Sins Of Her Venom
Chapter 43: Hurt

Chapter 43: Hurt

- Glyndon Walton: (Song of the Chapter: Wildflower by Billie Eilish)

The sun reflected into my eyes, and I groaned in annoyance. The sunlight was unbearable, piercing right through my head.

I turned over, trying to go back to sleep, but it was no use. My head was pounding.

The pain was unbearable. I was still so tired, but the ache made it impossible to rest.

I forced my eyes open, squinting against the light as I glanced around the room. It was too early for anyone to be awake, the kind of quiet that made my headache feel even louder.

Groaning again, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to my suitcase.

I rummaged through it, my fingers shaky, until I found the painkillers. Grabbing them along with a cup and the bottle of water I had, I swallowed the pills quickly, desperate for relief.

I flopped back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to subside.

Slowly, after what felt like forever, the pressure in my head started to ease. But then, another wave hit me—nausea.

I barely made it to the bathroom in time, emptying my stomach into the toilet.

Once I was done, I brushed my teeth, scrubbing away the awful taste, trying to feel human again.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, my eyes automatically landed on the bed next to mine. Katherine’s bed.

She was lying there, deeply asleep. Her tank top clung to her breasts as she sprawled on the bed, her blanket barely reaching her stomach.

Her hair was scattered across the pillow in wild waves, catching the faint morning light. It was beautiful hair.

And as I stared at her, it all came rushing back—yesterday.

Every single thing I had said to her. Every single thing I had done to her.

My eyes widened as the memories hit me like a punch to the gut.

What the hell had I done?

I sat on the edge of my bed, my hand running through my hair as the realization settled in.

I bought her a gift.

I bought her a gift.

What kind of person does that? What kind of person buys a gift for someone they hate and bully all the time? What kind of person says the things I said to her and then turns around and... does that?

It was crazy.

I was crazy.

This couldn’t be real. I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore.

Through my internal conflict, her voice broke through my thoughts.

"Thanks for the gift, Glyndon," she said, her tone low and sleepy. That voice—it sent heat rippling through me, unwelcome and undeniable.

Then she added, "I didn’t peg you as one of those people who are gift-givers."

I froze. My brain scrambled for a response, but there was nothing.

No excuse, no witty comeback, no lie that would hold up under her knowing gaze.

What could I even say? She was the only person I knew who loved motorcycles as much as she did—and owns a purple bike. There was no hiding the fact that I’d bought it for her.

So, I said nothing. I stayed silent, ignoring her completely, as if her words hadn’t set my chest ablaze.

She chuckled softly, that sound curling in my stomach, before slipping into the bathroom.

I could hear the faint sounds of her brushing her teeth, and running water, but I stayed rooted to my spot, staring at my phone as if it held some kind of escape. I texted Alex, trying to distract myself from the chaos in my head.

-

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and she stepped out.

And everything stopped.

She was wearing a sundress. A simple royal blue sundress, but it clung to her body in ways that made my throat dry.

Her hair wasn’t in its usual braid, either. No, it was blow-dried, cascading down her back in soft waves that reached her hips.

The front strands were pulled back with a bow, framing her face perfectly.

She wore just enough makeup to accentuate her features—nude lips, a touch of mascara and eyeliner, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.

Subtle, but it made her glow. She’d paired the look with jewelry: rings on her fingers, a delicate bracelet on her wrist, small earrings that glinted in the morning light one her ears.

She looked... beautiful.

I didn’t want to admit it. Hell, I didn’t even want to think about it. But she looked absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful... So pretty.

I clenched my jaw and forced my eyes back to my phone, pretending I hadn’t noticed, pretending her presence didn’t make my pulse race or my body heat up, or make my face blush.

But it was pointless. She was there, and every part of my body and mind was aware of it.

I stood up without thinking, my body moving on its own as my feet carried me closer to her. She was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her hair, her movements slow and deliberate.

She lifted her eyes to meet mine through the reflection in the mirror, catching me red-handed as I shamelessly stared—at her hair, her body, her face. I didn’t even bother to look away.

I just kept watching her, unable to stop myself.

She smirked, fully aware of my gaze, and it only made me angrier at myself for letting her see that I was so focused on her.

I cleared my throat and finally spoke. "You’ve never let your hair down. You always braid it. Why is it down now? What changed?"

Her smirk deepened, and she turned her attention back to the mirror, fixing an invisible strand of hair as she replied, "The only reason I used to braid it all the time was because you and your little minion friends kept bullying me. I was scared it’d get damaged."

Her words made my chest tighten. Guilt? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell. She didn’t stop, though, throwing another hit straight at my pride.

"But now that you are getting all possessive and jealous," she said, her tone dripping with amusement, "I know you are not going to let your midget boyfriend mess with my hair. Finally, I can wear it down."

My heart jumped, my breath hitching involuntarily. Possessive? Jealous? No. No way. She couldn’t think that. I couldn’t let her believe that.

I repeated it to myself like a mantra—I’m not jealous. I’m not possessive of her. I’m not.

But the truth sat heavy in my chest, mocking me. Everything I’d done, everything I’d said, all screamed the opposite.

I clenched my fists and forced anger to the surface, using it to mask my insecurities and my fear of admitting what I couldn’t even admit to myself.

"I’m not jealous of my fucking boyfriend or anyone for you," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "And I’m not possessive of you."

She turned then, slowly, taking deliberate steps toward me.

Her smirk stayed in place, confident, knowing, as if she’d already won whatever game she thought we were playing.

She stopped right in front of me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"I never said you were possessive of me," she replied, her voice low, teasing.

And then she leaned forward, bringing her face closer to mine, her breath ghosting over my lips as she whispered, "I meant you’re possessive of your boyfriend. Why do you think I meant me? Are you perhaps in love with me, Glyndon Walton? In love with the fag? With the school’s lesbian who is going to hell?"

Her words hit me like a truck, leaving me stunned, frozen, every nerve in my body on fire. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move.

Because I didn’t have an answer. And she knew it.

I just stared at her, stunned, every part of my body trembling, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst.

My throat felt tight, my tongue useless and knotted.

Words refused to come, and I just stood there, frozen, while she looked back at me, her smirk growing, victorious as she’d just won some game I hadn’t even realized I was playing.

She tilted her head, studying me, and then she spoke, her voice dripping with mockery. "What’s wrong, Glyndon? Do you want to be my girlfriend that bad? Is that it? You want to take me out on little dates and hold my hand in public and wear matching couple clothes?"

I flinched at her words, but she didn’t stop. She leaned in closer, her voice growing sharper. "Is that why you told your boyfriend to let go of my hair in French class the other day? Is that why you bought me that little toy bike? Is that it, Glyndon? Are you gay now? Falling in love with the school lesbian? The orgasms I gave you were too good it turned you gay?"

I opened my mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but she didn’t give me the chance.

"Think about it," she continued, her voice mocking, cruel. "How mad do you think God’s going to be at you? How angry is your family going to be? Or better yet—what about your boyfriend? Do you think he’s going to love you after cheating on him with a girl?"

Her words hit like daggers, each one sinking deep, twisting. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t process the whirlwind of emotions raging inside me.

And the worst part? I couldn’t tell if she was saying all this to hurt me—or if she meant it... I don’t know why it hurts.

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