“It’s like killing two birds with one stone. Heather’s annoying ass died, and Martha followed in her footsteps. Two insufferable girls, gone because of a beautiful social trend!”
All Ronnie wanted to do was vomit her fucking guts out. How can Heather fucking Duke have so much goddamn apathy toward her only friend who just fucking killed herself with prescription drugs? Heather just cackled like the evil witch of the west east west south east?? she was and turned away. Heather hating Martha wasn’t any surprise, but she fucking died. Jumped off a bridge. How… how can people just fucking do that?! Heather Duke is nothing but a lousy little fucking bitch who only cares about herself. She… goddamnit!
Ronnie felt the tears coming out in front of Heather, running off as fast as she could. Fuck her dignity. She’s already sacrificed her dignity to be in the Heathers and leaving Martha. Ronnie left her. She left her lonely friend. There was no one else Martha had to watch her happy ending movies. Maybe leaving made Martha realize there were no happy endings. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
She thought she could have saved Heather. She saved her in the bathroom after the stupid humiliation Kumbaya ritual, live for everyone in town to see, but suicide just doesn’t end there, doesn’t it? It takes fucking therapy, psych hospitals even, not comparing your suicidal friend to a game show host.
Veronica Sawyer wasn’t a savior. She wasn’t a good person. She killed her friends. And she had to sit with that thought. Killing Heather Chandler, Ram Sweeney, and Kurt Kelly were acts of heroism. Saving the world from the evil. They could have fucking changed, though. Maybe, if they lived long enough. The worst thing? She also killed her only friends. She killed people. People who could have lived to be something. And she stripped that away from them.
Ronnie almost vomited all over the living room carpet floor, her mom talking about some therapy. The underlines in her Moby Dick book looked a bit too clean. That’s not how she wrote her a’s. She always doodled on the corners of the pages, not next to the text. Who else knew how to pick a lock who was still alive? Oh, of course it was her ex-fucking-boyfriend. He “stopped by,” didn’t he? Why wouldn’t it be that serial killing asshole? The fucking guy who got her in this situation in the first place!
She might throw up now. God, her breathing suddenly felt restricted. She could almost see the ghosts of the ones who died surrounding her. Are these those hallucinations mom says she had? Ronnie could barely snatch the book away from her mom, the voices in her head growing louder, chasing her into her closet, skipping the entire bedroom to flee the shadows of her windows. Mom? Am I still young? Can I dream for a few months more?
Dear diary, Ronnie thought, trying to cut through the hallucinations. She could almost see the pills from Heather’s mouth. The blood coming oht of the torsos of the jocks.
Veronica’s totally fine. Veronica’s totally fine. VeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfineVeronicastotallyfine
Ronnie fell on her knees in the closet, covering her face and hair with her hands, her blazer wrinkled as if preparing for impact from the bomb outside her closet door. “Get out!” was all Ronnie could muster admist her overwhelming thoughts, breathing heavily, trying to cover her ears. Her ex-boyfriend is in her house and her friends are fucking dead. Her ex-boyfriend who made started this whole thing. No one cares for Veronica Sawyer anymore. Maybe, she should die.
Her hands fell from her head, picking at the scabs of cigarette burns on her wrist, barely hearing the pathetic pleas from the boy who guided the gun into her hands.
Despite Heather Duke being one of the most vile people he's had the pleasure of meeting, she won't completely be remembered in a negative light. Not because there's no doubt her family will be gloating over her corpse and how she's died so young by tomorrow, but because he'd rather point out that the work she'd done with gathering signatures was integral to his plan. It really tied the whole spectacle together with a nice neat bow for everyone to see. He'd never expect to say it, but she's helped him bring change to society.
(If anything- JD wasn't really sure why dying young was considered a tragedy. He's felt like he's lived for long enough anyways. Gotten to know how awful and horrible the world was. Dying young, especially as a child who's never grown to see everyone turn horrible is probably the best thing that's happened to anyone he knows. He's really been making some life changing choices for his peers, and he wasn't just talking about the dead ones. The community should be thanking him for making their little town more resilient and tightly-knit. And for weeding out the assholes.)
Duke rudely poked (more like completely jabbed) his shoulder. the same way Ronnie did. The schools been cleared out by now, so she seemed less afraid of being out in the hallway with him. Funny, he thought. Maybe if she wasn't so insistent on absolutely crushing anyone who hung out with deviants, these photos wouldn't have come to bite her in the ass. And, she wouldn't be lying through her teeth when she said nobody would care about the photos. She's fostered such a hostile student body. They'll use anything to tear someone to shreds.
JD almost quivered in anger, recalling how she backstabbed Veronica as soon as Heather Chandler wasn't there to have either of them on a leash anymore. Because apparently attempting to date-rape her wasn't enough. They had to humiliate her in front of the whole school too. The girl who wanted nothing to do with being a Heather. There was no justified reason, it was just a petty demonstration of her newfound power the red scrunchie granted her. It was corrupt. It was repugnant. But he couldn't let his vendetta against her show, lest she notices and becomes wary.
He glanced at Heather Dukes face, which was trying to say: "let-me-get-over-with-this-so-we-can-never-speak-again", but there was something dissatisfied about her expression. Something he couldn't put a finger on. Judging it, JD assumed that she wanted to hold onto the petition so he could keep it as a trophy. A proud award proclaiming how many students loved her.
"Your little girlfriend didn't sign." She whined, waving it.
His gaze was more intense at the mention of Veronica. One thing him and Veronica agreed on was that Heather Duke was an absolute bitch (who deserved to die). Disgustingly trying to weasel her way into his personal life was a new one, though. He wasn't one for gossip, anyways. Anything he said would probably be exaggerated tenfold, and then spread so far it'd probably reach the faculty break room before he even has the chance to blow the whole damned thing up.
Veronica didn't sign, though. Not that it was a particular surprise. But was it another act of refusal from her, or did she just refuse to talk to Duke?
He hoped it was the latter. He could work with the latter. He snatched the petition from Dukes hand, turned down the hallway and heading towards where he parked his motorbike, ignoring her demands and protests at him to return the photos to her. He had more important problems demanding his attention. . .
At first, he had no clue what to do with her. Then, he wanted to ensure that he could tie up loose ends between them. He spun a story for her parents. But now he just wants to talk. (A part of him still felt conflicted between the two options, but his desire to crumble that school into dust drove him to see her. He needed. . (a reason?) he needed her. She was meant to be by his side.)
He turns down the block towards the Sawyers house.
I just want to talk to her.
She'll listen, I'll make sure of it.
He's marching down her yard.
I just want to talk. She never let me explain myself.
He's got a ladder propped against her window.
I'm doing this for us. So we can be together. One little argument won't be the end. We're greater than that.
He's snapping off her window lock (unfortunate, considering how she always left it unlocked for him)
(And if it is, well, her parents did already accept his little annotated copy of moby dick. one originally intended for duke. .)
He's got it covered. He's got the thermals all in place. He's got the Norwegian prepared. The pep rally was happening by the next hour. The petition was in his pocket. He's played her parents so well, that he was sure they wouldn't listen to their only daughter. He pushes the curtains aside, and slips through her window.
"Knock, knock." JD grinned, wide, his voice dripping sarcastically. "Sorry for coming through the window, dreadful etiquette, I know," he apologetically announced, like he always had done on countless occasions before. Instead of greeting him with a sarcastic retort like she usually did, Veronica had ran into the closet instead.
She immediately yelled back, her voice torn and sore as if she had lost it by hysterically sobbing, or maybe even screaming. Was she grieving again? Who could she possibly entertain by doing so this time? He thought she was above the whole theatrical performance of grief. He definitely thought she had moved on, too.
JD went straight towards the closet door. It wouldn't budge.
Awh, not so ready to put her feelings aside, is she? Fortunately for them, he was all too ready to forgive and forget.
"Cmon baby, all is forgiven, come on out..!"
Come on Veronica, just listen to me for a moment. You didn't even let me explain myself back at mine.
But its okay, he tries again, rambling.
"I'm not trash, Veronica, am I? Was our time together truly nothing? Am I worthless to you? That's what it felt like. That's what it feels like when the only good thing in this world erratically and suddenly turns on you. Maybe I am completely worthless." replaceable He took a quick moment to breath, not letting his mind let him take him back to his fathers lesson. JD was speaking faster than his vocal chords could match. How could he not? He has so much to say.
"Maybe trying to fix me was worthless. Maybe two years of not opening a vein was just worthless. My walls and fists are all bloody and torn now, but it's okay. Because I realized, I was wrong. It's not me, it's not you. It was that fucking school changing us. Pulling us apart. Over and over, like a never-ending infestation of pests." He leans his forehead on the door, his palms resting on each side of his head. His shoulders heaved as he breathed and continued on.
"Don't you miss our glory days? Didn't you say I was beautiful? Back when there were no assholes making us GO INSANE?"
She's giving me the cold shoulder, then. She's done so at school, too. I just thought it'd be different here. .
He swung his wrist repeatedly on the door, aggressively rapping it besides his head. Over and over again, until he'd given up and the room was filled with a tense and heavy silence. His palms slid down the door, and his hands made their way towards his pockets instead of the doorknob. He spun around and paced to the other side of the room, breaking the thick silence by unfolding the crinkled petition in his pocket. He read it out.
Here, baby, I'll even show you my brilliant plan, see?
"We, the students of Westerberg high, will die. Our burned bodies will finally get through, to you. Your society churns out slaves and blanks, no thanks.
Signed the students of westerberg high."
He paused as he flipped through it. "I got everyone's signatures. People are gonna look at the ashes of Westerberg, and they'll see that it self destructed, not because society doesn't care. But because that school was society."
Don't give me this bullshit. Not now. I worked so hard. Meet me halfway. Hear what I'm saying. Just talk to me. Please. I need you.
He folded the paper back in his pocket and felt the cool metal of his gun.
