Page 297 of Darling Venom
We remember the elderly who have continued to work past retirement age to recuperate what they can of their savings.
We remember the children who went hungry.
We remember Hank Prescott, who died of a heart attack working three jobs to provide for his family after losing not only his job but also the life savings he invested in Winthrop Textiles.
We remember Angus Bedford, who committed suicide after losing his job at the Winthrop factory and his son’s college fund.
Gideon Winthrop may have fled Eastridge, North Carolina and no charges may have been pressed, but we remember.
Note: If you or anyone you know has suffered from The Winthrop Scandal, The Eastridge Fund, set up by Eastridge’s very own Nash Prescott, provides 24/7 support, including over-the-phone counseling, a 100% anonymous pen pal system, and a suicide prevention hotline.
comments:
Mary Sue: I invested all my savings in Winthrop Textiles! I lost my home. That wicked family deserves to burn in Hell. God will not be kind to the Winthrop family.
Derek Klein: The Winthrop family should have died! Not Hank! Not our Angus!
Beth Anne: Bless Nash Prescott. To lose a father then make The Eastridge Fund after the fact. Kind of makes you wonder what would have happened if he had struck rich sooner. Would Hank Prescott still be alive?
Joshua Smith: If I see Gideon Winthrop, he’s dead. No two cents about it, no hesitation. That man deserves to meet the Devil.
Ashley Johnson: @Beth Anne, that’s an awful thing to say. Delete your comment!!!!
Hallie Clarke: Does anyone know what happened to Emery Winthrop? Her social media is silent. My daughter goes to Duke and says she’s not there.
Demi Wilson: @Hallie Clarke, no clue.
Bruce Davey: @Hallie Clarke, don’t know either, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s just as guilty as the rest of ‘em.
emery, 22; nash, 32
Emery
Burn. It crept up my fingers, down the side of my wrist, and across my palm. My fingers flexed. Straight. Curled knuckles. Straight. Fist. I did this eight times until I could pick up the needle and thread again without wanting to chop off my hands.
I would withstand this torture every hour of the day if it meant I’d created something tangible. Something that couldn’t be taken from me. Something I could latch onto and call mine.
Five yards of curtain laid in front of me. The fabric pen sat uncapped beside my thigh. I dropped the needle and thread, picked up the pen, and dragged it across the fabric in a sweeping motion. Empty. I shook the pen and tried again. Still empty.
“Motherfucker.”
I didn’t have money for a new one, and my next paycheck didn’t come for a week.
“What happened?”
I took Reed off speaker and pressed the phone to my ear. “Pen’s out of ink. No big deal. It’s a recreational project.”
All my projects were recreational, including this curtain-turned-peplum-dress. I had zero design gigs lined up and a stack of unpaid bills I hid in my freezer so I didn’t have to see them. Every time I thought of the bills, I was tempted to dip into my trust fund. I never caved. That, and Mother dangled stipulations over my head like poisoned mistletoe.
The tension in my neck was another sign I needed to get my shit together, or I’d die of a heart attack before I turned twenty-three. Thanks to shitty construction and my inability to afford AC bills, the heat sweltered in here despite the cool fifty degrees outside.
It was always either too cold or too hot in my two-hundred-square-feet studio, but at a hundred bucks a month for rent, I had no reason to complain. And no super around to complain to.
My phone dinged with a message from the Eastridge United app.
Benkinersophobia: I finally looked up Durga. A goddess of war? Please, tell me you have a sari you roleplay in.
The snort slipped out before I could stop it. The Eastridge Fund had assigned Ben as my anonymous pen pal three years ago. I shouldn’t have signed up for the app. I wasn’t a victim. I was the daughter of the victimizer.
