𝗰𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 - 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅𝑆

#𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗘 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘩

Winter Break means different things to the people of Sherwood, Ohio. To workers, it means an increase in sales. To parents, it means 2 weeks of non-stop bullshit. To students, it means relaxation and fun. To Veronica Sawyer, it means being forced to cope with the aftermath of her actions.

Death is a plague. It lingers and corrupts, slowly draining its host of their energy and their soul. It stains tongues blue and sticks to shivering hands, painted in crimson. It's the sound of gunshots being fired in a bleak, open field-- echoing as the sun rises. It's polished wooden coffins being slammed shut and thrown into a make-shift grave. It is a parasite that clings to you and sucks you dry.

Veronica Sawyer feels dry. Her hair is limp and brittle, like straw. Her eyes are distant and sunken in, hiding behind dark eye-bags. She carries herself with an undeniable sadness. It's as though she's a thin sheet of ice sitting atop a raging lake. It's eating her up inside. She's so tired and so frantic and so paranoid all the time. Her heart beats erratically, her shoulders ache, and her mind is scattered. Even now, as she sits in this (irritatingly) bright room, tapping her foot against the white tile floor-- all she can do is attempt to focus on her inconsistent breathing.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Exhale. Exhale? In-Ex-In-

"You okay?"

Her head snaps up, looking at the pitiful excuse for a boy in front of her. Jason Dean, in all his fucked-up glory, stares her down. He seems concerned, to say the least. His eyebrows are furrowed, making the corners of his dull-blue eyes crinkle. His freckled hands loosely hang together in his lap, his thumbs twitching occasionally-- like he wants to fidget, but can't bring himself to do so. As if it hurts him to move.

"Veronica?" He speaks again, clearly this time.

"Yeah? Mhm." She slumps back in her chair, attempting to force a smile. "The lights just make me a bit dizzy."

"You can always just... I don't know, wait outside?" He offers. "Doctor will be here soon, anyways. Shouldn't be a long wait."

"Uh, yeah?" Veronica stands up, letting her trembling hands slip into the pockets of her coat. She prays he doesn't notice. "I'll wait for you in the car, actually. Just meet me there, alright?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but she's already making her way out of the room. It shouldn't be like this. She shouldn't be here. Despite the progress he's made, despite the doctors and the therapists and the medicines, despite the healing wounds, despite the world letting her know that things are okay and getting better-- Veronica can't accept it as reality.

Because when she looks at him, she sees a beast waiting for the tiniest whiff of blood. An excuse, a reason to send himself into a carnivorous rage.

The car is (steadily) heating up, much to Veronica's relief. Goosebumps prickle her arms as hot air blasts through the car fans. Finally, a chance to breathe. Away from the hospital, the beeping machines, the chattering doctors, from him. Him and his dark, grown-out waves of hair that constantly gets in his eyes. His tattered coats. His sickly-pale skin, riddled with scars. Him and his apologies, his anguish, his remorse, his tears, his pleads, his reluctance, his fear, his recovery, his shame, and his love. His blistering, bleeding love.

Though Veronica can't understand why, Jason Dean still harbors an unwavering sense of devotion towards her. You'd think she'd enjoy it, that she'd forgive him and love him openly and wholeheartedly— but the symptoms of his toxic affection still persist. Glares of warning, fists shaking with irritation and resistance, his voice booming and rearing back almost simultaneously at the sight of her flinching.

Jason Dean is fragile. So irrevocably damaged, that even months of professional guidance could not plug his own destructive nature. But, he's trying. Whether it be for himself or for her, he's making an effort. Letting go of his own skewed perceptions of morality and working to achieve a 'better' sense of judgement. Maybe that made him brave? Except, he didn't just have a fucked up mindset. He acted on it. He murdered and did so without care, dragging her down with him. That's not brave at all.

Veronica hates to admit it, but there's still a love for him rooted deep within her; though she has trouble deciphering if it's truly her feelings, or just the knotted strings of what was— those threads he used to pull so effortlessly.

Knuckles rap gently against her passenger-side window, ripping her away from her own intrusive thoughts.

"Sorry." She leans over to unlock the door, uncertain if he even heard her. "What did the doctor say?"

JD, practically, glides into his seat, handing her a paper bag— like it's some kind of answer. She falters, giving him an odd look.

"Did... did you-?"

"No, I didn't buy weed." He scoffs, grabbing at his seatbelt with one hand. "Just open it."

Ignoring how easy it was for him to figure out what she was thinking, Veronica Sawyer looks down at the bag with disdain. There's no prescription label on it, not even his name— just a wrinkled brown paper bag with some weight in it.

"I'll kick you out of my car." Veronica warns, natural curiosity getting the better of her as she looks in. She sees, not clumps of green, but a journal of some kind. Thin, relatively-small, accompanied by a set of colored pens. The cover is slick, and despite its slender appearance, there's an abundance of paper.

"Your therapist gave you a diary?" She questions, tilting her head to the side as her fingers ghost over the book. "For what?"

"Well, for nightmares, mainly. But, she said I should use it whenever I'm feeling rough."

"Never took you for much of a writer."

"I'm not."

"Then why does she think you'd keep up with this thing?"

"Because," he shifts uncomfortably, head turning to look out at the frost building up on the car-glass, "It reminds me of you."

"Oh."

A heavy silence falls between them, filled by nothing more than the sound of a book sliding back into its bag and the sound of wheels shifting against road salt and gravel.

A blizzard is set to hit Sherwood, Ohio soon— and here she is lugging her (once?) sociopathic ex-boyfriend, who still loves her and who she, maybe, still kinda loves back, around like a goddamned Uber.

Isn't she just the epitome of main-character syndrome?