Forgiven (JD x Veronica)

Chapter 3

TW: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF BULIMIA AND NEGATIVE BODY IMAGE

You are all beautiful. Please eat and seek recovery if you haven't yet.

Heather felt her smirk dissipate as she trotted around the corner and out of the glaring beam that was Veronica's eye-sight. She felt her back slouch and her stomach let go. A small ball of anxiety managed to quell and be silenced upon having been released from her stare. She glanced around quickly before slinking into an unoccupied bathroom and slouching onto the floor, her head buried between her knees.

As the sickening silence of the bathroom swarmed her, she her cheeks burn and her eye-sight start to blur. She knew it was going to happen. It always happened to her. Overwhelming guilt for her actions also shackled her to these mono-meltdowns just out of sight from help. It wasn't that Heather wasn't forgiven, per say, by the majority of people. Granted, after the entire JD and Veronica craze, Heather went through a re-evaluation of her actions and apologized sincerely to almost everybody. The majority of the school forgave her almost instantly, stating that her actions were a thing of the past and they could tell she had genuinely changed.

And yet, despite apology after apology, sincerity laced with each, she had never found the way to apologize to the person she had hurt the most.

Heather McNamara had a special place in Heather's heart. Whether it was her dorkiness that made Heather laugh or her kindness whenever Heather was tormenting her, Heather always was there for her. A place of comfort to lean back on, a friendly face to see in an otherwise unfriendly environment, a genuine person who she knew she could trust.

It was so perplexing to Heather how she threw all of that away, four years worth of friendship and solid trust because she thought chasing after her former bully's position was somehow more important. She had (somewhat) let the words of her fellow classmates convince her that it was so many years of manipulation and pent up aggression towards her oppressor, that once she was granted the freedom to do what she wanted, her mind was trained to become a carbon-copy of Heather.

It didn't make her feel any better, if anything, it worsened her the ever-growing pile of guilt that had permanently pitted itself into her stomach.

. . .

It was a windy October morning. Heather shivered slightly as the wind blew up her new skirt and dusted itself softly across her legs, spelling out a pleasant sight for a couple of jocks standing a few feet behind her, but a not so pleasant feeling for herself. She brushed off their sexual comments about how she should've lifted it up for them. She wasn't, and never was, going to be interested in them.

Holding her books firmly in her arm, she wrapped her palm around the handle of the door and ripped it open, storming inside and somewhat relishing the heat that blasted in her face as a response. If only Westerburg didn't hold the presence of Heather Chandler, Heather would've found herself a bit more relaxed.

She walked through the halls, getting various comments on her skirt, (most of them perverse) and having the final comment on her skirt be an insult from the person who told her to wear it in the first place.

"Heather, have you put on weight? Your thighs are huge." The almighty Chandler, dressed in her usual red blazer and black skirt hadn't even bothered to give Heather a full look, too distracted admiring herself in a locker mirror, she had merely gazed at her from the side and spoke. From around Heather, Heather could see the small, wavering form of Heather, dressed in a light yellow blazer and a dark brown skirt. Heather gave her a tiny smile.

Upon hearing Heather's off-handed comment, Heather felt her stomach sink. A small ball of anxiety immediately began to churn her insides and she felt tears welling at the corners of her eyes. She bit down harshly on her tongue to cease the crying, which resulted in the disgusting taste of blood falling down her throat.