Page 5 of Darling Venom
Why did he do that?
Why did he dress like a weirdo?
Why would he fuck his brother over like that?
Well, allow me to en-fucking-lighten you.
I was doing it because Tate Marchetti was a sonuvabitch.
Trust me, I lived with the guy.
He’d torn me from my father and didn’t even stop to ask me what I wanted to do with my life.
If I could die twice just to rub it in my big brother’s smug face, I happily would.
Anyway, about my suicide.
It wasn’t a rash decision.
Suicide had built its case over the years. Then, last week, I’d jotted down pros and cons (cliché, I know—sue me).
I couldn’t help but notice one part of the list fell short.
pros:
Tate is going to have a coronary.
No more school.
No more homework.
No more getting my ass whipped by rando jocks who watch too much Euphoria.
No more Harvard vs. Yale discussions during dinner (can’t get into either with my grades, even if Dad donates three wings, a hospital, and a kidney to these schools).
Bonus points: dying young is rock n’ roll.
cons:
Will miss Dad.
Will miss my books.
Will miss Charlotte Richards—side note: I don’t even know her. So what if she’s pretty? WTF?
I plucked a can of Bud Light from my backpack and chugged it down. It was foamy from the journey here, and my fingertips were freezing, and I should just get it over with.
I was about to do just that when it caught my attention. The tap-tap-tap of feet coming up the stairs.
What in the…?
Tate didn’t know I was here, but if he’d found out by some miraculous chance, he worked a night shift Morgan-Dunn Hospital.
Which left someone else from St. Puke who’d noticed the same hidden metal stairway. Probably a drunk couple sneaking in for a quick lay.
I leaned forward to jump before they could see me when I heard, “Don’t!”
I froze, not turning around.
