Page 3 of Sweet Venom
Is that even him?
He looks…intimidating. All wrapped in black and danger.
I’ll have to try harder with the police because this guy’s presence is starting to mess with my head.
He’s everywhere.
Like air.
And I’ve lived among enough creeps to know he probably won’t be satisfied with just watching. He’ll eventually take action and it’ll end badly for me.
My head is full of macabre thoughts as I quietly finish my shift. It’s around one thirty in the morning by the time I finally leave HAVEN, my back pain killing me and my thoughts swirling in a black pool.
I relax a little when I don’t see the motorcycle or the guy.
The only silver lining is that he’s not there all the time. He probably has a job or something, because his presence has been sporadic over the past fewweeks or so.
With a sigh, I pull my hoodie tighter over my head, feeling more at ease now that I’m not dressed in the tight shirt and jeans we have to wear at work. But at least we’re not forced to wear short skirts—I’ve quit many jobs because of that.
In my everyday life, jeans are fine as long as I get to wear baggy hoodies or sweatshirts that don’t outline my body. I even wear light hoodies during the summer.
Thankfully, the apartment I share with my sister is only a twenty-five-minute walk from HAVEN, so I don’t have to spend money on transportation. I pass by a twenty-four-hour fast-food place and go in to buy a few sandwiches, then walk out in the middle of a drunken brawl without even being noticed.
It’s easy for me to be invisible as long as I have my hoodie on, my hair is hidden, and my eyes are covered by the thick-framed nonprescription glasses I’m currently wearing.
“Don’t let me hear you breathing, Violet. If you lay low and shut your trap, you won’t get into trouble.”
Mama’s words have been my mantra since I was a little girl. At twenty-two, I’ve mastered the art of moving around in an invisible cloak.
As long as no one notices me, I’ll be fine.
The neighborhood where Dahlia and I have been living for the past couple of years reeks of desperation, a place where dreams come to die and vices fester like an open wound.
It’s not far from Stantonville’s town center, but it feels like another world entirely—a forgotten pocket where streetlights flicker on their last breath and shadows move with intentions best left undiscovered.
Small-time gangs linger on the corners, dealing drugs for quick cash, their hooded figures blending into the peelingpainted brick walls. The sidewalks are littered with cigarette butts, discarded needles, and the occasional broken bottle.
As I walk, the air is thick with the acrid stench of stale beer and burnt rubber, mixing with the faint scent of rotting food from an overflowing dumpster. A couple fights down the street, their voices raw and venomous, laced with anger that comes from years of resentment. The man’s growl is slurred, the woman’s shriek sharp enough to slice through the humid night.
“You worthless piece of shit! You call yourself a man?” she spits, followed by a crash—a glass or a bottle meeting a wall or the ground.
“You’re the fucking whore!” he roars, and more curses ensue.
The neighbors, who, like me, are accustomed to this nightly ritual, shout back from open windows, “Shut up already, for fuck’s sake!”
Another voice, hoarse with exhaustion, yells something about calling the cops, but no one actually will. Not here. The cops don’t come unless they have a reason, and even then, they look the other way for the right price.
It’s why I don’t trust them to keep whoever is stalking me at bay. I suppose they’re just an imaginary safety net I hold on to so I won’t go mad.
A gust of wind carries the scent of cheap perfume and sweat from a nearby alley where a woman leans against a car, her thigh peeking out from a torn fishnet stocking as she laughs at what a man is whispering in her ear.
I step over a fresh puddle of something dark—could be coffee, could be blood—and pull my hoodie tighter around me. This place is a landfill of humanity, a breeding ground for ghosts who are still alive, but just barely.
And I’m one of them.
My feet halt by Johnny and Bo, who are sleeping by a corner. They’re covered with scraps that barely protect them from the night chill. I gave them my blanket when my sister Dahlia bought me a new one, but I think they sold it. It’s summer anyway, so they probably don’t need it.
“Night, guys,” I whisper as I drop the sandwiches I usually buy them, then, because we got decent tips tonight, I slip a few bills under each of the wrappers.
