Page 15 of Craving Venom
Seconds later, her reply pings in.
Thank you for the warm welcome. It’s good to know your ego is still alive and thriving. Pretentiousness aside, it’s always fascinating to see someone overcompensate for their inability to be understood. Don’t worry, Zane, I won’t try to ‘fix’ you. I’m here to observe.
Mark whistles low, dragging his chair closer to read over my shoulder. “Holy fuck. That’s not the reply you were hoping for, huh?”
I scoff, though my jaw tightens. “She’s trying too hard. Probably thinks it makes her sound smart.”
Still, my fingers hover over the keyboard longer than I’d like to admit. A lesser woman might’ve come back with a flustered apology, or worse, coy little praise for the dangerous bad boy routine. Not this one.
Fine. Let’s see how far she’ll go before she cracks.
Big words for someone who probably reads books about finding herself over chai lattes. Let me guess you’re another doe-eyed optimist who thinks my face is the reason why I never could have done the things I did. Not my fault the world handed me a jawline while skipping your personality. But hey, nice try.
Mark snorts behind me, and I glare.
“What?”
“Nothing, man,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Just can’t wait to see what this one says back.”
The reply lands faster than I expect.
Cute, but no. I’m well aware you’re capable of far worse. Your face is irrelevant and so is your ego, for that matter. What’s interesting is the effort it must’ve taken to make yourself sound so blasé about the world. If you weren’t so busy dodging accountability, I might even call it admirable. But, as you said, nice try.
For someone who doesn’t want to ‘fix me’, you seem awfully invested. Let’s drop the act. You’re curious. You want to know what makes me tick. They all do. But don’t get too close, Doc. You might find out why I’m the way I am. And trust me, you won’t like it.
The screen stays silent for longer than I expected. Mark drums his fingers on the desk, eyeing me like I’m some circus act.
“She’s typing,” I mutter, keeping my eyes locked on the tiny indicator that flickers at the bottom of the screen. It’s almost hypnotic.
“Or,” Mark adds, “she’s crafting her big fuck you to show she’s the smartest one in the room.”
The ping finally lands.
There’s a peculiar arrogance in believing that the world won’t like what it sees when it looks at you. It’s not fear of rejection, it’s hope for validation. Your crimes, your persona, they all point to one thing: you need the world to understand you’re different. Not in the ‘special snowflake’ way, but in the ‘you can’t sit with us’ kind of way. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me, what do you think separates you from the rest of humanity? Is it your willingness to embrace the darkness, or is it your belief that the darkness makes you more?
“Damn. She’s not backing down, huh?”
I let out a short laugh, more a growl than anything else. “She’s trying to play shrink through email.”
I crack my knuckles again, the sharp pops cutting through the quiet. Time to remind her who she’s dealing with.
The difference between me and the rest of humanity? I don’t lie to myself. You all walk around pretending the world is fair, that morality isn’t just a leash we put on the weak to keep them in line. Me? I cut the leash a long time ago. I don’t pretend to care about the light because I know it’s just a distraction from what’s real. You want to talk about darkness? Fine. Here’s a lesson: Humanity’s greatest trick isn’t kindness; it’s the ability to mask cruelty behind it. I’m just honest about who I am. Does that makes me worse? Or does it make me free?
The reply comes faster this time.
Your ‘honesty’ about the darkness you embrace isn’t noble—it’s lazy. It takes courage to carry the weight of light in a world so steeped in shadow. But I’m curious, Zane. Do you believe in anything, or have you convinced yourself that belief is a weakness, too?
“Damn, Zane. She’s got you by the balls.”
I glare at him, then turn back to the screen.
Fascinating. You talk about light and courage as if they mean something. But the truth is, your ‘light’ only exists because people like me give you something to measure it against. Without the dark, there’s no contrast. Oh, and let me tell you something about the light, Faith. It’s a trap. It blinds you, lulls you into a false sense of security. The only thing more dangerous than the dark is believing you’re safe from it. You asked if I believe in anything. I believe in power. The power to shape your world, to rise above the mediocrity of people clinging to their illusions. And before you start throwing around words like ‘lazy,’ remember this I don’t hide from what I am. I live it.
“You sound like a Saturday morning cartoon villain.”
“You don’t get it.”
The reply pings almost instantly, as if she’s been waiting.
