𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊 7-ELEVEN 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 👇

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.

—@andthenfarewell

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.

And loathed her, too.

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. . .

Veronica.

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..!"

No response.

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?"

No response.

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."

No response.

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.

Ronnie’s wrists were bleeding.  The scabs gushed with blood, and god, it hurt.  She needed more, more, more.

Jason Dean wormed into her life with a cheeky smile and charismatic eyes.  Ronnie wondered what situation she could have been in if he never came to Sherwood.  Ronnie wondered what would have happened if she never broke into his house.  In good intention.  Maybe, she should have seen how batshit he was when he accepted her instead pushing the drunk Ronnie out of his house.  How lonely was he?

Walking out of his house a few days ago, seeing the broken television, was hard.  Because Ronnie had to pull away when he told her he loved her.  Ronnie hated herself for even thinking of saying it back, bringing her attention to the gun in his hand instead.  He was dangerous.  Dangerous to the world, to her.  But, most importantly, he was dangerous to himself.

Ronnie lied on the ground of the closet, the tears falling slowly down her face, her cheek nuzzled into the carpet as she covered her ears, the bangs of the door shaking the floor.  The blood from her wrist was dripping down her cheek, a drop touching the corner of her lips.

I do miss the glory days, J.D.  I miss when you weren’t crazy.  I miss when you would hold me when I was sad.  I miss when you would come into my room to make me feel better.

I do think you’re beautiful.  

She hugged herself, trying to find comfort in herself, even with the burn on her arms.  Ronnie realized, in the midst of her memories of him, that he was the only person who was still here.  Heather McNamara and Martha died.  Heather Duke was somebody she couldn’t recognize.  Everyone was laughing at her the last time she was at school.  J.D. was still here, though.

She found herself limping to the door, her vision blurry as she held the doorknob desperately, grounding her.  Ronnie hated herself for even thinking about going back.  But, who else was there to ground her?

Please, hurry, leave me, I can’t breathe.  Please don’t say you love me.

Ronnie turned the doorknob, seeing him.  She couldn’t see he was holding a gun.  She could barely make out his bloodied fists.  Staying there, trying to glare at him through her tears.  “You’re horrible,” she gasped, feeling the tears falling again, her attempt at yelling coming out as croaks.  “You can’t- you caused all of this!  This suicidal social trend was caused by you!”

Even as she yelled at him, she fell into the embrace of cigarettes, burying her face in his shoulder, clawing at his shirt, the wounds on her wrist bloodying his shirt.  “You’re horrible,” she repeated quieter, trying to convince herself when J.D. held her there, their bloodied hands touching in some sick, twisted, sticky embrace.  “How can you do this?”

Tell me, “Don’t,” so I can crawl back in.

She sniffled, feeling disgusting.  Dear diary, she thought, is this selfish?  He’s the only one here for me.  He loves me.  Everyone is selfish, dying and being assholes to me for their own pleasure, so why can’t I be?

Ronnie sniffled, rubbing his bloody knuckles gently.  “See- seeing Duke’s bloodied body would be her… her dream come true,” she mumbled, grasping him tightly, “she’d be red.  Forever and ever..”  She wondered how pathetic she looked in front of him, his finger caressing her cheek with softness she knew wasn’t real.

I’ll be in your arms forever and ever.

Everything was gone in a second. 

They were gone within minutes after the explosion, her car rolling through the road, passing fire trucks and police cars.  All the while Jason Dean wears his sunglasses like it was another day.  All the while Veronica Sawyer thought of what Heather Duke looked puddled in her own red blood.

She only had him now.  This crazy, psychopathic boy was hers.

He needed a cigarette. Or a Slurpee. Or a bullet in his brain. Or that abhorrent school blown to smithereens. Maybe he needed them all.

Ronnie was yelling at him. Proclaiming he was a horrible, horrible, person. (Really? She still upheld her stubborn moral high ground?) Her face had blood and tears smeared on it. He knew all too well from the state of her arms that it was her blood, but he still desperately wished for the off chance that it was anyone else's- even his.

She's out of control. This is what her idea of pacifism led us to. It tore apart the only good thing in this world until she started doing the job herself. But I can fix this. I've still got this covered. I was right, a-

-oh.

She stumbled out of the closet and practically collapsed into his arms in a more crumbled and broken state than any building he's ever demolished. He caught her, thankfully. (Both of them were lucky for his reaction time built through hard-won fights.) It didn't stop him from having to plant his feet in place to stay up. To him, it felt like her head hit his chest with the force of a goddamn bullet. It hit him harder than any punch, fracture, kick, or bruise he's ever endured. It hit him like a realization. A higher calling, his true purpose in life. What he's endured through his troubles for. Why he's pieced himself together every time his semi-psychotic father broke him apart. Why he did it all, and he would do it again. What he needs to do now.

Ronnie. His arms wrapped around her tightly before he could even register what she did. She's back. She's back in his arms again. He buried his nose in her shoulder. He missed the familiar feeling of embracing her. This is how they were meant to be. He tenderly held her until her wracked sobs turned into sniffles.

And when they parted, she told him about what needed to be done to Heather Duke, he smiled in response, wiping the blood and tears off her cheek. That's right, Ronnie. We have a job to finish. He was glad that she finally saw eye to eye with him now.

The anger inside of him never settled, only stirred. The pep rally was starting soon.

Kaboom.

He didn't let her look back. He was scared- afraid, that he would too, and the school that closely resembled hell with all it's smoking and screaming and fire would start to look familiar. The smell of charred flesh that wafted over to him brought him back to when he was nine. His breath caught in his throat. He resisted the urge to run back into the building, like he had tried before. When he was young, and naive enough to think that he could pry open her tomb of rubble and condemned knowledge.

JD kept his eyes on the road. Under his sunglasses, Veronica couldn't see his eyes. Neither of them needed to know how haunted they looked. He rationalized that at least one of them needed to resemble having their shit together. So he shrugged it all off, offered her a Slurpee, and kept driving.

ENTRY #128 September 22nd, 1989

Dear diary,

one day, boys are playing G.I. Joe together.  The next day, those same boys suddenly grow thirty pounds bigger and punch the living shit out of each other.  And boy, when it’s some pretentious jocks getting beat up by some cute guy, it’s so fucking satisfying!

It’s always the proclaimed “social losers” getting beat up.   It’s always the big guys winning without punishment.  “That’s life,” Gowan would say while taking briberies of weed and cash. How professional! Damn, I’ve always fantasized a so-called social loser would beat these football boys to a pulp.  Fantasies come true; if God picked a favorite, the closest would be the freak teenage girl dressed disguised as a gestapo totally lusting for a freak teenage boy who made Kurt have crooked testicles!

Those poor kids.  Mr. No-Named-Kid saved those sperm. Take that, you infertile looking asshat!

This fucking guy was an asshole!  He was keeping his name secret as if he was wanted in 10 different states!  He can’t be that pretentious by not telling me one, maybe even two words!  And, UGH, the audacity to quote something like that while looking so pretty cute SNOBBY.

What crap; just stop it, Veronica!

It’s not anything like that.  I wish I could tell Heather to just shove that accusation of me fucking drooling like a child at him right up her aerobicized ass!  Ugh.  Everyone is just so annoying!  How come everyone can’t just shutupforoncesoIcanexpresshowItrulyfuckingfeelwithoutbeingcriticizedforit!!!!

WHY. Why would I throw my panties at him?! I’m a virgin; does she want me to die? Maybe, because I want her to die, that is for damn sure. The bitchy bitch that is Heather Chandler can shove my unsanitary garments right up her-

I WAS NOT DROOLING!  IT WAS MILD INFATUATION.

GOODBYE.

@carvedopen2bleed

I quite think that Mr. Baudelaire here has a point. I find it unrealistic to believe that "good people" exist at all. You just don't come across them anymore.

(Trust me, I'd certainly know after ten high schools.)

It might just be that American high-schools are a strong contender for "Institutions that breed the worst personality traits humanity has to offer" (right next to prison and sororities) but I most times I talk to the youth of today, I walk away with a bad taste. They're . . (what'sthewords). . . Self-righteous, inconsiderate, deceitful, defensive, insecure, and insistent on controlling everyone to fit into their ideal mold of society. I feel too repelled to even mingle with others. To even pretend like this should be normal.

Today, though, I felt strangely optimistic. (It's pretty rare I'm in a good mood) I felt warm. It's a dangerous feeling. Not being warm itself, but the fact that just makes it harder to adjust back to how it always is. Animals always migrate when winter hits. But for me, I'm stuck. Frozen. Buried under several layers of snow, ice, and a trench coat. That's how it's always been.

What also makes it dangerous is that I feel too at ease. Too confident. I didn't even think twice before I made a passing comment at a girl I was observing earlier. I wouldn't have really remembered this specific instance if it wasn't for the fact that talking to her didn't feel as slow and torturous as conversations really do.

I look up at her. She's pretty short, with two bright blue bows in her hair that match her blazer. For a second, I think she's an annoying freshman. Then I realize the cult group of girls terrorizing the school she was with would never allow a freshman in. Still, for a reason I can't put a finger on, she sticks out from them. Doesn't fit in their perfectly manicured trio. She's oddly persistent, trailing after me and even poking my shoulder after I walked away. Recognizes the copy of The Flowers Of Evil in my hand, and tells me that she didn't catch my name.

Well, I didn't throw it.

I turn back to my book. The conversation is over. I don't regret bothering her with backhanded comments and Baudelaire quotes, but I wasn't expecting anything more from her than a scoff or a glare. Still, that lingering warmth remains, instead of the usual distaste conversations leave me with.

-that we are all born marked for evil! Of what lies could he be a dupe, he who sometimes—sad necessity of his environment-dealt with them so well? What scorn for pseudophilosophy on his-

"-Hey sweetheart! What did your boyfriend say when you told him you were moving to Sherwood Ohio?"

-pseudophilosophy on his good days, on-

Two burly jocks close in on me from both sides. One of them yells way too loudly.

"MY. BUDDY. KURT. JUST. ASKED. YOU. A. QUESTIONNNNNN."

-on the days when he was, so to speak, inspired! This poet, several-

"Hey Ram, Doesn't this cafeteria have a no fags allowed rule?"

. . .

So much for de-escalation methods every guidance counselor seems to drill into my brain. Apparently sticking my nose in a book doesn't signal to them that I want to be left alone. Not that I'm surprised nothing can get through that thick skull of theirs. These meatheads deserve every punch I'm about to throw at them.

They're the ones who started it, after all. They get into my personal space, sniffing and barking insults like street dogs. I'm too used to this show of aggression to be intimidated anymore. It's the same warm welcome I receive at every high school. I slowly slide my bookmark into my current page before turning to them. Real slow, just to piss them off further.

We share a tense silence, and I pipe up before the one of them can speak.

"It seems to have an open door policy for assholes, though."

Jock number one orders jock number two to grab my arms, but I don't give them the chance to, swiftly turning to whack both of them in the face with my book. If only they could absorb the knowledge Mr. Baudelaire wrote here by getting hit. Might save them academically. Brain damage does freaky things to the person, after all. Judging by the way one of them crashed their skull on the floor, they probably might get a rather minor case of permanent brain damage.

Hey, if they want a reason for acting like a complete neanderthal, I'll give it to them.

Usually I get fights over with quickly (lest the teachers notice and give me some bullshit), however I dragged it out a bit longer to entertain that girl the crowd this time. Even made sure to kick one of their family jewels, too. I just saved a whole generation of children in one swift kick. The crowds reaction at that was pretty satisfying, too. The whole entire cafeteria fell silent to watch before the fight even started, but now it's been engulfed in a loud uproar of commotion featuring many cuss words.

Can't fuck up now. Seems like these guys are going to have to take it even harder just for show. I take every single opening I get to ensure both of them end up writhing on the ground. Fights like this are nice. I don't have to put much thought behind it, besides muscle memory. It feels like it's over just as quickly as it started.

The crowd parts like Moses and the red sea once the job is over. I bask in the fear radiating off of them.