out when I turned ten.

“Let’s patch you up, Freckles.”

I scrunch my nose at him. I hate that nickname, and I hatemy freckles even more. He pulls out a first aid kit, attending to the gash in my forehead first. The disinfectant stings, the smell making my eyes hurt. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Why you are all beat up?”

“I fell running on the train tracks, it’s no big deal.”

He frowns, tending to my hands next. “Were you running from something?”

I shake my head quickly, breaking eye contact.

“You can tell me.” He wraps gauze and tape around the cuts in my feet.

But that is the thing, I can’t tell him—or anyone for that matter. “She overdosed,” I whisper.

That’s the story I’m supposed to tell anyone who asks. If I tell the truth, I die.

“I’m sorry, Freckles.” He puts the first aid kit away, pulling his covers back. He nods his head toward them and I crawl in, burying my face into the pillow and facing him as he lays next to me. He runs his fingertips over the cut on my face, eyes hardening. “I hate when you come over here bloody and beat up. If you tell me who’s doing this, I can put a stop to it.”

I blink my eyes slowly at him, a sad smile pulling at my lips. “I’m fine. I really just fell this time.”

“And what about the other times? I am fucking worried about you, Blaise.”

I can’t blame him. I’ve showed up to his home battered and bruised many times before. I sigh, shifting away from him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep running over here, it’s not your problem.”

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