Chapter 17 #2
“Eighty percent of his tests go sideways. He’s been spending more time killing his test subjects than helping them. I wouldn’t trust him with a psychiatric drug. Preston was already used as a test subject for my father and nearly died. That won’t be fucking happening again.”
“I suppose we have to wait and see if he can keep himself under control.”
“He can. I’ll make sure of it.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You don’t have to put more responsibilities on yourself when you’re already struggling with control.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Jude, you’re stalking one of your targets and doing God knows what in between, and it’s messing with your head. You might not notice it, but I do. You’re on fucking edge and it shows.”
I clench my fists and then unclench them but choose to keep my mouth shut because he’s not entirely wrong.
“Listen up, I don’t care what you think you should do with Violet, but keep Dahlia out of it. You don’t go near her, okay?”
I narrow my eyes. Kane has never had this much interest in a girl he’s never even talked to. He’s worse than me in the opposite sex department and rarely hooks up.
However, ever since the first time he took me to that Stantonville shithole to show me where Violet lives, he’s been enamored with Dahlia.
Not sure if that’s the right word.
Intrigued? Impressed, maybe?
I was too busy recognizing Violet as the girl with the blue umbrella, but then I noticed the gleam in his eye when Dahlia used a gun—an unloaded one—to threaten the drunk who was harassing Violet.
Dahlia was firm and loud, unlike Violet, who remained in the background, then scolded Dahlia for having the gun.
That’s what Violet does best—scolding instead of being grateful.
And now I’m thinking of her, and I refuse to think of her after my recent resolution.
At any rate, Kane told me to stay away from ‘the sister’ that very night, and he sometimes plugs in a reminder to not disturb her in any form.
I narrow my eyes on him. “What’s with you and Dahlia? You arranged her scholarship, didn’t you?”
“You stay out of my business, and I stay out of yours, yeah?”
He changes the subject, talking about how we can gain more power in Vencor. Something about turning as many Seniors as possible to our side and subtly forcing our dads to relinquish power in our favor.
A sort of a coup d’état.
Kane has always had this ambition for us to become stronger and run Vencor however we please.
And I agree in principle, but I don’t have time for it.
Or maybe I do because I promised to stay away from my recent fixation.
And I have.
For about four weeks now, since the night Violet sucked my soul through my cock.
I’ve never come that hard or wanted to come that badly down someone’s throat. Or mess them up with my cum.
Or watch my cum on her tongue as she looked up at me with watery blue eyes that were so goddamn alive.
Passionate, even.
I’d never seen that look on her face—satisfaction mixed with a hint of submission. Not until I saw my cum on her tongue.
And for a moment, I had a raging possessive thought about locking her the fuck up somewhere only I had access to.
But then I was disturbed by that thought because I’ve never considered making a girl so wholly mine; she’d never look at anyone else, let alone go on dates or flirt with them.
And that girl won’t be Violet Winters, number seven on my list, who’ll meet an untimely end like all of them.
It’s just a matter of time before I rip off the Band-Aid.
The thought didn’t sit well with me, but I chose to stay away.
The first week was because Regis locked me up.
Ever since I was released from the prison of my old room, I’ve only been going at night to read her journal while she’s asleep.
Sometimes, she’ll have these brutal nightmares, and I find myself sort of…
placing my hand on her back, which surprisingly seems to calm her down. Especially if I pat her for a while.
I don’t really know why the fuck I do that.
Maybe it’s because she’s going through a depressive episode, seeming to talk less and less in her journal.
She doesn’t write much about death, but I’ve learned from studying the patterns that she tends to be less creative and more one-sentency in her entries when she’s off.
Not to mention, she talks less about herself.
Laura is having a hard time. She was crying in the bathroom during break. I want to help, but I can’t do much except take some of her shifts or look after Karly whenever possible.
Dahlia is so excited for GU, and I’m so proud of her. She’s meant to go places, and I can’t wait to see how far she reaches.
Karly is so cute. I want to protect her contagious smile.
Good weather. Black insides.
Finished an ugly stitch. Threw it away.
Learned a new recipe. I ruined it.
Went walking. Would’ve been hit by a car if it weren’t for my guardian angel.
The sky is colorless even though it’s beautiful outside.
The demon sitting on my chest is heavier lately.
Why couldn’t Mama love me even a little? Just a tiny bit. Would I have been better if she hugged me and told me she loved me even once? Or am I grasping at straws and finding excuses?
Endure.
Endure.
Endure.
Endure.
Endure. Please.
Her last entries have been just that word, and it’s starting to creep me the fuck out. Pres and Mom both tended to be self-destructive, and if their depressive episodes are any indication, Violet could be headed down that same path.
In Pres’s case, he’ll be too reckless, testing gravity and physics. Mom’s episodes usually manifested when she stopped eating and withdrew into watching TV all day, looking straight through the screen. And attempting to take her own life…or someone else’s.
But then again, Pres and Mom struggled with more issues aside from depression.
Violet’s episodes are… I don’t know what the fuck they are. Mario says she’s acting normal, but I can tell something is off about her lately. Her nightmares are frequent, her embroidering is almost nonexistent, and her journaling isn’t the same.
She doesn’t reply to my texts either, having completely ignored the few I’ve sent since she asked about Dahlia’s scholarship a week ago.
My mind races as Kane and I clean up in the old cottage tucked deep in the Armstrongs’ forest. It’s the same place where we used to hunt, the same one we were abandoned in as kids and told to “learn how to survive.”
It’s become one of our playgrounds of sorts. A place where we come to inflict the same pain that was once inflicted upon us.
I’m putting on my shirt when my phone rings.
Larson.
My shoulders tense at seeing his name. Why would Mario’s aide of sorts call me?
I pick up, my voice already on edge. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t reach Mario. Something is off.”
“Off?”
“I’m afraid something might have happened to them.”
What. The. Fuck?