Heathers Oneshots!

people pleaser.

god had blessed her, she once thought.

heather mcnamara was a popular girl.

i mean, that was her respectable niche of westerburg. her spot on the food chain, if you will. it wasn't something to complain about. it was very easy to get wrapped up in the pros and to forget the cons. she had. .

friends. through her various connections it led her through many frat party's doors and to share laughs with crowds of footballers and cheerleaders. she of course had the heathers, obviously. it's easy to fill the quiet with other's voices.

the silence sets in when you're alone, though.

chandler died, crashed through the glass coffee table with the bell jar on her nightstand.

she remembers her so vividly these days. her laugh that could go from so twisted to so—/pure/ in the teenage way it should sound. how her red lips used to be stained with heather mcnamara's pink lipgloss after their sleepovers.

chandler's lipstick was the wrong shade as she laid in her casket. it made the blonde frown, picked nails pressing into her palms in annoyance. the seventeen year old was dead and the least they could've done was get her fucking makeup right in her memory. chandler would've cursed them out if she was there.

the anxiety didn't set in till after the funeral, though. it had started with duke not sitting besides her at the service. heather had chalked it up to some weird coping shit, but that wasn't all. the emerald heather's energy shifted. it was the same girl, but with a new spark. the party invites. .slowed. duke might've been attending every weekend, but mac wasn't cued in on the memo.

the never ending conversations with 'peers' dwindled. the light in other's eyes when talking to her was different. not interested, as much at least. as if the distance between her and the clique shifted the cheer captain's whole being. .

but heather mac was popular. she was no dunnstock, no bullying. though, the lack of friendly conversations still made her stomach swoop. while duke was glowing, mcnamara was growing dimmer.

the realization that she had no real friends sat in eight nights later, blue eyes on her popcorn ceiling. there were no sleepovers, no parties where she was truly desired, no one who wanted . .her? maybe they wanted the cheer captain, or a brief chat with a heather, but no one was calling heather mc-fucking-namara their true best friend these days.

god had cursed her, she had thought. shaky sobs rattled into her pillow which was clutched to her chest. it was weird, it wasn't like she didn't. .talk to people at school, but the blonde had never felt so empty. she'd always considered the clique a blessing, but maybe it was a mask for a sin instead.

was it selfish to want the cliches? the best friend sleepovers and painted nails? maybe. she wasn't sure, but her chest ached with grief. if she hugged the pillow tight enough she could almost feel chandler, thin arms wrapped around her mumbling about how she shouldn't be such a crybaby.

the mere fantasy made her cackle, leaning back against the imaginary embrace. if her eyes shut, it almost felt genuine. if the fantasies got her through the night, so be it.

soft eyes opened, the embrace was gone.

yeah.

god had cursed her, she thinks.