Page 2 of Darling Venom
Some were short, some tall.
Some large, some thin.
Some old, some young.
They all shared one thing in common, though.
They didn’t give a crap if I died tonight.
Not that I’d tattooed I’m suicidal on my forehead before I left the house.
Still…
I was a kid, alone, and I looked like a mess with my hair, which hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, haunted eyes, and the tooth gap Mom used to insist was endearing so she didn’t have to pay for braces.
The mascara streaks under my eyes were courtesy of my five-hour meltdown prior to hopping on this train. I wore striped knee socks, a short black kilt, hand-me-down Doc Martens, and a denim jacket on which I’d scribbled quotes of books I loved with a Sharpie.
“Her future needed her, so she turned her back on her past.”
“Perfection is profanity. Icy, hostile, and unattainable.”
“She believed she could, so she did.”
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
I changed trains.
Platforms.
Stations.
The underground clung to my clothes. A whiff of earthy engines, cheap takeout food, and sweat. Hot wind blew from the train as it approached, fanning my hair over my face.
The idea of hurling myself onto the tracks and getting it over with crossed my mind.
I tsked to myself.
Nah.
That’d be hella basic.
First of all—worst, most painful death ever.
Second—I loathed people who did that. Especially during rush hour.
What was up with assholes who insisted on launching themselves down the rails when everyone was either headed to or leaving work and school?
Every time I got trapped underground, crammed between human sardines, their sweat so tangible I could taste it on my tongue, and the driver said we were stuck due to a person under a train, I wanted to bash my head against the plastic windows.
Third—I’d gotten the idea of plummeting to my doom off a roof from a Nick Hornby book, and I liked the literary touch.
Yup. Back to the original plan.
I hopped onto the train, pushed my AirPods knockoffs into my ears, and scrolled through my phone. “Watermelon Sugar” drowned the outside noise.
I wondered if Harry Styles ever thought about committing suicide, decided that he hadn’t, and rolled On the Road into a cone, tucking it into the back pocket of my skirt.
I’d told Leah I was going to a party, but she’d been too wiped out from her double shift at the bodega down the street to notice fourteen-year-old girls weren’t supposed to go to parties on Valentine’s Day at ten at night.
