Leaning her buzzing head onto the hard banisters of Westerburg's cold stairwells, Veronica sighed, her breath echoing in the empty spiral of grey metal above her.
What has my life fucking come to?
Veronica groaned as realisation set in about the last half hour, her mind now a haze of both her best friend's undeniable glee: one finally having 'proof' of a returning childhood romance as well as clarification on her own feelings, hopes and dreams, and the grading sinister smile of someone who knew how the other felt and found some sort of evil fulfilment knowing she could crush them with a simple explanation of what really happened.
And it's all my fucking fault.
Why Sawyer? Why?
Curling up into a small ball, her bartered shoes the only thing poking out, Veronica let her head hang down. She felt like a rag doll - defeated, delicate and easily punchable.
Even I can't answer why.
A single, warm tear tumbled down Veronica's cheek and onto her neck, running down to the collar of her shirt. Sometimes she would attempt to rationalise why she abandoned Martha in her head - a mix of 'it's high-school, we all have to do what we gotta do' and 'I would be hurt if I didn't' and 'Martha would want this'
And yet, would Martha want her childhood best friend, the one she sobbed with to Bambi, the one she played renditions of 'The Princess Bride' with, the one who she went on trips to the beach, cinema, shops, theatre with, becoming a miserable mega-bitch crying on her school's stairwell because she decided to give into Heather's pressure and write a fucking note faking Ram Sweeney's love?
Veronica could never really understand why Martha loved Ram, the filthy-minded quarterback destined for the local service station cash desk, so much. He was her entire world, while to him, she was a kindergarten kiss, forgotten like dried pasta necklaces and glitter glue. But the smile Martha had when Ram looked at her direction, the pure, beautiful joy in her rambles about how maybe, just maybe, there was still a spark there, no one could say Martha didn't love Ram with her whole being.
Veronica willed someone would love her like that. She knew Ram didn't actually love Martha, he wasn't smart enough to be that good at lying. Anyway, the amount of times he discussed male genitalia with his linebacker cronie otherwise known as Kurt Kelly, Veronica wouldn't be surprised if he didn't swing in that direction. But then again, she'd seen him at the Remington parties.
Veronica lifted her head off her clasped hands and unfurled herself. Tired, sad and alone: all the things the heathers had promised away from her and now they constantly plagued her life, and probably would until her dying day.
Yay.
The familiar tap of stiletto heels filled the hallway, as well as the gasping, yet still excited voice of Heather McNamara, the noises getting closer by the second.
Veronica wiped any brimming tears away from her eye roughly and swallowed, catching the brown eyes of a pompous Duke and the slightly-dazed ones of a constantly confused McNamara, who stared right back at her as Veronica sat, half-glaring at them with a glassy expression. At least until Duke hit her in the head, hard.
'Heather wants you. Again. Canteen. Said it was urgent.'
Duke's tone was sharp and she spat out the words, before turned around on heel, grabbing McNamara's arm and pulling her back down the corridor, not even waiting for recipientto reply.
Veronica sighed, and stood up shakily, guiding herself with the wall.
One day, I'm going to at least attempt to set fire to this place.
YOU ARE READING
Heathers (but it's written by a gay British teenager)
FanfictionHeathers but it's written by me, a gay teenager who has never experienced high school.
