Page 11 of Sweet Venom
I let her go, and she retrieves an instant coffee packet.
“Eat something. Don’t just drink coffee first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t have time. I’ll be late for work.”
“You’re a med student, Dahl. You should be mindful ofwhat you eat.” I place a wrapped sandwich in front of her. “Here. Eat it on your way.”
She side-hugs me, squeezing me tightly. “You’re truly the best ever.”
I hug her back, her warmth and carefree energy offering me a much-needed reprieve. Dahlia is nothing like me.
She’s a firecracker through and through.
Several weeks ago, she caught Dave trying to harass me, and she pointed a gun at him. No kidding. It wasn’t hers or loaded, but she still used it to scare him off.
She’s always been like this, not hesitating to speak up, shout, and destroy anyone who comes at her or me. I’ve always been in awe of how she couldn’t care less about confrontation or how social anxiety is scared of her.
Dahlia and I met when she was twelve, at a foster home where the parents used us for cash flow and repeatedly hit us—Dahlia more than me because she talked back.
As for me…well, I had a different encounter with the ‘dad,’ another man who only ever wanted my shell of a body.
We ran away and have kind of survived together ever since, leaning on each other, being the home we both didn’t have.
I’ve never told her this, because she’d freak out, but if Dahlia weren’t in my life, if I didn’t have a self-imposed purpose to take care of her and make sure she thrives and reaches her goals, I would’ve killed myself a long time ago.
I would’ve stoppedfloatingwith nothing but pain tethering me to life.
She’s my lifeline. Literally.
“Vi, honest, I mean it. You need to ask the manager for fewer shifts. You look out of it lately.” She takes a sip of her coffee as she grabs some books she left on the kitchen table, where she usually studies.
We live in a run-down one-bedroom apartment that we moved into recently, after the guy who used to rent us his attic tried to drug us with his homemade wine. It’s a couple of streets away from our previous place, and we were lucky to find it after the old man who lived here died and his son rented it out to us for a bargain. It’s way better equipped than the attic and we pay almost the same rent.
Honestly, both Dahlia and I think we’ve hit the jackpot. It even has a balcony, can you believe it? I’ve never lived anywhere with a balcony, so these past few weeks have felt surreal.
I usually sleep in the living room, having insisted Dahlia take the other room so she can focus on her studies. She wanted us to share it, but it’s small and I don’t want to disturb her healthy sleeping schedule with my erratic, nightmare-filled one.
“I’m actually earning a bit more from my job now that I’m working extra shifts in the summer.” She shoves the books into a tote bag. “I’ll help out more.”
“Spend that money on your studies or your expenses. I’m truly fine, Dahl.”
She throws the bag over her shoulder and frowns. “No, you’re not. You’re just saying that so I won’t worry. Your back pain is flaring up again. Don’t think I didn’t notice the heat patches you’re using on the regular now.”
“It’s a chronic injury. It’s bound to flare.” I hand her the sandwich she left on the counter. “You’ll be late.”
She kisses my cheek. “I’m totally helping out more. See ya!”
And then she’s off before I can reply.
Since she said she’ll help out, I can’t stop her. I guess I’ll buy her some necessities in return. Starting with a new pair of her favorite white sneakers—her old ones are so beat up, they look gray.
Maybe I’ll design and embroider her a medical-themed patch for one of her bags.
My classes start late today, so I spend an hour or so sketching some ideas in my journal while making food for Dahlia for the rest of the week. I haven’t eaten anything since last night, but I’m used to this constant sense of starvation. I consider it intermittent fasting—apparently, it’s good for you.
I would definitely rather Dahlia eat than me. Seeing her well-fed, well-dressed, and crushing it at school brings me joy and a sense of accomplishment of sorts.
I’m apprehensive as I leave the apartment, even though I’m dressed in my signature hoodie and jeans. My strawberry-blonde hair that reaches just below my shoulder blades is gathered in a bun and hidden by the hood.
