Page 91 of Sweet Venom
But now, there’s nothing.
Her hair spills across the pillow, strands of copper and gold catching the light’s soft glow slipping through the hospital window. Normally, her hair is a bit messy, tangled from restless movement, from fingers raking through it absently. Now, it’s too smooth, too perfect, too untouched.
But what unsettles me the most is the absence of…her stare.
I reach out and pull her eyelid up, but distorted white greets me, her pupils unfocused, not really there.
There’s no blue.
There’s no hint of the quiet storm she directs at me when she’s pissed or the icy stares she gives when she’s guarded, or the deep ocean that’s there at night when she’s thinking too much.
I release her lid and her long lashes rest against her cheek.
I’ve watched her sleep more times than I’ll ever admit.
Back at the bar, when she’d finish a long shift and she’d sit in the back, massaging her shoulders with her fists, before her body would slump from exhaustion and her head would droop to the side. In that tiny living room, shaking, mumbling, her fingers twitching from nightmares she never spoke about.
But she’s not sleeping right now.
She’s not even here.
And I fucking hate it.
I hate how wrong it feels to see her lifeless, quiet, tethered.
I hate that I can’t reach into her head and rip her out of whatever abyss she’s stuck in.
But maybe she’s there on purpose, to avoid being trapped in those paralyzing nightmares.
At least now, the demons in her head aren’t eating her alive.
I step closer, my fingers itching to push her hair back, to prove to myself that she’s still warm, still real, still Violet.
But I don’t.
I just stand there, watching her, staring into something that’s starting to swallow me whole.
Starting?Is that really the correct word to describe these feelings I’ve had since Violet disappeared without my permission?
My fist clenches. “I told you that your life is mine. How fucking dare you be in a coma?”
I know I should go, but I can’t seem to swallow the rage that’s been flowing in my veins since I found Violet a week ago. We have a game tonight, and if I check my phone, I’ll find everyone screaming at me to get to the arena.
Besides, Dahlia, who left an hour ago, will probably be back soon.
She’s barely left Violet’s side since she was discharged from the ICU a couple of days ago, and she’s spent entire nights crying and begging Violet not to leave her alone.
Dahlia is a problem like everyone in Violet’s fucking life.
If she loves her so much, how could she not know her beloved sister is one big ball of depression wrapped around suicidal ideation?
But then again, Violet is a professional at hiding herself—even when writing in her journal. If I hadn’t personally witnessed her countless nightmares and the way she was crying so bitterly in her sleep, it would’ve been hard to see any of the pain behind her constant wide smiles and soft-spoken platitudes.
In reality, Violet doesn’t cry. Even when she’s shocked, in pain, or downright terrified.
“Fucking liar,” I mutter, staring at Mario’s bed beside hers.
He’s also in a goddamn coma, so I can’t get anything from him either.
