Page 134 of Darling Venom
St. Paul still hadn’t walled off rooftop access beyond that ridiculous rusted chain and a DO NOT ENTER sign situated above a contradictory set of emergency instructions to climb it in case of a flood.
To be fair, whoever maintained this place had done their damnedest to make the roof tiles as inhospitable as possible.
It was the same and different. Unsettling and cold, yet full of memories that were warm. Bird poop, crow spikes, cigarette butts, and distant echoes of drinking beer and talking books—and that was just what I could see.
It was dark out.
I crept back a few steps, barefoot, because I’d darted out of the apartment without stopping to grab my shoes. My toes curled inward from the cold.
“Do it,
Charlotte. Open it. Stop being such a chicken.”
I sucked in a breath and flashed my phone’s light, staring down at the envelope. It bore a wax seal with the Circle-A symbol. Cracked in half by me. I couldn’t help myself in the cab. But it was a sign Leah had never read it.
Maybe she really did think it was a birthday card.
I flipped open the flap. Two keys tumbled onto my lap. The heavy, vintage type. Forged by hand. I tucked them into my pocket to study later. Then, I unraveled Kellan’s letter, smoothing out the edges that had curled inward with age.
I read.
I cried.
I broke.
My darling Venom,
Let me preface this by saying, if you cry, I’m going to disown your ass all the way from Hell. Not that I believe in Hell. And not that I particularly believe you’ll cry. Just covering my bases here.
Here goes nothing.
Let it be known that this is not a suicide letter. It’s a letter that happens to be the last one I’ll ever write.
I’m telling you now not to blame yourself for anything that happened. In fact, you were the only reason I lasted these four years.
I’m not going to get into the whole why-I-did-this part.
We both know why I offed myself.
It’s been a long time coming, and even though I know your heart was in the right place, you and me aren’t made of the same stuff. The black slug.
I know you’d like to think we are, but trust me, there’s something sturdy beneath your exterior.
Inside, I’m all bled out. Empty and gone.
I’m a walking corpse, and my existence stinks.
I know you said I might regret it mid-fall, but let me tell you, sweets: I’ve flirted with cutting all year, and I only feel regret when I withdraw the blade from my skin.
I’m ready.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I have a favor to ask you. Before you say anything, remember—my funeral, my rules.
I left something for you.
Actually, I left several things for you.
They’re in the two desk drawers in my room at that asshole’s place. Tate. The keys are in this envelope.
