Chapter 2: WOUNDED VENOM

(DANIEL)

The beat from Cardi B’s most infamous anthem, WAP, hums in the car: crude and profane. I’m a certified Bardi, but that song is nothing compared to what Gareth will do to me.

Pulling up in the garage, I snag the package from the backseat. My fingers skim the pistol I keep under the seat. London’s dangerous for queers like me. I’ve had it since the mugging last year.

I kill the engine. The car beeps twice as I sashay into my compound. Sorry, our compound. Gareth and I. I work for the cash, he fucks my brains out. Proper division of labour.

I snicker, twisting the knob of our apartment. Life has never been better than this.

The usual rich kid’s home: Expensive furnishings, flashy interiors, with a junk-infested kitchen. Trying too hard and insufficient at the same time.

Oh, I miss Mama, but that ship sailed a long time ago.

Dashing through the parlour, I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse thrumming in anticipation.

I’ve emptied my savings, even taken bank loans to get Gareth the iPhone 16 Pro Max and Xbox he’s been obsessing about.

Shut up! My Android is sufficient for me. Just change the cracked screen and charging point, and I’m good to go.

The gallery stretches through the hallway, pictures of my lover and me staring back at me.

Stalking on my tiptoes, I palm my mouth to stifle my giggles. Is that even normal for a twenty-two-year-old man? Don’t fucking care.

My cock thickens, hole throbbing, halting in front of our bedroom.

“Barge in, gift him, and get fucked.” I mutter to myself.

Then I hear it. Noise, stifled with grunts. One hoarse, the other… feminine.

What’s that even supposed to mean?

A ball forms in my throat. I almost choke on my tongue at the thought of—No. I dare not go there. It can’t happen.

Three years of emotional investment led to this moment. I picked Gareth from the slums, despite the rumours of his reputation for violence, sex offender, and animal bully.

I hated myself for it, but I love that guy. So fucking much it hurts.

He might be watching p**n. I mean, he’s bisexual, right? Anything that makes him happy.

The grunt echoes again, almost strangled. The sound people make in horror movies when smothered with a pillow.

Wait.

Gareth may be a man, but there are trained female unalivers, capable of bringing down a mammoth if given the chance.

My heart stops. What if he’s in danger?!

My boots collide with the door. The hinges creak. I storm in.

“Baby, I bought you—”

The X-box crashes to the ground.

I freeze, blink, then gasp.

A shriek rips from my throat. “GARETH!”

They didn’t even have the dignity to stop.

Gloria’s eyes meet mine, no remorse in them. Gareth doesn’t glance my way. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t cry.

Our bedroom. The same one I own and clean daily. The same sheets he vowed to marry me while piping my brains out for three years.

My knees hit the floor, both hands hefting behind my head like a felon caught by the FBI.

The same Gloria I called this morning before leaving for work. Who said Gareth is a curse to me. The same Gloria who stabbed my boyfriend last month because he beat me until I fainted.

No, no, God please.

That is not my twin sister. Sucking Gareth's cock. While he eats her out.

I’m going to vomit.

I-I’m going to—FUCK!

My legs move. Wood creaks. Their moans are all I hear, and black is all I see.

I don’t remember snatching the pistol. Don’t remember shooting. All I know is that the noise has stopped, the sheets are red, with gunpowder assaulting my senses.

The hot metal presses into my palm. Smoke billows from the Pistol. Click. Click. Click. My fingers pull at the empty trigger.

And there they are: Battered in bullets with blood seeping through their nose.

The gun clatters to the tile. I step back, thrice, on wobbly legs. What have I done?

I don’t wait. I run.

The evening breeze hit my skin. Neon lights, passers-by, cars buzzing on the road.

Lights, blinding and white. Honkings blare. I’m rugby tackled to the floor, jaw cracking against asphalt.

“Watch where you’re going, Mate!” the man barks in a Birmingham accent. “You’re crazy, boy!”

He pushes from my back, dusts his pants, and scuttles away. “Stupid ass Faggot!”

I hate myself. Hate life.

Fuck, I killed my twin!

I hail the first cab I see and dial Mama’s number.

It rings, once, twice, she answers: “Hello, Honey. Sorry, I didn’t tell you. Gloria said it was urgent. Have you seen her?”

Tears pour down my face. “Come and carry your daughter’s body.”

Mama’s breath hitches. “Are you—”

“I killed them both!” I snap. “He cheated on me.”

A startled gasp.

The driver eyes me from the rearview. One hand on the wheel, the other clutching his phone beneath his thigh. I catch 999 on the screen through the rearview mirror. He’s calling the cops.

Minutes later, sirens blare from a distance, lights flashing. I can’t recall being yanked out of the car, or when cuffs slam on my wrist, but as I squint, I realize I’m in a police van, hands behind my back.

I’m going to jail.

Rest in pieces, Gareth.