Can't We Be Seventeen? (If We Still Got The Right)

9- Only a true dead best friend would give it to you straight

October 10th, 1989. Tuesday.
(17 days since Veronica Sawyer's murder.)

Once the policemen left her house, Heather went straight to her room.

She didn't want to deal with her mother's scrutinizing looks and her inquiries, especially since Heather was sure she had been lurking around somewhere, to eavesdrop on the —very unpleasant— conversation.

Heather got inside, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

In the Chandler household, a closed door was a sign that whoever was on the other side of the room did not want to be bothered. You shouldn't knock or check in if everything is okay. You just left them alone to deal with their own shit. It was how it worked, whenever Harold Chandler was busy working or having 'important' meetings with his secretary in his office; when Elizabeth Chandler locked herself in the wine cellar to cry about her soul-sucking marriage while empty
ying a bottle of Merlot by herself; when Heather herself wanted some time away from the drama, be it about her family, her boyfriends, or her joke of a life.

The sound of the door locking was a relief to her, as she was finally able to shut off the world outside. She closed her eyes and took in a breath to calm herself, waiting for the burning desire to punch someone dial down inside of her.

When she opened her eyes, Veronica was there.

Her presence didn't startle Heather, however. She had gotten so used to Veronica being there, back when she was alive, ever since their friendship began in junior year. She would constantly invite Veronica over to teach her how to do her makeup, how to dress like she wasn't a 50-year-old librarian, or sometimes just to hang out, eat corn nuts, and watch a movie, like normal teenagers. Veronica's presence in her house had become a normal thing, so Heather didn't bat an eye upon seeing her. For a second, Heather forgot about the circumstances. She forgot Veronica was dead.

Veronica was casually leaning against one of the walls. Unlike the time Heather saw her in the bathroom, during her funeral, this time Veronica wasn't wearing the clothes she had died in (the pretty navy dress and and grey shirt underneath, both given to her by Heather). Instead, she wore the outfit the Heathers had styled for her on her first official day as a Heather, a mini skirt and a blue blazer, with knee-high socks. Heather had been really proud of that look, it made Veronica look beautiful.

She looked just as she had when she was alive. Except for the bruises. Angry red marks all over her skin and an ugly, dark purple line around her neck.

Strangled to death.

That was what every single TV channel had talked about on the week they found her.

Subconsciously, Heather put a hand on her own neck, finding herself struggling to breathe.

"That sounded intense," Veronica said, her voice coking forth quietly, full of sympathy. The same voice she used to comfort Duke in the bathroom stall after lunch, or McNamara whenever she had a fight with her boyfriend Kurt. Heather missed hearing her voice.

"What are you doing here?" Heather asked. Veronica lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

"I thought you needed someone to talk to."

"I don't. I'm fine," Heather plopped in her bed, her ginger hair spreading all over the bedding as she lay her head on the soft mattress, with Veronica following her every move with her eyes.

"Are you?"

"I'm just...fuck! Who the hell do they think they are accusing me of this? This sucks. All of this suck."

She heard Veronica laugh. "Jeez, I'm sorry my death is being such an inconvenience to you, Heather."

Heather lifted her body up, changing to a sitting position so she could look at Veronica, who was now seated on the carpet.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, I know," Veronica dismissed her with a wave of her hand. "And you're right, I bet it does suck. It kinda sucked for me, too."

Heather didn't say anything. She couldn't stop thinking about what it was like for Veronica. To die, at such a young age, with her whole life ahead of her. To die, upset and thinking that her best friends had turned away from her. To die, after being violated and hurt. To die in such an agonizing, cruel way, alone aside from whoever did that to her.

Still seated in the same spot, Veronica turned her head left to look at Heather's mirror, leaning on one of the walls. She ran a hand on her injured neck, analyzing the dark friction marks on her skin.

Looking at her friends' image reflected in the mirror, Heather saw Veronica's eyes glimmering with tears she was trying to hold back.

"Do you have any concealer?" she said, after seconds of silence, her voice steady and with no sign of emotion. As though she needed to mask her pain, and showing how devastated she really was would make her break down.

"Veronica," Heather called her. Veronica looked at her, blinking her eyes to get rid of the tears she had managed to control. "I'm sorry for what happened to you."

With that, Veronica's tears threatened to come back. Her lower lip trembled, but she remained strong. "Yeah, me too."

"I shouldn't have said those things. And I shouldn't have made you leave the party."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. But...I didn't do this, ok?
You were a really good person and a great friend. What happened to you sucked. No one deserves that, especially not you," Heather continued. "I didn't do this. I would never want you to get hurt like that. It's not my fault. I swear!"

Unlike Veronica, Heather wasn't able to control her tears; as a matter of fact, she didn't even try to. She closed her eyes and let them roll freely on her face.

"Can I ask you something?" she heard Veronica say.

Heather opened her eyes again. When she stared back at Veronica, she wasn't met with the pretty image of her friend, the version she had been talking to for the past few minutes.

Instead, what looked back at her was Veronica clad in the clothes she wore to the party, except they were dirty and torn. The nasty bruises on her neck were there, as well as new ones on her face; a swollen lip and a bloody nose. Her hair was sticking together with blood, the angry red liquid running from her scalp, down to her temples and the right side of her face. Her eyes were bloodshot red, her makeup smeared all over her face. Blood ran down her legs.

Veronica looked Heather right in the eye. She didn't seem aware of her new state, and regardless of how gruesome her appearance was, Veronica still looked at her with kind eyes.

"Who are you trying to convince, Heather?" she asked, craning her head slightly. "Me? Or you?