Page 21 of The Venom We Bleed

“Great,” I say quickly, spinning on my heel and shoving the puny amount I have left into my back pocket. I hope it lasts until I can get a job and make some money to cover food and other things. “Email me the receipt, please!” I call over my shoulder before pushing out of the office and ducking across the walkway toward my building.

I stomp past the green ‘pool’ Silver Creek Apartments boasts about in their lease pamphlet. Thirty years ago, it had probably been the same sparkling blue that the picture on the front portrayed, but now, it’s nothing but a cesspool of disease and algae. They’d be better off just cleaning the shit out and fillingit full of cement, but so long as it exists they can claim it’s a part of their perks—even if the “closed for renovation” sign has been there for far longer than I’ve been alive.

The parking spot in front of my building that used to be relegated for my BMW just a few weeks ago is now empty, and the sight of it makes my throat squeeze with discomfort. It’s the first time in my semi-adult life that I haven’t had a car to get me places, but it’s for a good reason.

Gripping the rickety metal railing, I climb the steps to my second-floor studio and then look over the exterior barrier across the street to the Dollar Mart. I glance at my apartment door with the number ‘2’ hanging crooked. My stomach rumbles. There’s nothing in my fridge aside from half a cup of saved ramen and a carton of milk.

With a sigh, I turn right around and head back down, the rusted metal steps creaking with each footstep. I hurry across the lot and then the road, the money in my pocket burning a hole. The door chimes as I step inside the cool air-conditioned corner store.

“Wel—” The attendant’s pleasant voice is cut off and I duck my head, ignoring her hard stare as I grab a basket and head towards the too-narrow aisles.

A box of cereal. A couple of cans of red sauce. Boxes of cheap pasta. Mac and cheese. A loaf of bread and some cheese. I fill up the basket and head back towards the front.

The attendant scowls as I set the basket on the counter and then rock back on my heels. I wait, keeping my eyes averted as if doing so will keep both of us from acknowledging my presence so we can just get this over with. After another tense beat of silence, the middle-aged woman begins to unload and scan the barcodes in annoyed jerking movements.

I bite down on my lower lip and the tension in my shoulders finally eases. At least she’s not going to kick me out. My eyes lift some more and I turn to watch the numbers on the till.

$11.98…

$13.49…

$17.97…

Come on,I beg silently.Stay under twenty. I’d calculated correctly. I know I did. Yet, still, the underlying anxiety that I missed something remains. What if I’d gotten the tax amount wrong? The last item passes over the scanner, and the woman looks at me, her thin lips twisted.

“That’ll be nineteen fifty-six,” she bites out.

With a relieved sigh, I withdraw one of the twenties from my pocket and hand it over. “Can I have change?” I ask, keeping my eyes off the small glass jar in front of her register. Who even tips a cashier?

Her scowl deepens and her movements turn even more aggressive as she presses a button to release the register and then rifles through it before slamming it again. The woman slaps the change into my hand. She does it so hard that a quarter slips between my fingers and hits the floor. She eyes me as if expecting me to dive on the floor for it. I’m not that fucking far gone, but I’m not leaving it either. Slowly, I bend down, pick it up, and then slip the change into my pocket before lifting my bags.

She turns away and begins fiddling with the displays of cigarettes behind the counter. I hesitate, sure I already know what her answer will be, but with how dangerously low my bank account is now that I’ve paid six months of rent upfront, I have to try.

“Um … do you have an application I could fill out?”

The woman turns around and eyes me as if I just asked her to clean out my cat’s shit-filled litter box. “We’re not hiring.”

I grit my teeth and force a polite smile. “Still,” I say, “just in case you are in the future?”

She narrows her gaze on me and then huffs before stomping towards the end of her counter. She ducks down and I can hear her cursing and grumbling under her breath as she riffles through some papers. A moment later, she stands up and practically throws a piece of paper at me.

I grab it before it can fall and then carefully fold it and tuck it into one of my bags. “Thanks,” I say. “Can you tell me when the manager is in, so I can return it?”

“Tuesdays.”

I nod, but she’s already turned around again and ignoring my presence. I head back outside to see that the sky has begun to darken and the streetlights over the main road are already on. What sends me running isn’t the sudden darkness, but the rumble of thunder in the near distance. Hoofing it across the street, I make my way back to my apartment in record time. I climb the stairs and slam into the nearly empty studio without a second to spare as the skies outside open up and rain begins to drizzle over the overhang of the balcony.

I go about unloading the groceries and putting them in the closet-sized kitchen before heading over to my futon with a bowl of cereal in hand. Exhaustion pours through me as I force myself to lift a spoonful of stale Wheat Rings in milk to my lips. Outside, the rain comes down harder. Once I’m done eating, I clean my bowl and spoon and pull out my homework.

Five minutes in, I hear the repeated banging against the wall opposite my bed where my only neighbor connects to me. At first, I try to tune it out, but then the moaning gets louder, filtering through the walls as it rises in intensity.

Are you fucking kidding me?I pass a glance outside where the storm rages hard against the glass. Leaves fly past and circle in the background. What spindly little trees there are around thegrounds of the complex are practically bent in half with the force of the winds. Inside, though, someone else is having a storm of their own if the faster thumps against my fucking wall are anything to go by.

Irritation pours through me and I get up, stomping across the room to pound on the wall. The thumping stops for a moment, and then I hear the soft tinkling sounds of feminine laughter and the creaking and thumps start up again—harder and faster than before.Assholes.

Turning away from the wall, I go to the side of my futon and rummage through my backpack until I find headphones. Plugging them in, I quickly scroll through a hard rock playlist, select something from Linkin Park, and sit back down.

With the sounds of Chester Bennington’s voice ricocheting through my head, I manage to finish the homework that the few teachers that didn’t seem to care that it was the first fucking day back had assigned. Once I’m done, I tuck it away in my bag and reach for the folded-up paper I’d brought with me from the corner mart. I unfold it and lay it flat on my lap, looking at the black and white script. Few places actually still have paper applications anymore, but before I even put pen to paper, I feel like I already know how this will turn out.

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