Page 4 of The Venom We Bleed

The phone I stuck between my bra and breast earlier in the evening lights up, illuminating a patch of my skin in the reflection. I take it out and seeing the face above the name that pops up in the center of the screen makes me want to throw the damn thing. I am living in a nightmare, only this one is real and no amount of drugs or therapy can make it end. I slam my phone down on the counter and stare at Avery’s laughing squinty face and name until the phone stops ringing. It feels like an eternity.

A moment passes and then it starts up again. To my surprise, it’s not Avery again. This time, it’s my mom. No way in hell am I answering her call. The phone goes black and then trills a third time as another call comes through. My dad’s name and facecome across the screen. I’m not stupid. My dad never calls. It’s Mom.

My racing heartbeat, the sound of the music pounding on the other side of the wall, my sweaty hands, the building rage squeezing the air from my lungs—it all combines into one massive lump that takes over my throat and chokes me.

I don’t think twice; I pick up the phone and smash it into the counter—once, twice, three times. A long vertical crack forms across the ‘crack-resistant’ glass. Crack resistant, but not pissed off Juliet resistant. When the screen goes dark again, I turn and drop it into the toilet next to the bathroom counter. Then, as if I just have to make sure no one else can call me on it ever again, I reach up and press down on the handle of the toilet, flushing the phone.

It won’t go down. It’ll probably get stuck in the mouth and wedged deep where all of the crappy water can seep into the cracks I created, but that’s not the goal. I don’t care if it gets stuck. I just want to make sure I don’t do anything even more stupid … like try to answer it.

I stand there as the sound of the rushing water from the toilet slowly fades and then cuts off entirely and the silence of the small bathroom seems to wrap its arms around me. The walls grow closer, leaning into each other as if the tops are peering down at me, curious to see what I’ll do next.

I feel watched.

Judged.

I can’t fucking breathe.

When someone finally comes to knock on the door, the loud banging jolts me back into my body as the nasally sound of Lindsey Crawford’s voice filters through the door. “Hey!” she yells, thumping against the wood again. “If you’re done in there, some of us have to pee, too, you know.”

I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself as I sink back against the elegant floral wallpaper. The room closes in on me, the flat walls bending to cage me in. I have to go. I can’t stay here. Where can I go, though? Home? Home, where my mom’s probably drunk and annoyed because dad isn’t there? Because he left his phone behind like he always does so she can’t track him like she tries to with me.

Lindsey bangs on the outside of the door again. “Hurry up!” she shrieks.

With a groan, I move away from the counter. My ankle rolls as my heel catches on one of the black and white tiles, and I barely catch myself against the counter in time. Frustration pours through me.

“Oh, fuck this,” I mutter, reaching down and removing the heels. Without a second thought, I turn and chuck them into the shower stall. The heels slam into the opposite glass wall, and a crack forms, but I couldn’t give less of a shit if I tried. Not my house, not my best friend, not my boyfriend, not my fucking problem anymore.

When I turn to reach for the door handle, I feel my eyes begin to burn and I suck in a sharp breath. Crying won’t do shit. It won’t take back the last hour. It won’t erase the image of my best friend faking an orgasm while my boyfriend fucked her. Ugh. What was the point if it wasn’t even good for her? Why would she even bother?

The more I move, the less I seem to feel. The heels are gone but not the negative emotions. They swirl inside me like a massive tidal wave about to burst forth. I unlock the door and yank it open to Lindsey’s waiting scowl.

“Finally,” she snaps, stepping into the doorway as if she means to shove her way past me. “What were you doing in—” Then she gets a good look at my face. “Oh, it’s you.” I don’t know why Avery even invited her; Lindsey has never liked me. Maybenone of my so-called friends have. “What’swrong,birthday girl?” She sounds almost amused.

I stare back at her, and I don’t know why, but all of the pseudo-politeness I force myself to spew at Silverwood Prep just disappears. The need to always be perfect and maintain my composure disappears. I just don’t. fucking. care. anymore.

“What’s wrong with me?” I repeat, leaning into her as I grasp the frame of the bathroom door. Lindsey seems to sense the rising tide of my rage, something no one has ever really seen, not even me. How long have I kept it all bottled up? Had I already known about Bran and Avery and just pretended? There’s no way this should shock me. I should’ve seen the signs … right? I shove away the swirl of questions that plague my mind and focus on the Barbie-wannabe in front of me. “What’s wrong is that I’ve spent the last three fucking years letting you talk shit about me behind my back without a goddamn word,Lindsey.” My voice is low, but my tone is biting. “What’s wrong is that pathetic excuse for a nose job that your daddy bought you so that you’d break up with Joseph Meyer.”

To her, Joseph had been little more than a rebellion against her parents. Maybe he had good dick. Maybe he was one of the few people in our world who was actually real with her for two seconds instead of blowing smoke up her and her trust fund parents’ asses. Why that poor kid from Silverwood Public had been so in love with her, I’ll never know, but he never deserved the write-off she’d given him when her daddy demanded she stop going out with a boy whose only chances of getting out of Silverwood were "the military or the grave," in Mr. Crawford’s words.

Lindsey’s artificially plumped lips part in shock. “What the fuck are you?—”

“Get out of my fucking face,” I snap, cutting her off as I shove her to the side and step into the back hall. “You smell like knock-off Chanel and desperation.”

I don’t have to look back at her to know that her face is red. “Y-you’re a fucking bitch, Juliet!” she stutters out her insult.

“Yeah,” I agree in monotone. “I am.”

I walk away before I hear Lindsey’s reply and find my keys on the counter next to the empty row of shots I’d been downing not thirty minutes before. I didn’t finish them all, despite my gut churning like I had. Turning away from the messy kitchen decorated with various expensive liquor bottles and a shattered glass in the sink, I head for the foyer and run into the two people I’d hoped not to see before I left.

Avery and Bran are dressed this time, Avery in her skin-tight cocktail dress and Bran in a polo and pair of faded jeans with carefully placed patches to make the fabric seem old and worn when it’s practically right from a catalog. My entire body goes hot where I was cold not ten seconds before.

“Jules!” Avery’s voice is higher than average as she practically jumps away from Bran even as he reaches for her. “We’ve been looking for you.”

I arch a brow at her and cross my arms over my chest. My bare toes curl against the tiled floor of the front hallway as I glare down at her. I’m by no means tall, but compared to Avery’s four-foot-eleven height, everyone looks down at her—I wonder if that’s why she feels the need to fuck every guy she meets. Does it make her feel powerful?

Avery’s face pinches and she laughs as she reaches out, patting my arm. “Did you hear? Someone was fucking in one of the rooms and got caught, people apparently thought it was Bran and me.” She rolls her eyes in a practiced move. “My parents are gonna be so pissed if they didn’t clean up after?—”

“Stop.” I close my eyes as Bran comes up behind her and take a deep breath before reopening my eyes. “Just fucking stop.” Avery might excel at playing the pretty dumb girl, but this is too pathetic even for me. Does she think I’m an idiot?

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