Page 166 of Darling Venom
Terry: Not funny.
Terry: I’m serious.
Terry: I need to see the manuscript.
Me: The closest you are getting to Kellan’s book is in a courtroom when I file a restraining order on your ass.
He called me immediately.
I pressed ignore.
Part of me wanted to block him entirely, but I figured I’d do the NYPD a favor when he inevitably OD’d and ended up on a slab in their morgue and they needed to ID him.
Terry: It’s important.
Me: You survived eighty years without it. You’ll survive more.
Terry: I’m sixty-three.
Me: May I suggest Botox?
I turned my phone off the remainder of the day, returning home after a long delivery exhausted, hungry, and grouchy, only to find Terry asleep on the couch. His current favorite way to pass time after I’d forced drugs off the table.
Nowadays, he didn’t possess a personality beyond necessary bodily functions and begging for Darling Venom.
After Kel passed and I decided torture would become my newest hobby, I’d searched the signs of depression. There were eight key things to look out for:
hopelessness
loss of interest
fatigue and changes in sleep patterns
anxiety
irritability
changes in appetite and weight
uncontrollable emotions, and…
suicida
l ideation.
Terry checked off almost all the boxes.
So did I, for that matter.
But I couldn’t bring myself to care. Or decide either of us was worth saving.
I left him to sleep and debated whether I should give him the boot come sunrise, citing his lack of progress on his manuscript as a breach in our agreement. I’d decide in the morning.
I swung open the fridge door, expecting to find nothing.
Instead, I came face-to-face with a fully stocked vessel. Tidy columns of electrolyte drinks, bottled coffee, and pressed juices. Some poultry and protein organized in a dedicated row. The crisper held lettuce, vegetables, and fruits—washed and stored in separate glass containers.
Charlie.
