Page 27 of Sweet Venom

And my shout reverberates in the small closet she shoves me into.

I jolt up, gasping, drenched in sweat, my pulse hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me. Faint light greets me, and I release a breath.

It’s not the closet.

I’m not in the closet.

The air is still thick as my breaths come in ragged pulls. My unsteady fingers dig into the sheets, searching for something real. Something that isn’t her.

But her voice lingers, coiled in my head like smoke, and I press my hands to my ears as if that will dilute the words I can still hear.

I know Mama’s dead.

But, in reality, she never really is.

She lives on in my nightmares, always reminding me how useless I am. How I can never be…more.

My feet tangle in the sheets and I fall on my knees on the hardwood floor, groaning, but I jerk up and run to Dahlia’s room.

My breathing slowly eases when I see her sleeping peacefully in bed. I walk on my tiptoes and pull up the sheet that’s fallen off, then quietly close the door, leaning my back against it.

My fingers still shaking, I slide down to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It’s times like these when I just want to…end it.

Once and for all.

Just stop everything.

The nightmares.

The dark closet.

Mama’s cruel words.

My silly yearning for love and affection that I never received.

Except from Dahlia—she’s always loved me unconditionally. She lost her parents to an accident and, like me, was pinballed in the foster care system.

Unlike me, however, she has no silly notions of hopeless romanticism or an unattainable need for affection.

Or any late-night secret meetings with Death, toying with the idea of it as a coping mechanism.

But now, I’m putting the only person who ever cared about me in jeopardy.

Becauseheis still there.

Death.

And I know if I continued to toy with the idea, Jude would use her to put me back in my place.

I stand on unsteady legs and walk to the living room window. Tremors still plague my hands as I pull back the muslin curtain slightly, squinting at one of the few working lampposts, its glare assaulting me.

It’s four in the morning, so he should be gone by now.

But he’s not.

Across the street, I spot a parked black car. I can’t see who’s inside, but I know it’s not empty.

Over the past two weeks, ever since Jude declared that my life was his, I haven’t seen him around, but I’ve felt him.