Bughead Oneshots

Scars across my Heart... (Part 1)

WARNING: contains vivid descriptions of death, getting shot, and abuse

I apologize if some of the information in this is incorrect, I did my best at researching military protocols and the process of joining the military; it was highly confusing. I recently reread shooter, so... that explains this. If you haven't read "Shooter," you absolutely should. It's by LazyDaizy on ArchiveOfOurOwn, and I believe someone uploaded it on Wattpad with credit. 

Come the near end of senior year, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. My "golden years" were spent hiding from Jason Blossom and his brainless footballer minions, and my avoiding my home so as not to face the unnecessary, abusive wrath of my  'mother.' So there wasn't much time to focus on the future while dodging punches and whatever the nearest object to Glady's grasp was. The best places to hide included; the library -none of the douches on the football team acquired the mental capacity to enter a room hosting the words of some of Earth's greatest minds, the rundown Drive-In when I needed an escape from my home, and, surprisingly, the girl's locker room. Even though they disgustingly bragged about their "conquests," none of them dared to step foot in the women's locker room after the time Cheryl Blossom had verbally berated the Bulldog's after catching them accosting her Vixen's.

I wasn't extremely welcomed in the women's locker room either, being a guy and not a woman. Still, the one time I had run into Cheryl as she fixed her cherry-red lipstick in the mirror and I, hiding from her dearest brother Jason and his goons waiting to stomp on my face, she merely looked me over with an unimpressed scowl before capping her lipstick and marching away. Maybe it was since everyone who knew my name was under the impression I was gay or that she knew I would never put myself into a situation where I got unwanted attention. Whatever the reason, she never bothered me about it after the fact, not like she had her brother after one of the Bulldogs peeped on a few of the girls changing.

Disregarding my backstory, I knew I liked to write short stories along with the occasional murder-romance hybrid, and history came in at a far second for my second favorite subject. There was barely any money for college, except for the 5-thousand-dollars I had managed to save after having a job for four years, so there weren't many career paths available.

I sent out early applications to few schools I had been viewing throughout high school -Iowa University, Yale, Riverdale Community College, Purdue, The University of Pennsylvania, Ohio State University- just for the hell of it. I thought about applying for FAFSA, being a real-life Harry Potter without the magic, fame, friends, and riches. But I was not a charity case and would rather rot on the streets than drop to my knees in front of a corporation for financial aid from anyone. Acceptances and Denies were sent out the week they came to our school to set up a table and attract people the exact opposite of me; mob mentality and true 'red-white-and-blue-blood-flowing-through-their-veins masochist Americans. But I needed a way to pay for college, and they needed another punchable flesh-bag

It wasn't what one would expect from the military, no recently shined medals sitting on display, perhaps a display gun to catch immature boys' eyes. It was merely a brown, plastic table. The middle of the table held veteran's precious memorabilia, black and white photos that appeared to be taken on a battlefield, and pamphlets for every branch of the military available for the public to take. Next to it was an equally monotonous table advertising a job at the oh-so-exciting Riverdale postal offices and, of course, the excessively decorated table hosting the Riverdale Register overly peppy owners.

Teenagers were walking up and down the hallway, occasionally stopping at a table that caught their interest to talk to the employees impatiently awaiting some poor sucker to fill out an application before walking away, usually remarkably uninterested other than the money.