Chapter Text
time won't fly
it's like I'm paralysed by it
I'd like to be my old self again
but I'm still trying to find it
“Our love is God.” His voice trembles, his wide eyes meeting hers. Blood trickles down his temple and sticks his hair to his ashen face. At that moment, Veronica doesn’t see the madman who pointed a gun at her and built a bomb in his bedroom. All she sees is a scared teenage boy with too much damage and not enough time.
She wants to go to him, to wrench that thing out of his hands and run until this town is a distant memory. She wants his hand in hers and to look over her shoulder and see Sherwood reduced to a dot on the horizon.
Instead, she just tells him, “Say hi to God.”
The blast sends her flying backwards, her back colliding with the metal rail on the stairs. The backs of her legs scrape against the stone, her ankles bending backwards in a way that sends shooting pains up her legs. Her head cracks behind her, leaving her vision tinged white and dull pain flooding the back of her skull. She lies there, her jaw clenched and her eyes closed, until it fades enough to be bearable. When she looks up, she’s staring at the sky, and the overhang of the bleachers cutting into it. The clouds are grey. It must be about to rain.
It takes more effort than it should for her to push herself onto her elbows. She grits her teeth as her spine cries out. Pain flashes across her ribs as she tries to sit, bringing a wave of nausea with it. There’s a persistent, high-pitched ringing in her ears, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the fall, the fight, or the bomb. She remembers holding it. It wasn’t that big, small enough to fit in a backpack. It hadn’t been too heavy either, especially considering her situation. JD’s words come back to her, and she spits out a laugh.
“Just a trigger bomb, huh?”
She lifts her hand to push her hair back, only to freeze when she finds her palm covered in black. It cakes her nails and travels down to her wrists. Heather Chandler would have a fit if she could see the state of Veronica’s cuffs. White is next to impossible to clean.
She stretches her legs, also stained black, and presses her palms into the stone. Her head stays up despite the crick in her neck. She looks at the sky; what for she’s not sure. Only that it’s not what’s in front of her.
Seconds, then minutes pass. God knows how many, but the sky opens up and the rain falls. She waits for the relief, but it never comes. Rain runs down her cheeks, picking up ash, blood, and whatever else in its tracks.
Eventually, she admits defeat and tilts her head down. She can’t stay here forever, looking up at the sky like it’ll do something. Much as she’d like to, she won’t melt into the pavement with the rain. She grabs the railing and pulls herself up, fighting against the ache in her legs. Her head spins, bile stings the back of her throat, and the world melts into a kaleidoscope of muted colours. She stifles a gasp, and the wet railing presses into her stomach first, then her chest as she leans over and retches. White-green clumps fall onto the rain-splattered sidewalk, and after she blinks a few times, she makes out the scarlet spots scattered through it. The colours all bleed into each other, the green leeching into the red until it fades to brown. The rainwater falls against it, and the lump thins and spreads and runs across the grey concrete.
She shudders, but the sight shifts her brain back into focus, and she turns to the football field.
Ash is spread across the grass, a black cloud surrounded by scatterings of grey. She peers closer. There are red undertones mixed into the black, and she gags again. The back of her throat stings sharply, threatening to bring up more of whatever is leeching into Westerberg’s football field.
Against her better judgement, she walks- or rather, she limps-closer until she’s a stone’s throw from it. Up close, she finds the charred chunks sunk into the field. Only they’re not just red; rather, they’re covered in yellow and pink splotches. Puddles of grey and white bubble on the surface, the stench attacking her nose and making her empty stomach clench painfully. She retches again for a few minutes, but all she manages is a few dribbles that sit on and sting her tongue. All she can focus on is the red ooze leaking from them. It inches out slowly, even with the rain mixing in with it, eventually turning from small blotches to long fingers reaching across. She watches them, her jaw tight and her throat dry, until the red runs down the sides of the lumps, mixing in with their ashy-white colour.
She shakes her head. They can’t be his skin… he wasn’t that colour. She keeps through the awfulness, trying to find some semblance of JD in that mess. Nothing in it looks like him. Nothing in it looks human. The blood bubbles, swelling like overgrown pimples before bursting into nothing. The longer she looks, she recognises the white shards poking out from some of the chunks. It takes her a second to realise what they are.
Her knees hit the ground, eyes watering as the smell gets stronger; the hot and putrid feels like it’s clogging her nose and then her throat. She shudders and gags, her blood-streaked sleeve pressed against her face.
She never wanted to know what burning flesh smelt like.
“I’d hardly call this a bomb,” he had said. Veronica realises if this thing tore through him like this… he’d have gotten his wish. Vietnam in Ohio.
“Jason.” Her voice is thick and dark, like it’s also covered in ash. Like he worked his way past his skin and sits inside of her. She retches and coughs, black puffs of smoke blowing in the November wind. Her chest heaves, and she asks again. “Jason what have you done?”
She doesn’t get an answer. Instead, it’s just her, the rain, and what used to be Jason Dean.
The scrunchie doesn’t feel right on her. She remembers the look on Duke’s face when she pulled it out, unlimited power lighting up her face. She remembers how Chandler carried herself when she wore it, more akin to a crown than a hair tie. Even with Duke it held onto its power. But as Veronica ties her hair back, ash coating the silk, it feels like a live snake around her hair.
“It suits you,” Mac says softly. She reaches behind her and tugs on it, a fraction of a smile on her pretty face.
“I thought blue was my colour,” she replies. She shares a half-laugh with Macnamara before she turns her gaze to Martha. Now that the smoke has cleared somewhat, she looks at her properly. Her skin is far paler than it was before, and a purple bruise blossoms across her right cheek. Her right arm sits limply in a cast while her left hand trembles at the controls of her scooter. Her back is too straight, too rigid, like someone stuck a pipe up her spine. Maybe someone did. How much is holding her together?
“You okay?” she asks. She winces immediately. Stupid, stupid question.
“I guess. Are you?” Martha looks up at her, so much weight in her watery gaze. Once upon a time, Martha would have read her like a book. Just one look put her inside her head. But then Veronica went and put a chasm between them; fake friends, betrayal, and chaos filled the gap. Now her best friend peers at her like she doesn’t recognise the girl in front of her.
Veronica understands.
Mcnamara squeezes her hand before she leaves, a gesture so sudden Veronica almost jumps at it. She pats Martha’s shoulder too, a softness on her face that’s almost unfamiliar. Certainly towards Martha. What’s more is how Martha places her hand over Heather’s and how their gazes hold for longer than a second.
Look at that. Heathers. Marthas. Heaven.
Should she feel happy about this?
She lowers herself onto the bleachers as students begin to file out. She spends a few minutes just watching them and trying not to think about what they’d be like if she had got here too late. Probably looking like her. Or JD.
“Veronica.” Martha appears at her side, eliciting a soft ‘Jesus’ from her. Martha blinks sheepishly, but Veronica shakes her head. It’s not her fault; even if it was, Veronica’s debt to her is far higher. She doesn’t need to apologise for anything, ever again.
“Veronica,” she says again. Her voice shakes. “People were saying… they said you killed yourself.”
“I didn’t,” she replies hurriedly. She closes her eyes and feels her makeshift noose around her neck. “I didn’t.”
“I mean… I gathered that.” She laughs humourlessly, her hand lifting and falling in one second. “But what happened? How did you end up like that?” Martha avoids her eyes, her free hand running over her pants. “They’re saying something was out on the football field. Something like a bomb.” Veronica flinches and presses her hands into the bleachers. Her invisible noose tightens and she struggles not to wheeze. “Were you…” She lets out a shuddering breath and bites her lip hard. “Were you in that?”
“No.” Her mouths falls open and she gasps breathlessly. Her shaking hands clutch at her skirt as reality catches up and slams right into her.“JD was, though.”
Her grief explodes and throws her forward. Martha catches her and pulls her close, pressing her face into her shoulder as she cries. Her sobs wreck through her until every part of her feels like it’s being pulled apart. Sadness swells in the empty space in her chest and cascades through her like rocks in an avalanche. She doesn’t acknowledge the looks her peers give her or Martha’s questions and comforts. All she can think is JD and that he’s dead. She should hate him, but her only thought is how he’s gone and how badly she wants him here. Of all the things she should hate him for, it shouldn’t be how he left her here alone. But here she is, covered in ash and wishing he was holding her.
She doesn’t know how long she spends there, but when she picks her head up, the sun has dipped behind the fence and her throat feels like sandpaper. Martha half carries her out of the gym. She remembers running into Fleming and how her face lights up and falls at the sight of them. Another distraught teenager for her to save. Veronica wonders what the punishment would be for punching a teacher, then wonders why she cares.
She fills her in about JD. Answers to Miss Fleming’s questions rolling off her tongue without much thought. “I found him in the boiler room” “He called me to say goodbye” “I looked all over” “By the time I got there it was too late”. Fleming listens with the appropriate amount of care and concern as Veronica lies to her face, all the while crafting a perfect narrative for her next speech. Romeo and Juliet, except Juliet lives to tell the tale.
Fleming pats the hair beside Veronica’s head and tells her how brave she is. So brave, she says, for what she’s dealing with. Veronica bursts out laughing at that and stumbles away on her fucked ankle. She keeps laughing, even if she might have just convinced Fleming she’s insane. Her only other option is screaming.
So she laughs; laughs until tears run down her face and her chest burns and her ribs hurt. Her laughter rings through Westerberg’s halls. It’s the most horrible thing she’s ever heard.
It’s still raining when she pushes through the door. Kids run around under umbrellas and jackets, sneakers splashing through puddles. Veronica watches them and thinks about the danger they were just in, and how they don’t know a thing about it. She can’t make the idea fit in her brain. Instead, it makes her feel out of step with the rest of them. As if she’s on the other side of a window looking in on them.
“Do you want a ride home?” Martha nods and she follows her gaze to the corner of the parking lot. The ‘of course’ smacks her across the face. Red station wagon. She’s ridden in that car ten thousand times since kindergarten, maybe more. “I’m sure my mom won’t mind.”
“No. Thanks.” She shakes her head only to stop when sharp pain presses at her temples. She exhales and presses her palms into her skirt. “I uh… I have some stuff to wrap up here.”
Martha doesn’t appear at all convinced, but thankfully, she doesn’t press. Instead, she takes her hand, her grip not nearly as easy as it used to be. Veronica clenches her jaw, realising their reunion was just the first step. She pictures the road ahead of them, weeks stretching into months of her trying to fix what was broken. She pictures it, and her heart sinks under the weight.
She squeezes Martha’s hand tight and hopes it'll give her a start.
“So… eight?” she asks. “I’ll bring the Jiffy Pop?”
Martha smiles and Veronica hadn’t realised the relief a smile could bring.
“Something with a happy ending,” she says.
Before they part ways, Veronica hugs her like her life depends on it. She clings to her sweater and breathes in her familiar scent and tries to ground herself in everything she knows and everything good. Tries to ground herself in the fact that Martha is here and, by some Divine miracle, alive.
She breathes a little bit easier in Martha’s arms.
Mrs Dunnstock greets her with the same level of love and affection she always has. If she closed her eyes and didn’t acknowledge her body, it would be as if the last three months had never happened. The comforting edge is taken off a little when she remarks how long it’s been. And it’s erased almost entirely when she properly takes in Veronica's state. She tactfully offers her a ride and Veronica repeats the lie she gave Martha.
Like mother like daughter, Mrs Dunnstock isn’t convinced. Unlike her daughter, it takes a little more pushing before she lets her go. Veronica can’t blame her for it. Not when she has to handle Martha like she’s made of china.
God, what kind of greeting would she have gotten if she knew-
She turns away sharply and breathes through the stabbing pain in her head. She heads off, not in the direction of her house, but back towards the school. She’s smart enough to know she shouldn’t be doing this, but sadly, she’s too tired to care.
The football field now has a makeshift barrier around it. The cops were called at some point, and a cluster of officers swarmed around the scene. God knows what they’ll make of it. Nothing like this has happened in their careers. Hell, their lifetimes. They’re the first cops in Sherwood to have an actual story to tell. No doubt, they’ll call a forensic team, and one Jason Dean will be identified from the pile of ash and slime.
Then by Monday, everyone will know.
It was a suitable death for him, she thinks. Out of all of them, the real attempts and the fake successes, this one best matches the person behind it. Probably because it was the best of both; a real success. JD wouldn’t have chugged draino. Too basic. Suicide pact, maybe his style, but not with a gun. He was always a bomb waiting to go off. Maybe it was just a matter of time until it became literal.
She looks down and finds patches of red on her skirt. When she looks at her hands, puzzled, she finds red slits bubbling with blood across her palms. She flexes her hand, wincing as the cuts stretch. That must have been what caused the look on Mrs Dunnstock’s face. Or one of them anyway. When did she cut her hands?
She moves silently over to the bleachers. None of the cops see her hovering around the outskirts. They’re all too focused on JD and his crater to notice her. They don’t know that it’s JD, though. Another thing she knows that the rest of Sherwood doesn’t, even if they’ll find out later.
She steps up until she reaches the top row. She can see everything from up here. The whole football field, the officers, they all become toy-sized. She can peek over the top of the school that had once felt so imposing to her. Vaguely, she recalls how dwarfed she felt by that building in freshman year; a never-ending maze of hallways and Heathers. Now she looks down on it and all she sees is cement, bricks, and loose roof tiles. The town beyond it isn’t much better; it falls away into the same black lines and box houses. Even the crater just shrinks to a patch of red and black. She wraps her arms around her legs, pressing her bloody palms into her knees.
The rain hasn’t let up, but she doesn’t feel it hit her. Even now, as she just sits in the downpour, she can’t feel a thing.
She closes her eyes tight and tunes out the world until all she can hear is her breathing. Her fingers brush against something warm and rough on her face and it takes a moment for her to realise it’s dried blood. She feels her cheek hit the ghost of the boiler room floor. Or maybe it was the croquet mallet to the face.
After a few minutes, she feels droplets on the back of her neck. Then on her shoulders, then on her back. Then in a few seconds, her eyes fly open as her whole body is drenched and shivering and her face is hot and her blackened nails are clawing at her legs. She can barely see in front of her. Her hair sticks to her face and her neck and she presses her legs together to stop them from shaking. The day slams into her over and over again, a thousand details rushing through her mind in a second. Her closet. JD. The boiler room. JD. The pep rally. The bomb. The football field. JD. JD. JD.
As the rain soaks her she realises that today won’t be the hardest part. Today she survived. The hardest part will be tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. Today was the battle, saving her school and herself. Now begins the war. She has to get up every day, carry all the shit she’s seen in the past few months and freaking make something of it. Try to make something good out of these broken pieces; otherwise, all of it was for nothing. How it’s going to happen she has no idea, but she has to try. The irony isn’t lost on her as she recalls what JD said to her.
Dear diary, she writes
I’m honestly kind of jealous of JD. That asshole might be dead, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with this shit.