𝗰𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 - 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅𝑆

#𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 - 𝘎𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘛𝘚 𝘐𝘕 𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘙𝘖𝘖𝘔

The lingering scent of day-old beer and the sound of complete silence is what greets Jason Dean as he walks into his shithole of a suburban home. It's comforting, to say the least. No yelling, no glass bottles shattering against the kitchen floor, and no Big Bud Dean standing there— fists itching for their fix of unnecessary, drunken violence.

He passes by the living room swiftly, not taking the time to notice the bubble wrap consuming photo frames and trophies alike. It's a quick trip to the bedroom, and a race to lock the door, testing the doorknob several times before he's satisfied. It's both a precaution and habit at this point, really. A guarantee that he's safe, or at the very least, alone.

The plastic 7/11 bag gets lightly tossed on the bed, which he then proceeds to collapse on. What a fucked up day. It could have been good, wonderful, even. An evening alongside Veronica Sawyer, what more could he have asked for?

Oh, maybe some sanity? A time machine? A way to purge himself of this burning sin that scorches and chars his abdomen? A cigarette wouldn't have been too bad either.

He just can't shake away the sight of her in distress. Angry, disconnected, a barren husk left to rot. It riddles him with guilt, because this Veronica is a direct result of his misdeeds. She's the product of his manipulation, obsession, and wrath. He projected his filth onto her clean slate, ruining her knowingly and with little remorse.

It wasn't an evening with Veronica Sawyer. It was a harrowing dance with his victim.

He used to hate using that word. When he first began meeting the therapists and psychologists, he was adamant about her sharing equal blame. She hated Kurt and Ram too. She hated Chandler first. She chickened out last minute. She sent him into an uncontrollable rage. She used him, lied to him. Had it not been for that faulty bomb, she would have sadistically watched him blow into bits.

But with more talking, more time, he grew to realize just how... wrong he was. His perception was so skewed and biased. He forgot about her cries in the graveyard, her panic as Chandler collapsed, her pleading him to stop and simply live life alongside her, and the steps she took towards him at the very last second— yelling for him, for his life. Even if it meant risking her own.

He turns over on his side, looking at the bags. Plastic.

"Plastic?" He sits up as soon as the words make their way past his lips, causing him to scramble around his room. As if the rummaging would suddenly make the brown paper bag he once held in Veronica's car suddenly reappear in his hands.

Her car! God, how could he have been so stupid? Though an excuse to see Veronica Sawyer again was thrilling, he couldn't deny the feeling of guilt burrowing into the pit of his stomach. He can't keep hurting her.

Soon enough, he's got his phone clutched in his hands, and his thumbs are hovering over the keyboard. He has a million thoughts running through his head, and yet nothing is making its way onto the screen.

Hey Ronnie! No, that's too eager. Hello, Veronica. What is he, a creep? Hey, Veronica. Thanks for the ride today. Sorry to bug you so late, but I think I left my journal in your car? Could I stop by your place some time to pick it up? Yeah, that's alright, isn't it?

He presses send with a heavy sigh, letting his phone fall out of his hands as he lays back down. As if on cue, his fathers drunken stomps can be heard echoing throughout the barren house.

"We're done! Jason, it's all over now!" Bud laughs loudly, his syllables toppling over each other and elongating as he slurs his words together. "Say goodbye!

JD stares up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to let loose and punch his wall. There's just something about shitty-parents that makes a teenager want to rip their ears off.

"Pack up your bags, boy. End of this month," knuckles drag across JD's door, "We're leaving this shit town and your whore with it."

It didn't sound like a drunken lie.

Veronica Sawyer stares up at her liquor cabinet, torn between indulgence and resistance. There's this sickening temptation in her, urging her to go on and lose herself in bitter, burning brandy and rum. It's not like mom or dad is here to stop her. They've been gone for a few weeks now, leaving her with nothing except a few "see you soon!"s and a bowl of pâté.

Fingers wrap around warm, thick glass, weight settles into scarred palms, and her tongue recoils in disgust. God, she'll never get used to the taste. It reminds her of blond hair, expensive shoes covered in puke, and the loud cackles of a girl consumed by popularity.

"Quit being such a little bitch, Veronica." Heather Chandler drones, glaring from her spot on the couch. "I taught you better than that."

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Veronica's eyebrows raise as she pours herself another drink, putting up a polite front. "Surprised you didn't join the boys earlier at 7/11."

"Ugh, as if. I can't stand those bozos."

"Uh huh." Veronica rolls her eyes, looking at her kitchen counters. Despite living here for so long, everything feels unfamiliar. It's as though there's this barrier preventing her from being able to melt into the comfort these walls once housed.

It was always difficult expressing these feelings to the psychiatrists. How are you supposed to explain voices, visual hallucinations, and the sense of extreme disassociation without getting yourself handed off to a mental hospital? Sherwood is a conservative town, resources like that aren't exactly a ten minute drive out.

"But, you still do so much for JD." Chandler critiques, processing her thoughts simultaneously alongside Veronica. "You put up all these excuses for yourself, but drop everything for him. Like you're still his little bitch."

"He needs it more than I do." Veronica counters, trying to take small sips between her words. "That's all there is to it."

A cold chill runs down her spine, and the color in Veronica's eyes seem dull as the tension grips her harshly.

"You love to act all holy, Veronica. But I know you. I shaped you. You're rotting up inside and you're using him to feel better, aren't you?" Heather coos in her ear, showing no restraint with her words. "Or are you making sure he won't go berserk when you finally decide to end it all?"

Veronica whips around, only to face nothing. When did her breathing become so fast? Shit, she spilled her drink. Fuck, where's the paper towels? The words echo in her skull, a dark realization she hadn't prepared herself to face.

The confrontation just keeps replaying itself over and over and over again.

Veronica's phone vibrates loudly as she places the bottles back. Oh, great. Because this day couldn't get any more exciting.

She doesn't have his number saved anymore, but with just a few swipes up, all their old conversations are laid out on a silver platter. How couldn't she recognize him? But, now his tone is hesitant. He's so much more stressed and forced with his words than he used to be.

Stop by Wednesday night. She replies. Two days. She has two days before she faces him again.

The sky prepares itself for a heavy snowfall, while Veronica prepares herself for another restless night, riddled with nightmares.