Page 63 of Sweet Venom
“Okay.”
Liar.
Violet is the biggest fucking liar I’ve ever met.
I was ready to see what she wrote in her journal that night and if her true words would contradict what she said.
In the beginning, I started to read her journals to see what she actually thought, because Violet is an inward person who bottles everything inside. Then I wanted to see what she wrote about me.
There was nothing.
She only mentioned me there once—the day she recognized me from TV. Since then, she’s never talked about me again.
She probably thinks that if she ignores me hard enough, I’ll stop existing.
But she can’t possibly ignore what happened last night.
I waited patiently until Dahlia fucked off to her room, falling asleep in five minutes flat, snoring a bit, actually.
And then Violet scribbled in her journal for a while, worked on a piece of embroidery she’s been doing on and off for a few weeks, and then also went to sleep.
I waited until her breathing evened out and she fell into deep slumber, then I unlocked the balcony door and came in.
It was so easy, since, well, they live in a little-to-no-security area.
Violet’s asleep on the sofa, the sheet barely covering her plain beige pajamas. She dresses in such an unflattering way, and yet I can’t help but notice the stretch of her T-shirt over her perky breasts or the delicate curve of her throat.
She had a scarf on today, to hide the hickey on her neck.
My mark.
Mine.
A wave of something unfamiliar grabs hold of me, but I rip my gaze from her and take the journal from her backpack.
Today, she wrote about how it felt good to be out and about with Dahlia and Karly.
I run my finger along the last line.
Dahlia said I shouldn’t have bought the toy for little Karly, and maybe she’s right, but I simply wanted to be for her what no one was for me.
I turn to the previous page, but there’s a dot where her evening musings should be.
A fucking dot? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Am I…adot?
I narrow my eyes on her. This fucking?—
My plans to shake the fuck out of her dissipate when I see her trembling.
She brings her hands to her chest and bends her knees. I realize she’s making herself as small as possible as sheballs herself into a fetal position, mumbling something unintelligible.
I lower my head toward her, and I still can’t make out what she’s saying.
But it’s clear she’s in pain, her teeth chattering, and sweat beading along her upper lip. I touch her arm and it’s tight. No one should be tight while they’re sleeping.
It’s as if she’s half awake, waiting for something to ambush her.
