Page 233
Chapter 233 of "Tempting Venom" starts with dramatic events: Just like that timeāif I try to speak, I canāt breathe.If I canāt breathe, I... Discover what happens!
Just like that timeāif I try to speak, I canāt breathe.
If I canāt breathe, I feeleverything.
And I hated itāfeelingeverything. I preferred the numbness, the lack of emotionsā¦the endless floating.
I think Iām getting there, to the floating stage where I donāt exist for a while.
Become part of the stars for a while.
But for now, I have to keep my feet on the ground.
Because thereās something I loathe more than feeling everythingābeing pitied.
Or being seen as a hopeless case. Dad already does, and I donāt want to add Jude and Kane to the list.
I was out here for a good time. You know, before Dad handed me to his favorite Dr. Fenwick so he could dissect my brain again.
Probe my mindagain.
Strap me to a bed, poke me with needles, extract my blood, and give me puzzles.
Will I get those again? The last time they studied me extensively, I was a kid, so maybe theyāll quit the LEGO-like nonsense?
Guess I have to wait and find out.
Though maybe thatās not a bad idea. Iād take LEGO over Dr. Fenwickās dull personality any day.
I wonder if Dr. Duret will finally come to her senses and tell her boss, Fenwick, that Iāmtotallyfine.
Okay, Iām not, but Iām not dangerous.
Fine, I am.
Iāve been sensing the disintegration of my mind slowly but surely over these last couple of days. The sounds are starting to drown out my thoughts; I can barely hear myself.
This morning, I stared in the mirror, and I donāt know who the fuck stared back at me. He had hollow eyes and snot running from his nose as silent tears streamed down his face.
āYou never helped me,ā he whispered, and I had to look away before I drove my head straight into him.
He shouldāve died. Why the hell is he still alive?
Anyway, my brain has been in a bit of a state for some time, but itās spiked since the night I hurt Marcus and he pretended nothing happened.
My mind rippled, spanned the fuck out, and finally broke.
Then it was shattered into pieces last night after Dad apologized for his cutthroat intentions.
So what did I do? Killing some desolate souls or slicing some throats normally wouldāve been my go-to solutions. Or maybe provoking Dad so heād send Lenin to beat me the hell up.
But nah, none of those wouldāve helped in this state of complete desperation.
Instead, Iāve done something uncharacteristic.
I spent the entire night writing a letter.
Yes.Iwaswriting a letter. Blasphemous under any form of circumstances, and no, Dr. Duret wonāt get the credit, because sheās a fucking liar.
It wasnāt helpful or cathartic like she preached. If anything, I found myself hitting the back of my head on the wall so hard, I was sure Iād bleed out.