Venomous Read Free Page A

overexcited, depressed. I wanted to go home and go to bed.
    My mother had to get off work to pick me up, which, let me tell you, was a huge pain in the ass. She kept asking me questions about why I did it and whether or not I liked my school. Answering wasn’t an option, as my face was just flushed creases and snot. The minute we got home, I climbed into bed and passed out until ten o’clock the next morning. From what I’ve read and seen in movies, it was like recovering from your first shot of smack: Once that first blinding feeling had run its course, the rest of my body just sort of shut down for recovery. And just like with a drug, the thing that most irked me was how much I adored that raw, powerful feeling, and how deeply sad I was that it was no longer there. The best sensation I’d ever experienced, and the only thing that could spark it off was utter fucking misery.
    From that day on, my life was peppered with outbursts of the venom and its sickly influence. Almost overnight I went from easy pickings for the bullies at my school to someone the new kids were warned to stay away from. Circles of whispering kids went silent as the grave when I passed. Which was cool at first, I admit. Like I said, I had never been THE target for torment—you know, That Kid? I wasn’t That Kid—but now I was a social Typhoid Mary. I’d made it clear that I didn’t want to be messed with, and I was left alone. Whenever new kids came by and tried to show how tough they were, I’d have an outburst and they’d go home to their parents, and the next day the school would get an enraged phone call, asking for my head. It was sort of like prison that way, just not with the whole selling-ass-for-cigarettes and the like.
    The first time was indicative of the venom’s style, though, and that was definitely a problem. My books would get slapped out of my hands, so I’d whale on the slapper with my backpack. If someone spat in my face, I’d punch ’em in the throat. If someone shoved me into my locker, I’d slam their hand in the door of theirs. People would constantly ask why I had to go “that far” when someone was a bastard to me, and truth be told, I hadn’t the foggiest, because it wasn’t me doing it. Even if I wanted to beat someone down, it wasn’t a simple punch in the nose or a knee to the balls; something uncomfortable and effective. The venom saw things along the lines of nerve clusters and necessities (fingers and eyes, mostly, but basically whatever would be really difficult for someone to have wrapped up for a couple of weeks). The venom liked extremes—the crueler the better. This wasn’t about getting even, it was about causing the worst pain in the weirdest way possible. It was about being unforgettable.
    Over the years, I managed to build up some tolerance for the venom. Sure, after an outburst I’d still vibrate and mumble as though I was attending synagogue, but nowhere near as bad as I did that first time. It helped that the vessel for the hate had been expanded: The level of rage has stayed the same, but I’ve grown enough, both physically and emotionally, to be able to deal with it now. The anger was the same, but recovery time shortened significantly. So the venom got creative and started reworking its game plan. Starting around eighth grade, I found out the venom’s other talent: It made me poisonous.
    I had the Midas touch, if old King Midas had a penchant for decay rather than gold (stupid analogy, I know, but you know what I’m talking about). Everything I became a part of turned to shit before my eyes. My growing depression and antisocial tendencies were definitely a few of the things that caused my dad to leave us around then. (The question has always bothered me: Was Dad always a dirtbag, and did the venom just reveal him; or was Dad fine until the venom drove him out?) I remember hearing the fights he and my mom had right before they split; her side was always sympathetic and nurturing