a body in the garden

Veronica Sawyer is, for the most part, a solitary creature. 

She's learned how to fuck with the eagles, so to speak; how to camouflage herself amongst the various cliques and niches, how to fit in just enough to placate those around her. But it's all in the name of flying under the radar. Being a part of the Heathers is probably the most visible she's ever been, the closest she's come to soaring. And while the notion of being in the spotlight is certainly nerve-wracking, the promise of social safety was too good an offer to pass up. 

To the majority of Westerberg, her face was synonymous with his, at least for a while. 

She was like a caged animal. Something to be observed from a safe distance, something that's spoken of in hushed tones, something to be picked apart and toyed with for the sake of satisfying the morbid curiosity of the masses. It's sort of a miracle that the Heathers don't know about her– or if they do, it's a miracle they don't mention it. 

Either way, the rest of the student body only sees their tolerance of her, and thus keep their vitriol to a minimum. And that's all she needs from them, isn't it? The guaranteed spot at the top of the food chain. The illusion of being idolized. The Teflon coating they're so known for, that paradoxical state of being the only thing people care to talk about and never being approached. 

Maybe she could add the getting away with skipping classes to that list. Or the ease of getting a ride somewhere. The new status quo of actually hanging out with people at lunch. Having someone she can compare study notes with, being on good terms with the cheerleaders. Getting spoiled on occasion can be pretty nice, too. She doesn't need the intimacy, though it's far from unappreciated. Hell, even bantering with Chandler is kind of fun.

Fuck.

No, it's fine. It's cool. She'll just think of some things she doesn't need them for. Like freaking out– just as she said, she can handle it herself. Although it was a little easier to get through, thanks to Mac.

Or keeping her grades up. Sure, it's nice to study with Duke, but Veronica is perfectly capable of doing so on her own. Except for that time she needed to borrow Duke's notes and subsequently got herself into this whole mess. 

Okay, so maybe this has all gotten out of hand. He thinks so too, of course. The all too aggravating product of her inner turmoil, he's been bothering her all weekend. She can tell herself all she wants that he isn't real, but he still paces alongside her like he's real, berates her like he's real, gives terrible advice like he's real. It's goddamn draining. 

He looms over her shoulder as she scrolls through her texts. It's a wide spectrum from worrying to outright ridiculous. 

There's a few from Mac: 

"hey, Heather said you weren't feeling well. i hope you're okay."

"let me know if there's anything i can do for you, yeah?" 

"make sure you drink some water! and try not to stay up too late, you're probably pretty tired after all that."

A couple from Chandler, polar opposite in tone yet similar in energy:

"so wtf was that about."

"i know you're seeing these."

"you can't ignore me forever Ronica."

And there's even several from Duke, a play-by-play of the disaster from her end:

"okay so i severely underestimated Mac's reaction to this."

"they've started plotting together."

"Sawyer, i want you to know how boned we are. don't ever say i don't do shit for you." 

She doesn't even know where to begin.

She really should respond to Mac, the longer she leaves those unanswered the worse she's going to feel. Mac has been nothing but nice to her; a bright spot amidst all the chaos and confusion, a gentle breeze amongst stormy winds. Someone who effortlessly cheers her up just by being nearby. Someone who cares enough to notice her penchant for lighter related injuries and actually worries about them.  

She should probably send something to appease Chandler as well. She is, by all means, the reason social safety is part of the equation. The one who's holding the metaphorical leash, who can rile her up and bring her mind to standstill all in the same sentence. The one who looks down on the whole school, soaring above them all like a ruthless bird of prey. The one who let Veronica sleep in her lap and may or may not have wound up spooning her at some point throughout the night– she isn't going to stop and think about it, she already knows they'll both regret bringing it up. 

She could always talk to Duke, try to get a better idea of what they're dealing with. Duke is the easiest to interact with, somehow. It's either the shared taste for snark or the lack of weird Alpha and Omega hormones between them. Maybe afterwards they could swap book recommendations like they usually do. Or they could just hash it all out while they're whispering to each other in the back of Biology like they usually do. Maybe Veronica could take her to the bookstore to pay her back for… cooking breakfast for them before sunrise.

 Oh. Oh it's bad.

"It's more than bad," he scoffs. "You actually like them."

"I do not," Veronica bites back, setting her phone aside. "I'm just using them the way they're using me."

His hand on her shoulder feels real, too. "That's what you need to remember. They're using you. You're expendable." 

He's right; or at least, that's what he'd want to hear. Veronica is determined to prove she can handle this herself, so she doesn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. She also doesn't reach for her phone again, no matter how much her brain begs to hear Mac's voice right now. She's got this under control. She just needs to make it through the night and pretend none of this ever happened when she meets up with the Heathers tomorrow.

It’s never that easy. Under control feels a lot more like insomnia than Veronica bargained for. She's taunted by the clock and its unbearable snail pace, checking what feels like every hour but is more like every five minutes. Sleep is probably pointless anyhow. His incessant blabbering will just fade into that godforsaken crow dream again, and she can hardly call that escape. 

He may be aggravating but he isn't useless. He sits at her desk, feet kicked up, offers her several reminders. Things like "They only want you for the forgeries," or "They don't need you like you need them." 

She doesn't agree. Not out loud.

"There's no way she won't find out."

It is a losing battle. Hell, Chandler has probably started asking around about her already.

"You'll only drag them down."

They don't want someone like her. It's only for the fake hall passes, that's all she's good for. 

"You're a pain to be around."

She's no better than him. A poison, a contaminant. A corrosive presence masked only by dry wit and cigarette smoke.

"Now you get it," he jeers from her bedside, standing over her in all his gaunt corvid glory. "We’re on the same level, baby. You’re a problem, a liability. A burden."

Veronica's alarm goes off for all of two seconds before she shuts it off. He's nowhere to be seen as she rolls out of bed, having up and vanished at the first hint of reality. It's almost annoying how accurate her paranoid mind's version of him is. 

Everything happens through a foggy haze. 

She scribbles out a few paragraphs in her diary, a half-hearted and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to get some weight off her shoulders. She cleans herself up and shuffles her way into the first blue item of clothing she finds. This time Veronica's game show host grin manages to work its wonders on her mother, who doesn't seem to notice anything amiss. She greets her father with a wave, though he's far too busy with his head stuck in his latest novel. A weak excuse about needing to be in school early is enough to fool them both, and Veronica is out the door. 

The windchill welcomes her with open arms. She lights up the minute she's out of view from the house. His words repeat in her head like a broken record.

She's going to hit the brakes, before this goes any further. They don't want her, not really. She's trying her damndest not to want them. All she has to do is act natural, and keep the status quo, and everything will be fine. Just keep them at a fixed emotional distance, and her social safety won't be jeopardized. 

Which begs the question, what is acting natural around the Heathers? At some point, she seems to have forgotten what they’re like, what they do. She was careful at first, guarded, cautious. When did she get so careless? When did she get so swept up in it all that she truly believed they wanted her?  Why is someone tugging her down the hallway by her coat sleeve?

Veronica comes back down to earth mid-bite, the energy bar she's trying to pass off as breakfast nearly tumbling out of her hands as she's pulled into the bathroom by a green blur. Heather Duke, of course.

"We have to make this quick," she snaps, sounding about as worn down as Veronica feels. "Heather and Heather can't see me talking to you."

"What do you m–"

"Zip it, Sawyer." Duke whips around, gives Veronica a once-over. She pulls out a makeup kit from her bag, tugs Veronica closer still and takes out some concealer. "I'm gonna tell you what I wish someone told me," she heaves a sigh, holding Veronica's face in one hand and trying to cover up her eyebags with the other, her gentle touch a contrast to her tone. "Whatever it is, Heather probably already knows, and she's waiting for you to slip up. Mac is going to be extra sweet and extra clingy. Yes, it's a ploy to get you to talk. Yes, she knows exactly what she's doing."

Veronica just stares down at her, slowly processing the dizzying volley of words. It's kind of hard to parse through it all when Duke is so close. Insignificant, agonizing centimetres apart. She clears her throat as Duke lets her go, unsteady. "And this?" she asks, quiet, loosely gesturing between the two of them.

"You looked like a wreck," Duke shrugs, blunt as always. She moves on to try and tame Veronica's shirt collar, adjusts her various layers and mutters something about the lack of a zipper on her jacket. She hesitates for a moment upon pulling back, looks away. "That, and they excommunicated me from their little scheming circle for sharing information, so I'm on your side now."

A ragged sigh. "You did mention plotting, didn't you?" 

Duke hums dryly. "I'd love to catch you up to speed, but I have to get the hell out of here." She pauses at the door, turns to look her over again. “And Sawyer?”

Veronica whirls around to face her, ignoring the subsequent wave of dizziness. “Hm?”

“At least pretend to be awake,” she says, stare piercing and honeyed all at once. 

And with that, she stalks off, leaving Veronica to grapple with the feeling that this is going to be a very long day.  

Long doesn't even begin to describe it. 

After a meager three steps from homeroom, she's flanked by a chatty Heather Mac, and a very quiet Duke.

Mac looks adorable as always, even in just a loose hoodie and leggings. She seems much less eager about having first period gym than usual, but Veronica makes a point not to read into it. She keeps up with the small talk, holds herself neutral, even throws in a small smile or two just for good measure. Every breath is layered in cool chamomile and soft citrus. Mac's voice is sunny and sugared, and each word out of her mouth is like being gifted gold; perfectly tailored platitudes that pierce straight through Veronica’s insomnia worn heart. 

Both Duke's advice and his echo around her skull, one part reassuring, two parts gut-wrenching. Just nod and smile, she tells herself. Stay calm and stay detached.

Much like with Duke earlier, Mac has other ideas. She links her and Veronica's arms together, closing their distance both literally and metaphorically. The swathes of prying eyes don't seem to phase her. The leering, the whispers. In the midst of it all, Mac still smiles, still keeps her close, still looks down at her like she hung the moon and stars. 

"Are you sure you're feeling okay, Roni?" Her expression falters, melts into one of concern. "You seem a little out of it."

And by God, how is Veronica supposed to lie when Mac is looking at her like that. When she’s using that nickname, when she’s been the only semblance of safety and reprieve Veronica’s found throughout the past few days.

She's never had any sort of relationship with an Omega before. Intense emotions, possessiveness, the sharp wit and caustic tone that comes with an Alpha's assumed leadership, those are familiar. But the tender stuff? The soft touches, the sense of stability, the inexorable notion that Mac will take care of her? It's all new, all something she hasn’t studied or scrutinized or analyzed down to the bone. Something she should have been more wary of.

Duke nudges her with her shoulder, a not so gentle reminder to stay in the present. 

"Just tired," she assures, clearing her throat and fighting to keep the hint of confession out of her tone. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"That's no good," replies Mac, squeezing Veronica's arm a little tighter. Her voice drops to a syrupy murmur. "If you’re not feeling up to school today, maybe we can get out of here early. I can take you back to my place, just the two of us."

Veronica forces her brain to reboot. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Duke do a double take. "That's- um– well," she sputters, struggling not to get lost in Mac’s eyes. "Something tells me Heather wouldn't be a big fan of us missing lunch."

Mac frowns, fixes her with an uncharacteristically cold and calculating stare, and Veronica remembers what Duke had told her. 

She knows exactly what she's doing.

Suddenly, the mischievous glint in her eyes seems so obvious. The practiced confidence in her gait, the lack of nervous hair-twirling that so often accompanies her attempts at being forward. 

"You don't need to worry about Heather," she says, her smile a tad more intimidating than it was mere moments ago. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Veronica turns back to Duke, tries to convey the sheer amount of ' what the fuck, please help me' she's feeling with just her expression. She's met with a wide eyed, disbelieving stare, and several unintelligible hand gestures. 

"What about Duke?" She blurts, followed by an awkward, nervous half-laugh. She can see the door to her classroom in the distance. Just a few more seconds and she's home free. At least for the time being. “She did kind of hear the whole thing.”

"She knows how to keep a secret," Mac says simply, relinquishing her grip on Veronica to instead turn to Duke. "Don't you, Heather?"

The bell rings, cutting off their conversation and giving Veronica the perfect opportunity to escape into the classroom. She watches as Mac walks away, though Duke lingers long enough to give her another sharp glance before following suit. 

Veronica heaves a sigh and begs the powers that be to fast forward this to the part where they kick her out. This whole acting detached thing is a lot harder when they're right up in her face doing gay domestic shit like fixing her shirt or asking her on secret dates. It's practically torture.

One hour bleeds into the next, bleeds into Veronica constantly looking over her shoulder during recess while attempting to smoke as many cigarettes as she possibly can. It's what he would do. Take a smoke break to think things over. Take a smoke break to calm down. Take a smoke break to stop ranting and raging about who she's been talking to, where she's been.

The sleep deprivation is starting to catch up with her. 

This whole goddamn situation is starting to catch up with her.

How could she let herself think they actually enjoy her company? How could she let herself think Heather Chandler of all people wouldn't have an ulterior motive, a greater scheme she's meant to play cog to. Some sort of niche to fit her in, no questions asked. 

Not only is Chandler known to do that sort of thing– starting short-term friendships for her own gain, making tenuous alliances with other cliques in the name of exchanging goods and services– but she's an Alpha. In Veronica's experience that's all Alphas want. To use and control others. They're territorial, short-tempered creatures that only know how to take. She shouldn't have expected anything different from Westerberg's own Mythic Bitch.

All three of them are trying to pull the wool over her eyes, really. Every interaction she's had today has been premeditated, a course charted long before departure. She can’t be sure Mac is really a safe person to talk to. She can't be sure Duke isn't playing double agent. She can't be sure any of them are telling the truth, that any compliment or kind word is anything other than manipulation.

This all makes for an incredibly taut and tense atmosphere around the lunch table. Around the entire room, even. Things are awry in the Heathers corner of the cafeteria, and everyone can tell.

Mac is quiet. Concerningly quiet. No excited rambling to Duke about how her day has been, no equally enthusiastic asking Chandler about what she's been up to. She idly sips at her cherry soda between bites of food and glances at Veronica. The silence is deafening.

Duke is next to her, and has her face buried in a book. Which wouldn't be unusual if not for the fact that she seems to only be using it as a physical means of separating herself from the rest of them. She isn't even turning the pages, for Christ's sake. 

Chandler is the only one acting normal, and by God is it annoying. She sits there, all regal posture and threatening aura, going about business as usual. Reminding them what their weekend plans are, demanding notes from Duke, telling Mac not to take too long getting out after cheer practice. 

It's the first time Veronica has seen her all day, and she has no doubt that too has been carefully orchestrated. She’s been working on a ‘grunt in acknowledgement when spoken to,’ basis. Doing the bare minimum to make it seem like she’s paying attention, idly toying with her fork instead of actually eating, fuming the whole time. It's all so fucked. 

She struggles to stay awake through Chandler’s monologuing. The only things keeping her conscious are the incessant cacophony of the cafeteria, and the gnarled, thorny frustration bubbling in her chest. 

She wants a cigarette. She wants a slushie. She wants him to stop haunting her.

She wants to wake up next to them again. She wants to feel like she's theirs again, the way she did before this mess. Decidedly, unquestionably theirs; the Heathers and their pet delinquent. 

But she couldn't. Not when they've probably already designated her single use, when all this plotting she’s been hearing about is probably pertaining to the best way to toss her aside. 

Not when they're trying to trick her, just like he did.

Yes, that must be it. They're lulling her into a false sense of security, waiting in the wings for the perfect time to strike. A chance to show her their true cunning, their razor fangs and bloodied claws. A chance to show her what they really are. A chance to show her they could have killed her at any moment and she would have been none the wiser. 

In her half angry, half delirious state, Veronica doesn't even flinch as she spots his murky visage in her peripheral vision. Face sullen and serious, eyes dark. He talks over Chandler in that squawking voice of his, six simple words that are almost enough to pull Veronica undone.

"They've got it out for you."

She jabs her fork into the tray hard enough to bend the plastic. He vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

Chandler stops mid sentence. Veronica forces herself to stay aware of the conversation. 

There are already eyes on them from all directions. Those desperate to be in the know, those constantly lying in wait for an opportunity to ride the Heathers’ coattails, those who know satisfaction was enough to save the cat from its doom. But when Chandler speaks again, it causes a fresh ripple of whispers to break out amongst the crowd. 

"Are we gonna have a problem, Veronica?" she asks, voice sharp and steeled and raised.

And for a minute, all Veronica can bring herself to do is stare at her. She looks straight into those piercing gray eyes, and thinks about all the things she’s heard people say about Heather Chandler. The warnings, the cautionary tales. All the embittered, envious conjectures he would make. Every stupidly endearing little detail Veronica has since learned about her. 

"Well?" Chandler meets her gaze with equal intensity and a hearty dose of saccharine condescension.

She's long passed the hope of having a filter, so now that keeping her mouth shut isn't an option all of that anger and confusion spills straight into her tone. 

"I don't know Heather," her voice comes out venomous and low, marred by the several cigarettes she's had today. "Are we?"

The shift in mood is instantaneous and totally ass backwards.

Duke bristles like a startled cat, and makes a face that suggests she'd rather be anywhere else. 

Chandler glares back, apparently lost for words, looking like the very picture of anger despite the distinct lack of that smoky undertone her scent takes when she's getting riled up. 

No, if anything it's Mac who seems mad. Which is wholly uncomfortable and only serves to heighten the sense of dread permeating this whole situation. 

Contrary to her expression, Duke is the first to speak. She gives a long suffering glance towards Chandler and Mac, raising an eyebrow at them. "You two aren't going to do this here, are you?"

"Shut up, Heather," Chandler barks back, quick to regain her composure at the first sign of Duke's cattiness. "Veronica, you're–"

Mac elbows Chandler in the side. 

A straight up, unbidden jab in the ribs that earnestly looks kind of painful. Even in the midst of it all Veronica can't help but balk at such brazenness, especially coming from Mac.

Taking advantage of Chandler's momentary spluttering, Mac gives her Alpha that same cold stare she had earlier, this time accompanied by what Veronica would describe as a third degree pout. "Heather, I swear, if you–"

"Shut up, Heather," growls Chandler with a wince and a wheeze. Somehow she looks more unimpressed than usual, like a librarian about to approach the same group of noisy kids for the fifth time that day. "Normally, I'd let everyone watch what's about to happen." She lowers her voice to a dangerous whisper. "But I'm feeling nice, so why don't we take this outside."

Before Veronica has a chance to protest, Chandler's pulling her up by the arm and dragging her out of the cafeteria. She's a lot stronger than Veronica gives her credit for, but not strong enough to keep the Beta from wrenching out of her grip. 

And so they walk, far from the cafeteria and far from the lockers, to one of Westerberg's few secluded corridors. It's then that Chandler really breaks out the show of force, backing Veronica into the nearest wall, pinning her with one arm and blocking her in with the other. 

There's a certain curious fire in her eyes as she speaks, and she's switched from her famed Cafeteria Voice to the more candid, raw tone she takes when she's alone with any of them. "You need to get your fucking shit together, Ronica."

"I– What?"

"You heard me, you goddamn pillowcase." Chandler rolls her eyes, presses her harder against the wall. "You're fucking losing it out there and you aren't fooling anyone. Get. It. Together."

Veronica gulps, sweat beading on her brow. "That's it?" she asks, tentative and meek. 

One eye twitching, Chandler answers with an inflammatory, incredulous, "What the hell do you mean that's it ?"

"You're not, like, gonna throw me to the wolves or whatever?" Veronica struggles in vain not to feel so at ease under Chandler's grip, but she's far too punchdrunk to shake off the effect of the girl’s scent. "You're not gonna… ask me anything?"

Chandler counters easily. "What, like you'd answer me?"

"Not if I can help it," Veronica bites back, determined to keep some level of spite in this conversation. She has to get angry back, that’s the only way to get through it. The only way to get back on the same level as him. "I'd keep you all in the dark if I could." 

And there it is.

There's that smoke-laden miasma of flared tempers and bared teeth. 

It's familiar, it's sickening, it's everything she expected. 

Chandler growls as she leans closer still. Their faces are centimeters apart, and Veronica can feel the warmth and weight of the Alpha's body over hers. It's far more comforting than it should be, but nothing could have done enough to soften the next blow.

"You'd better appreciate all the goddamn trouble I'm going to for you." Chandler gives her that piercing hawk stare again, as if she could read her thoughts with just a glance. "Kurt and Ram seem to think it’s so funny that I don’t know who you are. Do you have any idea how infuriating it is to have those two morons lording it over you?" 

Cold fear pangs in Veronica's chest, and in seconds she's being pulled back into the riptide of panic. She can feel it clouding her already muddled thoughts, everything winding tense and rigid as it overtakes her.

"Why would they know anything?" She offers, her body pushing back against Chandler's of its own accord. 

"Why indeed." They break eye contact for a moment, long enough for Chandler to take in her nervous look and paling complexion. She eases the pressure. "You and I both know they wouldn't leave a girl like you alone unless they had good reason."

"Is that–” Her voice hitches. It feels like she’s breathing through a straw. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s a fact,” replies Chandler dryly. “Take it however you will.”

This is bad. Category five hurricane bad. 

It’s a matter of days. Hours, even. If there’s one thing Veronica knows about Kurt and Ram, it’s that it takes very little to coerce them into doing what Chandler wants. Hell, they even put up with being around her. “ Just for you, Heather, ” as they always say.

God, it’s all going to fall apart.

She won’t get to hear Mac’s cheerful voice again.

She won’t get to taste Duke’s cooking again.

She won’t get to pester Chandler again — that intimate, sotto voce kind of pestering where Veronica gets to poke fun at her bedhead or tell her she’s an idiot while she’s drunk.

All of it, gone. 

The worst part is that she doesn’t even care about the wider consequences anymore. Not really. The way she sees it, she’s been a social pariah before, she can handle it again. Apparently, it’s the idea of losing out on spending time with the goddamn Heathers that she can’t handle.

Chandler’s voice seems to come from nowhere. “Look at me,” she orders, low and even.

It’s then Veronica realizes she’d screwed her eyes shut at some point. She blinks Chandler’s image back into focus and dimly recalls where she is, what she's doing. 

"Good," she says, the praise foreign but still appreciated. "You're gonna keep your head out of the clouds for a minute and listen to me, got it?"

Veronica gives a quick nod and swallows the lump in her throat, partially inclined to comply for a quicker escape and partially desperate to make this feeling go away.

Satisfied with that answer, Chandler starts by backing off and offering an expectant, open hand; complete with 'gimme gimme' gesturing. "First, you're going to give me your cigarettes."

Reaching for them despite herself, Veronica chokes out a small, "Why?"

"Why do you think?" Chandler raises an eyebrow at her. "You both smell and sound like you've had half of this shit today."

She secedes with a grunt of acknowledgement, and hands over the carton. The clear sound of few loose cigarettes clattering amidst the emptiness is enough to make her flinch in guilt.

"Perfect," Chandler shoves them unceremoniously into her pocket. "And now, you're going to get out of here."

Veronica stares back, blank, suspicious. 

"God, you're hopeless," Chandler sighs, adding in some well practiced impatience for good measure. "Leave, scram, go home. Write yourself a little sick note or whatever, you look enough like a zombie that no one would question it."

"But–"

"But Heather tried to fix you up? I can tell. You do know you aren’t the same shade, right? She borrowed it from Heather."

"It could’ve been mine," Veronica mutters, hoping the embarrassment isn't showing on her face. "I used to do my makeup every day."

Chandler raises an eyebrow at her, unconvinced. "Key words, used to . Besides, who else but Duke would get that close to you?"

That one stings. "Whatever," she grits, averting her gaze. "I'll get out of your hair."

"Don't be so dramatic. I just need you to disappear long enough for the rest of those idiots back there to think I scared you off." 

"Oh, and I'm being dramatic?"

Chandler rolls her eyes like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “We don’t have time for this,” she spits. “You need to go. Before someone walks in on us.”

Something inside Veronica snaps. She turns on her heel and begins her march down the hallway, wincing as she's struck with another dizzy spell. Only this time, it doesn't fade. 

She stumbles to a halt.

It happens in an instant, like a bolt of divine lightning striking her out of the blue. Her blood runs cold. Her vision swirls with snow and static. Her heart thrums against her rib cage as the hallway blurs and blends around her like painting in motion.

She knows this feeling.

And despite the conversation they just had, the horrid thoughts running through her head, the deep rooted paranoia taunting her every waking minute, despite it all Veronica can't help the way she croaks out Heather's name; small and weak and afraid.

She hears hurried footsteps, but it's already too late for her. 

She's halfway to the ground when reality kicks back in, for a fraction of a second. Maybe if she's lucky she'll hit her head at just the right angel, and it'll all be over. No more parents, no more Heathers, no more him. Nothing.

No such luck. 

The tile is cold against her skin. 

Through the ebb and flow of her ringing ears, she hears Chandler's muffled voice calling out to her. 

The more she strains to decipher it, the more the world around her grows dim. Left with little choice, she gives up, and is swiftly pulled into the abyssal void of unconsciousness. 

Chandler gets her wish, and Veronica is escorted from school grounds in the most dramatic fashion. The moment she comes to she’s handed off to her mother, her pallid face and weakened body paraded through the halls like a dead man walking. 

No words are exchanged. No questions asked. Her mother knows what this is about, after all it’s happened several times before. Insomnia, depressive episodes, fainting. It’s run of the mill at this point, even if it has been a few weeks since her last incident.

The drive home is quiet, too. Her mother makes sure she gets up to her room without further issue. Tucking her in, smoothing her bangs away from her face. Veronica can’t bring herself to look her in the eye.

Guilt roils in her stomach, acidic and heavy. Her voice comes out robotic, subdued. “I’m sorry, Mom.”  

A sigh, a moment of silence. “You don’t need to apologize,” her mother assures, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest, pup. I’ll bring you a plate of supper later on.”

It does little to tame Veronica’s anxiety. She knows full well her mother only uses that nickname when she’s given her a scare.  

And so, alone with her thoughts, she wonders what he’s up to. If he misses her. If he gets even half as torn up about her as she does about him.

He used to be the one who would comfort her, when she felt so hopeless. His number would be the first she called. His voice would be the only thing she wanted to hear. She thought it was charming at first, the way he’d sneak up to her window at night. Slipping in under cover of darkness and holding her close, whispering with her all night long about the things that frustrated them, that gnawed at them.

Now, she shudders at the thought of his hands on her. The thought of each little precarious honesty, each witching hour confession, it makes her sick to think he knows so much about her.

To be fair, he's no stranger to her either. She knows about his mother, about the library in Texas. She knows about that god awful excuse for a human being he calls his father. She knows that on the night this all started, had he still been around, he would have been tapping at her window. Maybe reeking of vodka and cigarettes, maybe with his wrists bearing fresh, all too visible wounds.  

How many times did he come to her like that, how many times did his blood dribble onto the hardwood of her bedroom floor?

She would help him clean up,  wrap him with gauze from the first aid kit she kept hidden under her bed, hold his hands until they stopped shaking. Then, after he left, she would hold a lighter to herself; just to see what about it was so comforting to him. 

He caught her once. Came up to her window on a muggy summer night and saw her roasting her own flesh. He’d been angry. Furious. His solution was to pluck the lighter from her hands, to press it into his own skin until they could both smell it sizzling .

“There,” he had said, tossing the lighter aside, breathing hard. “Now we match.”

Another thought strikes her. The way she showed up at Chandler’s, unannounced, under cover of darkness. Reeking of alcohol. Mac even asked to check her hands.

Oh. Oh, God . 

She’s just doing the same thing he did. 

She really is no better than him. 

She’s a monster, a predator. She said it herself, she’s just using them. Heather Duke never should have taken an interest in her, that day they met. She should have ignored her the everybody does. Because now, she'll ruin them like he ruined her. She’ll be an endless torment that no one dares to cut away, out of guilt, out of pity. No wonder they haven’t directly ousted her yet, no wonder that Chandler wanted her out of sight.

As if on cue, her phone goes off. She lets it ring until it goes to voicemail, and against her better judgment she picks it up and gives it a listen.

It’s Heather Mac, though she knew that second the screen lit up. She says she’s worried, that she wants to come see her, to please call her when she’s feeling up to it. She does sound worried — Veronica even plays it back just to make sure — but ultimately she decides to leave it unanswered. 

She can't trust anyone, least of all herself.  

So instead, she sleeps. Fitful, restless, startled awake every other hour by her own overactive imagination. She tries to eat what her mother brings up; spaghetti with lots of oregano, her favorite. She takes maybe three bites before resigning herself to a life of stress induced starvation and getting back under the covers. 

By sunrise, she's got text messages piling up alongside that voicemail. 

She begs her mother to stay home another day, pleads with her broken, raspy voice. "Please, Mom. I don't feel good, please."

Her mother is, and rightfully so, conflicted about leaving her alone for the day, but Veronica insists she barely has the energy to get out of bed, let alone get up to any trouble. It's not a lie, but it feels like one anyway. Probably because she doesn’t need to get up to use the lighter.

She can't help it. Not when his image is flickering at the end of her bed, gun in hand, a constant reminder that she isn’t safe. That she’ll never be safe again. She at least makes sure to hold it to her shoulder, where the marks can remain hidden under her shirtsleeves.

It’s when she wanders down to the kitchen that she finally lets herself cry. She’s supposed to be eating the leftovers her mother kept mentioning, but every bite tastes like ash in her mouth, and the house feels so big and empty around her, and now would have been a really good time for a cigarette if Chandler hadn’t taken them. Even though she’s well aware of her solitude, she muffles her sobs, face buried in her arms atop the table until she’s run herself dry.

When she gets back upstairs, her phone is ringing again. She wastes no time silencing it, and once again attempts to escape via sleep.

The dream that greets her is novelty wrapped in layers of deja-vu. Familiar set pieces in a new order, a scene she knows well turned upside down and put back together in rush.

It’s the crow again. She can hear it screeching all around her. Far past grating the sound is unbearable, and so she scrambles to find the source, tearing up her room in the process. Whatever objects that get tossed aside just sort of float where she throws them, as if suspended by a thread. She destroys the place looking for it. Looking for him. But the sound just keeps going, growing louder, more incessant, and when she opens her mouth to scream in frustration she realizes she already is. She can feel her throat growing hoarse, the vibration of that awful sound as it continually claws its way out of her mouth. 

She’s reaching to scratch at her throat when she’s shaken back to consciousness. The dream clings to her like wet cotton, and it takes a few seconds of catching her breath to detach herself from its imagery. 

Her mother stands over her, worry clear on her face. “Sorry to wake you,” she whispers, and there’s an odd quality to her voice that Veronica can’t quite place. “How are you feeling, pup?”

“A little better,” Veronica swallows, heart still beating hard and fast against her chest. “Tired.”

“I’m sure you are,” her mother sighs, giving her a solemn, momentary smile. “One of your friends stopped by– Heather, I think she said her name was. Are you feeling up to seeing her?"

“She’s here?” her voice cracks, and she clears her throat in an attempt to cover it. “Now?”

"She's just outside. Is that okay?"

She mulls it over for a moment, but she's too tired to keep running. "It's fine," she relents, thinking back to the voicemail. "She told me she wanted to see me."

And it would have been fine, had she not heard that voice speaking to her mother on the other side of the door. She can't catch all of it, but what she hears is unmistakable.

A practiced, confident tone. Sharp yet saccharine placation. "Of course, Mrs. Sawyer. Thank you."

Veronica takes another shaky breath as she listens. There's not a hint of citrus in the air.

Heather Chandler steps into her room. And as she closes the door behind her, her expression melts into one of knowing. Into one of anger.

"So," she starts with a sigh, curt and clipped. "Jason fucking Dean."