Page 186 of Craving Venom

Not because I hate you.

Not because I blame you.

But because I’m tired.

Tired of being this ghost of a person. Tired of waking up to steel and concrete and thinking maybe today’s the day I forget what sunlight feels like.

And mostly, because I don’t know who I am without your love.

Tell Sarah I’m proud of her. Tell her I’m sorry I won’t be there when she walks across that stage in her cap and gown. That I used to picture it—I really did. I used to imagine standing way in the back, clapping like hell and pretending I belonged.

Tell her not to carry this like I did. Not the weight. Not the shame. Not the silence.

And if anyone ever wonders—maybe on some quiet Sunday when it rains and the world feels slow—tell them I still think about Zush.

I still remember how he used to curl up by the front door when I was late coming home. Like he knew. Like he was holding space for me.

I wonder sometimes if he waited there the first night I didn’t come back.

If he stared at the door until his eyes gave out, hoping I’d walk through.

And maybe in some better world—the kind I don’t get into—I’d open my eyes and he’d be there, throwing himself into my chest and licking my face like I never left.

But I know that’s not where I’m going.

That door’s not for people like me.

That kind of peace, that kind of forgiveness, that belongs to the ones I hurt, not the one who did the hurting.

So I’ll hold the picture anyway, just to feel something soft before the end.

Just to remember what it felt like to be loved by something that didn’t need me to be good, just needed me to come home.

Please, don’t bury me angry.

Just bury me.

~ Mark

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE MONSTER

Inever wanted to dig a grave again.

But here I am.

The dirt’s loose, easier to work through than I expected. My fingers tighten around the shovel as my muscles burn with every push and lift. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the thin shirt stretched over my back.

Mark’s body is right behind me, wrapped in a tattered sheet. He’s been there for hours. Nobody’s going to move him but me.

There’s a tradition here, an unspoken rule. If you get close to someone inside and they become your “family,” you’re allowed to bury them. Not officially. The guards never acknowledge it, but it happens. They look the other way, and let you have your moment.

It’s fucked up.

But that’s prison for you.

The grave’s deep enough now. I drop the shovel and kneel beside Mark’s body. I grab the edge of the sheet andlift, dragging him toward the pit. His body’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe I’m just fucking tired.

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