Page 1 of Sweet Venom
1
VIOLET
Someone’s watching me.
Constantly.
Overtly.
The attention prickles the back of my neck like a thin, tiny needle delving deep beneath my skin.
In the beginning, I thought it was one of the bar’s patrons who had a tendency to make me feel uncomfortable with their lingering gazes and ‘accidental’ touches.
Or maybe it was one of the desolate souls from our sketchy neighborhood who looked at me as if I were a piece of meat.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been that.
A piece of meat.
An object.
A toy.
One that bounces and ping-pongs, no matter how hard it’s kicked.
So this time shouldn’t feel any different. Once again, I’m just another something to someone.
A fixation.
A twisted fascination.
As long as they don’t come any closer, I’m safe.
I ignore the feel of those disturbing, creepy eyes like I do everything uncomfortable in my life.
Shove it in the closet. Close the door on it. Pretend it doesn’t exist.
I wipe the bar counter after the last patron is escorted out by the manager, who laughs along with his drunken mumbling.
HAVEN is the main sports bar in Stantonville, a small run-down town in the Northeast whose entire personality revolves around an overt obsession with ice hockey.
Tonight, there was a replay of a game where the local college team—the Stanton Wolves—crushed it, according to all the happy faces I served.
If it had been a live game, I would’ve been nervous. Considering the men we get here, I don’t know which is worse—when the Wolves win or when they lose.
In both cases, there are drunks who slur, shout, and don’t keep their hands to themselves, but I guess maybe it’s better when they win. Otherwise, we have to deal with ugly violence.
Hockey—and sports in general—doesn’t really appeal to me. I was always bad at physical activities and was the class bookworm from a young age. However, since I go to Stanton River College, or SRC, where the Wolves are worshiped like gods, I have to keep up the pretense to care so I don’t stand out in a bad light.
While others might be fine with saying they truly don’t care for hockey and can take the malicious commentary that will most definitely follow, I’d rather remain in my own bubble and avoid confrontation.
The smell of alcohol saturates my senses, and I try to block it out as I wipe faster, my lower back aching, my arms screaming, and my head swimming in a fuzzy mess. I’m so sleep-deprived and tired, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Laura slides up to my side and helps put the glasses on the tray, her face worn out, her movements lethargic, and her gaze lost. She’s in her thirties and had to take a second job to afford to raise her adorable daughter, Karly.
I have extreme respect for Laura for being able to juggle being a single mom and working multiple jobs. I can barely survive work, volunteering, and college.
And even though it’s mid-July and vacation season is in full swing, I’m taking summer classes to improve my GPA.
