Page 163 of Darling Venom
She cradled it. “I wanted to die with a scar on my wrist.”
Like her sister.
I read the subtext.
She’d done it to herself.
“How does it feel?” I lifted her wrist, bringing the scar to my face. It was red, raised, and angry. Something that must’ve grown for months if not years. “I’m no dermatologist, but it looks like a keloid. They can get tender. Sometimes painful.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Did you get it checked?”
“No.”
The food arrived before I could press her to visit a specialist. I paid for the takeout while Charlie produced a pasta dish and the same chicken parm Kel bought me the day he died from the bag.
They still used identical packaging.
I was going to throw up if I didn’t get out of here soon.
“Where’s Terry?” Charlie swirled tagliatelle noodles with her fork.
“Who cares?”
“He’s your father.”
“He’s my sperm donor.”
“So you keep saying. He also happens to be your father.”
“And as reliable as a flat tire, which revokes any claim he has on parenthood.”
She cut into the chicken. I watched it bleed juices onto her plate, diluting the blood-red sauce.
She shoved a forkful into her mouth, sighing. “This is sooo good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“Certain.”
I needed her to finish the food and leave.
Get out of my space.
Out
of my head.
“Kellan used to watch me eat. We met on my birthday each year, and he’d bring me something sweet to eat each time. Even when it was gross, I loved it. I think I liked his eyes on me. No one else paid me any attention.”
The way she said it—the way her eyes dipped down after—made it seem like things hadn’t changed. Her situation at home still hurt.
“Did he ever tell you about the first time I met him?”
I remembered the weekend with perfect clarity. I’d returned home from college for Spring Break, just in time to see a brother I’d never met thrust upon me like one of his mom’s out-of-season designer dresses.
“No. What happened?”
“Are you okay with losing your appetite?”
