Heathers (but it's written by a gay British teenager)

Introduction

I could kill her.
How does she not realise how tempting it is to just stab her? Right in her prissy little face, gone. Yeah, it would be gruesome and shit but honestly I've been to a Remington party, and that's worse than any bloodshed. Oh she just HAD to drag me to that as well! God I wish I could grab her head and smash it in. Actually no, she's mostly be concerned at if the blood would get on her shoes (platform oxfords Veronica, we can't disrespect those shoes, oh god no). Or I could strangle her? Oh yes, the peace afterwards would be just heavenly - I sound like a fucking psycho. I swear I'm not one. Hopefully at least.
Actually at this point-

'VERONICA'
Veronica's spiral into her own thoughts interrupted by the grading voice of her. Again.
Reluctantly forcing her mind to clamber down from whatever 'let's-get-rid-of-all-life's-problems-aka-heather-fucking-chandler' high it was riding and grounding itself back to the grimy reality of her own school bathroom, Veronica turned to face her 'friend'.
Friend's too nice a word.
'Yes, Heather.' God how she hated how she was a little obedient puppy in Heather's presence, a mere cockroach under her heel.
3 weeks after her recruitment into whatever cult popularity forms, and she can't even pull up enough courage to tell her to stick her overstuffed head up her arse.
Heather was fixating on her reflection in the smeared and slightly cracking wall mirror of Westerburg high school's bathroom. For one of the top high schools in Sherwood, the facilities definitely lacked certain standards of what one would call basic hygiene. Not that the almighty Chandler would care about what surface it was, as long as she could stand in front of it for god knows how long, preening herself to the ideal standards of beauty she decided was necessary.
Veronica grimaced.
'Go see if Heather's almost done vomiting. She's making even me feel like gagging.' Heather replaced the cap on her lipstick, smearing the postbox-red paste into whatever pout she deemed perfect.
'Heather, she's literally 5 steps away. She's only in the cubicles, she can hear you, y'know'
Translation: Heather, shut the fuck up before I shut you up for a good long while. Heather Duke is already struggling enough without you commenting on how her eating disorder is an inconvenience to you.
Heather finally ripped her gaze from glass Chandler to study the girl standing in front of her. The girl she picked up from the dregs of Westerburg's social class, the girl she curated the entire personality and gifted the attention craved by so many: the girl who owed her everything and who she owed nothing.
'Really? Duke can hear? Never noticed. If she actually could she would hear me tell her to pick a fucking struggle that we actually care about.' Chandler took a step forward, etching closer to Veronica, so close Veronica could smell her perfume snaking around them. Leaning a hand on the ledge of the sinks, and crossing her leg over the other, Chandler persisted in her plight of undermining. 'Sawyer, I'm going to be honest with you. I don't give a shit if Duke can hear me. She can learn to suck it up. Hear that Duke sweetie? No one cares.' Chandler leaned in closer. 'No one of any importance that is'

God how I could kill her.