#downplayed

Veronica doesn’t remember much. A crash. A bang. Black.

She wakes to a blurry red. Heather Chandler, standing over her. She’s not surprised, at this point – Heather had proven many times that even death won’t stop her from bitching. There’s something unfamiliar in her eyes, though, Veronica notes as she scrambles to her feet (and wonders how she got on the floor in the first place).

“Look at me,” Heather commands. Veronica pulls a face – she is looking at her. Examining her is looking. Jaw clenched, lips pursed, Veronica would think that it’s anger on Chandler’s face, if she hadn’t seen anger so many times to know it isn’t.

“Your diary. Get your diary.”

Heather steps to one side, giving Veronica room to move. From her position in her closet (there’s a metaphor there, but Veronica had never been one for acting things out), she looks over her ruined room.

“What happened?” Veronica asks. Heather looks like she’s about to answer, but decides against it at the last second.

“I’ll tell you later. Your diary is on your desk still. Turn to October 12th, and I’ll explain.”

Veronica wanders over to her desk, and she can feel Chandler’s eyes following her. The diary is open, today’s entry unfinished. She can’t remember why, and it’s really starting to bug her.

“October 12th,” Heather repeats, and Veronica rolls her eyes as she turns the pages. Slowly but surely, she winds the clock back to the middle of October. What happened that day that was so important, anyway…?

Oh.

That was the day of Kurt and Ram’s funeral.

That was the entry where she revealed JD had killed three people, and that the guilt was – is – eating away at her.

This is the entry Chandler wanted to see.

Why?

“Good,” Heather hums from behind her, “it’s important for the cops to see that.”

“Cops?” there’s a pang of dread, creeping up her throat like vines.

Heather sighs, and takes Veronica’s hand.

She shouldn’t be able to do that. Shit, she hasn’t been able to do that, all of her slaps and caresses passing through Veronica with the chill of a winter wind. The fact that Heather is touching her, and the fact that she doesn’t feel ice cold against Veronica’s skin means…

It hits her. Crash. Bang.

Dead.

Veronica sinks to the floor, drained, and Heather’s voice fades into the background.

  The Westerburg gym doesn’t end up exploding.

Everyone’s out of the football field, and the reality seemingly hasn’t set in for most of the students. The cops and the bomb squad have come and gone, and Heather snarks about how they actually did their job, this time.

“How are you so calm about this?” Veronica asks. Heather scoffs.

“Nothing I can do about it. Might as well make the most of it. Simple as that.”

Veronica scans the crowd, bereft of a witty response. She sees a few familiar faces – Peter Dawson animatedly talking to Dennis from the school newspaper. Courtney looking like she’s seen a ghost (and Veronica briefly wonders if she has).

The most important thing is that Martha is there, alive. Leaning over one side of the motorized wheelchair is Heather McNamara, egged on by Betty Finn (Veronica remembers this girl, she gives good answers in the lunchtime poll), and whatever McNamara’s saying is bringing a smile to Martha’s face. Maybe they’re bonding over their suicide attempts, Veronica muses, and she hates herself for thinking it. On the other side was the ghost of Ram Sweeney, looking oddly contemplative. Veronica wouldn’t have thought him capable.

Her focus returns to herself. She feels empty. Hollow. Maybe if everyone had blown up, maybe at least she’d be overwhelmed with anguish and anger and guilt instead of this suffocating nothing.

Seemingly in response to this, Heather gently takes her hand.

“Put it this way,” it’s almost a whisper, and yet Veronica can hear her clear as day over the ocean of voices, “there’s no expectations anymore. No obligations. Five million dollars and a world that’s ending. What do you want to do?”

I want to feel.

Veronica grabs Heather Chandler by the waist and pulls her in for a kiss.

Heather kisses back.

  Veronica attends her own funeral.

There’s an unexpectedly large turnout – the pews at the front were reserved for people who actually knew Veronica, instead of just immediate family members. There are distant relatives, classmates from years past, people from around town and at least two cameramen in the back row.

Heather is scowling.

“There’s at least seventy more people here than there were at my funeral,” she grumbles, and Veronica chuckles darkly.

Father Ripper gives his speech, and Veronica has to admire his ability to turn anyone into a martyr. He speaks of guilt and absolution in the eyes of God, and how Veronica’s dedication to recording everything led police to save hundreds of lives.

He says nothing about her being an accessory to murder. It hangs in the air like a bad stench.

When the coffin is brought to the cemetery and Veronica Sawyer is put in the ground, there’s a finality to it all that breaks her. She hugs herself, trying desperately to hold herself together, to keep all her memories and quirks and her identity from falling into the grave.

Heather tries to help her, but all Veronica can do is babble about how everything’s like a dream and she’s forgotten how to breathe and I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead plays over and over in her head.

“I know,” Heather murmurs, her voice like rain on a raging fire, “I know. I know.”

There’s no point in lying to Veronica, now.

  She visits her murderer in prison.

It’s like a thread, Veronica decides. Something tying them together, tugging at her when she thinks of him, but nothing so strong that she can’t ignore it.

Jason Dean gazes up at her from the floor of his solitary confinement cell with a look of awe, not fear.

“I was fixing it,” he tells her, and even he seems a little unconvinced at the statement, “Everyone gets along in heaven. You wouldn’t have to be stuck with Queen Bitch and her lackeys for eternity if everyone’s with you.”

“You killed me.” There’s an unnatural echo to Veronica’s voice. JD shies away, just slightly.

“I was winning you over with my petition, I know it. It was such a great plan. Still, I…” he pauses, and emotion reaches his eyes for what may be the first time, “I got a little, ah, heated, and my finger was on the trigger when I opened the door. A slip of the hand.”

There’s a distinct lack of apology in the statement.

Veronica leans over him. Studying him closely for a moment.

Then, without warning, she shoves her hand through his skull, and JD yells at what Veronica is sure is a very familiar sensation.

“You had a choice, Dean,” she growls, and there’s a flash of unbridled rage in JD’s eyes at the mention of that name, “You could have been more. More than just a copy of your dad with a messiah complex. But you’ve made your decision.”

Veronica pulls away, and gives JD, the lost, lonely boy once last glance.

“Now you’re left alone with your thoughts. I hope they eat you alive.”

Veronica vanishes, and the cell melts away before her eyes, replaced by the somber greys and greens of the Sherwood Cemetery.

Heather is waiting for her.

  Heather McNamara contacts her a few months later.

Veronica never really pictured the head cheerleader as an occult nut. Then again, there’s a lot of things people didn’t know about her, Veronica muses as McNamara, Martha and Betty set up the Ouija board. And candles. Like that will help the process, somehow.

The first question is from Martha.

“Why?”

Veronica feels the cold sting of regret as Chandler scoffs from the corner of the room. There’s a lot of things that word could mean – Why did you cover up the deaths of Heather, and Kurt, and Ram? Why did you stay with Jason Dean?

Why did you lie to me? Why were you so cruel?

It’s a good thing the answer is always the same. Veronica grabs the marker and moves it around the board.

A.F.R.A.I.D.

Weren’t they all?

  By turning the pages of her diary, and moving the wooden marker, Veronica deduces she can interact with some things, but not others.

She says as much to Heather. Chandler nods, understanding, and then that same something Veronica saw on the day she died creeps onto Heather’s face.

It comes out like a confession. “I tried to pull the pen out of your hands, when you were writing my suicide note. That did nothing, obviously. I tried talking to my parents, to Heather, to get someone to notice me, but the only person who heard was you.” Heather pauses. “Sorry. For what I said.”

“No big deal. I deserved it.” Veronica pushes on when Heather opens her mouth to interrupt, “What can you touch? Or, y’know, interact with? Anything?”

Heather thinks for a moment.

“Mirrors,” she says slowly, “All the ones in my house broke after my funeral, when I was yelling at my mom to listen. I think Heather Duke saw me once in the girls’ bathroom, too.”

Veronica nods, connecting the dots in her head.

  Veronica experimentally picks up Martha’s pen. Hypothesis confirmed. Objects connected to her in life.

She knows Martha won’t come up to her bedroom anytime soon – there’s too much animated discussion from downstairs, excited voices floating through Veronica’s ears as she writes. McNamara and Betty have come over for an evening of swashbuckling and true love. Veronica knows at least McNamara hasn’t seen The Princess Bride, since every accidental reference Veronica made flew straight over her head.

She has to make a conscious effort not to go downstairs and join them. It’s not her place anymore, she tells herself. Back to the task at hand.

She’s always been good with words. Even Chandler had grudgingly thanked her for the suicide note (god, that was fucked up), but Martha had been there for Veronica as long as she could remember. She deserved art.

Veronica writes in Martha’s history book. She says she’s sorry for everything she unwittingly put Martha through, for being self-centered and murderous and awful. She says she doesn’t know if life is different after high school, and that she never will, but for Martha’s sake she hopes that life outside Sherwood is better for her, and for her new friends. She tells Martha to keep them close, but to let Veronica go.

There’s a voice from behind her.

“Can you tell her that I’m sorry?” Ram Sweeney asks meekly. Veronica had almost forgotten about him. “I was shitty to her, and I get that now.”

“I’ll consider it.”

She does. Maybe it’ll give him closure, she rationalizes. Maybe then he and Kurt could move on. Maybe they can do all the things Ram’s father said he would.

Maybe she could move on, too.

 (She doesn’t.)

  It gets easier.

Veronica figures some things out. Heather makes a game of scaring the shit out of Country Club Courtney (“I’m trying to make her a better person. I’m scaring her straight.” Veronica doesn’t believe her, but plays along anyway.) Veronica spends most of her time reading books over Heather Duke’s shoulder or drawing on Ms. Fleming’s blackboard. Heather gives her a backhanded compliment on her artistic talent, and Veronica giggles as she wipes the pictures away.

Sometimes Heather holds her, or she holds Heather, because one or the other just remembered what it’s like to die. They keep each other grounded.

The Class of 1990 graduates, short five members. Then the Class of ’91, ’92, and so on. Fleming retires. Gowan resigns.

The world moves on around them, and they stay the same.