Page 142 of Sweet Venom
But now, I’m coming to the realizations that make me cry involuntarily.
Like my therapist said.What if everything that happened in your life is not your fault, Violet?
I still don’t know the answer to that, but I’m starting to accept it’s not my fault that they’re creeps.
Maybe that’s why I want to feel pretty lately and I convinced myself to wear this dress and even stopped wearing the glasses. I’ve been taking better care of myself and been seeing one of Dahlia’s professors for my chronic back pain. The other day, we went shopping, and I bought a few pastel-colored clothes that represent the femininity I want to embody.
It feels good to get out of my shell.
Now, if I can be more comfortable in my skin, that would be great?—
My whole body goes still as the sound of a motorcycle cuts into the silence.
I stop in the middle of the dim parking lot as blinding headlights flash in my face, and I squint, covering my eyes with the back of my hand as the engine revs again.
No, no. Not again.
I dart back, my legs shaking, and slip between two cars.
The motorcycle comes to a halt right in front of me, and the dark figure dressed in black clothes and a helmet pulls out a gun.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Is this the same guy who tried to kill me and Mario?
“Help!” I scream, my voice ringing around me.
I don’t want to die.
Not now, just when I’m starting to figure out my life.
I really, really don’t want to die.
My shaky legs barely carry me as I run around the car. I know I can’t outrun a bullet, but I won’t stand still while he kills me?—
“Who the fuck are you?”
My head snaps to the side, where a luxury sports car rolls in. The man who just spoke from the window is none other than Preston, who’s now racing forward, trying to hit the figure in the dark.
In a flash, the motorcycle revs again, and then it’s out of view, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and speed.
I grab onto the car’s trunk with trembling fingers, my limbs so unsteady, I can barely remain upright.
Memories of Mario bleeding on the sidewalk ripple through my head, and nausea spills into my mouth. I think I’m going to throw up?—
“Hey.”
I breathe harshly when I look up at Preston. I’m panting, really, my clammy fingers barely holding on to the car’s cold metal.
“Why do you have a hit man on you, Vee?” He asks with a tilt of his head.
“I d-don’t know.”
“God, you’re interesting. Something about you.” He grins and offers me the glass bottle of water he has in his hand. “Heard this helps. Don’t take my word for it, though. No clue why people shake and shit.”
I take the bottle and swallow a few gulps, the feel of the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
