Page 3 of Darling Venom
She’d also forgotten my birthday today.
Or maybe she’d pretended not to remember because she was mad.
Not that I blamed her.
I didn’t know how she could look me in the eye.
Don’t worry. She doesn’t.
It wasn’t the only reason I was killing myself tonight. But it was one of them.
That was the thing about despair. It built up like a Jenga tower. Higher and higher, on shaky ground. One bad move, and you were toast.
My sister hated me.
She hated me every time she looked in the mirror. Every time she went to a job she loathed. Every time I breathed.
Coincid
entally, she was the only person in this world I had left. My death would come as a relief.
Sure, at first, she’d be shocked.
Disturbed.
Sad, even.
But once those feelings began to fade…
My suicide was a tightly knit constellation of tragedies, sewn together by bad luck, circumstances, and despair.
But not having my birthday acknowledged this year? That took the cake. Which was actually kind of punny when I thought about it.
I climbed the stairs out of Cathedral Parkway. Arctic wind slapped my damp cheeks. The soundtrack of the Manhattan traffic, car horns, and drunk fuckboys filled my ears.
I strode past corporate buildings, fancy apartment blocks, and historical monuments. Dad used to say I was born in the best city in the world.
Only seemed fair that I’d die in it, too.
Breaking off onto a side street, I arrived at my school.
This was my first year at St. Paul, a K-12 college prep in the better part of town. I rode a full scholarship, something Principal Brooks had enjoyed shoving in my face until The Night Of happened and it suddenly became unkosher to be a dick to a kid whose parents just died.
Basically, the scholarship rewarded me for being the best student in the mediocre elementary and middle schools outside this zip code.
Some random-ass, couture-loving lady from the Upper East Side had agreed to pay my way through private school until I graduated, as part of some charity event.
Last year, Mom had forced me to write her a thank-you letter.
She never replied.
I hadn’t been at St. Paul long enough to actively hate it, so that wasn’t why I’d chosen to off myself from its roof.
But it was hard not to notice the railed stairway on the side of the six-floor Edwardian monster, leading to the rooftop.
Such a convenient suicide venue, it’d be a crime to choose anywhere else.
Apparently, the staff of St. Paul knew giving overstressed students access to the roof was not the brightest idea, but the stairway had to stay.
