Page 84 of Sweet Venom
Endure. Please.
Her last entries have been just that word, and it’s starting to creep me the fuck out. Pres and Mom both tended to be self-destructive, and if their depressive episodes are any indication, Violet could be headed down that same path.
In Pres’s case, he’ll be too reckless, testing gravity and physics. Mom’s episodes usually manifested when she stopped eating and withdrew into watching TV all day, looking straight through the screen. And attempting to take her own life…or someone else’s.
But then again, Pres and Mom struggled with more issues aside from depression.
Violet’s episodes are… I don’t know what the fuck they are. Mario says she’s acting normal, but I can tell something is off about her lately. Her nightmares are frequent, her embroidering is almost nonexistent, and her journaling isn’t the same.
She doesn’t reply to my texts either, having completely ignored the few I’ve sent since she asked about Dahlia’s scholarship a week ago.
My mind races as Kane and I clean up in the old cottage tucked deep in the Armstrongs’ forest. It’s the same place where we used to hunt, the same one we were abandoned in as kids and told to “learn how to survive.”
It’s become one of our playgrounds of sorts. A place where we come to inflict the same pain that was once inflicted upon us.
I’m putting on my shirt when my phone rings.
Larson.
My shoulders tense at seeing his name. Why would Mario’s aide of sorts call me?
I pick up, my voice already on edge. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t reach Mario. Something is off.”
“Off?”
“I’m afraid something might have happened to them.”
What.The. Fuck?
18
VIOLET
“Here.” I hand Mario a cup of coffee. “You’re working late because of me again.”
He stares at me, then at the cup in my hand, frowning slightly. The night air feels heavier than usual, clinging to my skin with a disturbing eeriness.
My sneakers hit the pavement as I shove the cup into his hand. “Just take it.”
“You don’t have to do this.” He taps the elbow of his jacket, where I embroidered a falcon patch to cover an area that was a bit worn out. I thought it was the least I could do after he lent it to me the other day because I was feeling cold. “Or this.”
I smile as I fall in step beside him. “It looks good, though, and it’s not that Ihaveto do it, more like I want to.”
Mario is kind of my companion, walking me to my shifts at the bar, my classes at college, or even my shopping at the grocery store.
Over the past few weeks, when my head has become foggy and my nightmares have gotten to be too much, I’ve found a bit of comfort in knowing I have Mario as a guardian of sorts.
I know he’s a pseudo stalker, but I don’t like to think ofhim that way. Especially since he’s never been malicious and even looks like he feels guilty at times.
And since he’s mostly in his car, I give him coffee or even food. Poor guy doesn’t get enough sleep, and I feel guilty, even if this whole thing is Jude’s fault.
“You’re not supposed to feed the man who works for your stalker,” he says with a note of irritation. “Do you haveanysurvival instinct?”
“I do, which is why I don’t feel any danger from you.” I point a finger at myself. “I’m a great judge of character.”
“You’re too nice for that.”
