Page 135 of Darling Venom
The first is a manuscript I wrote (officially, anyway). Since Tate thinks Dostoyevsky is Dad’s favorite brand of liquor and is a world-class douchebag, and Dad can’t be trusted with a fucking tissue paper, I am leaving this to you.
I couldn’t finish the book, Dicks.
No matter how much I tried, I always felt like I’d only ever get half of it. Until I realized you were the missing piece.
I got the death part right.
The despair. The darkness. The bleakness of existence.
Now I need you to color in the shades, and if the final product doesn’t suck, release it into the wild.
Maybe it’s the next The Imperfections. I dunno.
I’m passing the torch to you. It’s a torch you never asked for, but I know your ass has never shied away from a challenge before and you’ll be damned if you let this one slip.
I dare you to finish it, Venom.
I dare you to look inside yourself.
This book is my final penny to you.
I saved yours.
Will you save mine?
Yours,
KELLAN
A wail ripped up my throat.
I stumbled.
Right where Kellan once saved me from plummeting to my death.
At the last second, my fingers reached out, grasping for something, anything, to hold on to. They met the chimney. I curled around its mouth in a death grip, ignoring the pull of my nails lifting a bit at the tightness.
Goosebumps rose along my arms. I shivered, not from the cold.
If I didn’t sit, I’d keel over. Part of me wanted to. Welcomed the idea of falling, just to feel what Kellan did before he left.
Instead, I collapsed onto the shingles and plucked at my leg. I pulled them both to my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees to stop the shaking.
It wouldn’t stop.
I screamed his name.
Over and over again.
“Kellan! Kellan! Kellan!”
It became a chant, dipping into a whisper.
My throat ached.
I rarely contemplated the existence of an afterlife, but today, I wondered if one existed. And if it did, was Kellan there, watching tears flood my cheeks, and disappointed in me? Had he disowned me already?
“You’re wrong, Kellan.”
