Part I: "After JD"
By Elisa Higgins (c) 2000
scarlett@li.net
VERONICA'S DIARY
*April 30, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Last Entry.
No one can stop JD.
Not the FBI, the CIA, or the PTA.
He once told me that "the extreme always makes an impression."
Well, let's see how the sonofabitch reacts to a suicide he didn't
perform himself.
*May 5, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's not over. I stood on the steps of Westerburg watching JD like
some sort of Christ-figure as he embarked on his final suicide mission.
The constant beeping of the bomb strapped to his chest was like some
sort of derisive hallway chatter going on behind my back. I thought my
2 week long trip to hell had finally ended. I was ready to start my
life, or just keep living. It's funny how JD turned himself into some
sort of martyr. Dying so I could live, so everyone in that gymnasium
could live. Was that his way of cleaning the slate? I have to
wonder. Did he actually believe he was saving us after he went to such
extremes to try and take us with him? Did he plan on leaving the
building if he had gone through with blowing the school up? Or was he
going to follow the way of his mother? I stared into his black eyes
and he grinned at me, ready. For what? Hell? Heaven? Would the
ghosts of Heather, Kurt and Ram claw at his soul in some fiery pit
under the earth? Or was JD ready to spread his wings and fly?
God, what am I thinking?
He made sure he was standing far enough away from me so I was safe. It
was hardly a thought in the back of my head at the time. I seemed
oddly sure of the boundaries of his psychosis. He had failed in his
part to annihilate his microcosm of society and there was
only one thing left to do. Why was I so confident at the time that JD
wouldn't try to take me with him? Why didn't he? I would love to ask
him.
Yes, I watched him die. I wanted it to be the catharsis of my life.
After this, no one could touch me again. I would be my own person.
And not Heather, or Courtney, or anyone else could take that away from
me. I thought JD was giving me my freedom. Now I'm not so
sure. All I know is that I could barely read those beeping red numbers
because there were tears in my eyes
*May 7, 1989*
Dear Diary,
In death as he was in life, JD is a predator on my mind. I can't get
the bastard out of my head. He haunts me. I hear Heather Chandler's
voice in the hallways, but it's JD's lithe form I see outside my
window. It's his eyes that plague my dreams. I want to be rid of
him. But at the same time only part of me agrees with that. Sometimes
I can still taste the smokiness of his mouth.
He was so confident in the end, I should have known he'd have one last
trick up his sleeve. The fucker knew what he was doing. He handed me
my cross to bear on the steps of my high school and it gets heavier
every day.
No one knew quite how to handle what JD had done. But because he was
dead, he was no longer to blame. Most people pointed fingers at his
father. Ms. Flem immediately ran to the news stations and elevated JD
as the victim. Troubled youth. It's all such bullshit.
"Society nods its head at any horror the American teenager can THINK to
bring upon itself!"
Was JD right? Is he sitting in some canoe with his sax on some
mythological river right now laughing at it all? He beat the rap. He
was never caught, and I can't expose him because my ass is on the line
too. Big Bud Dean now needs an army of lawyers to bail his ass out of
scandal. Both his son and his wife blew themselves up.
Part of me thinks JD was perfectly sane in his insanity. He had
everything figured out to a T.
*May 8, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Of all the funerals I've attended in the last month, JD's was the
worst. Father Ripper presided as usual, and JD would have delighted to
hear himself eulogized as an "innocent victim of society's sins." I
can't believe how they turned this whole thing on its head! JD
wasn't a Victim! He was the mastermind behind the whole fucking
nightmare! I sat there in the pew and everyone was looking to me for a
reaction because I was his girlfriend. God! I wanted to jump up and
scream at everyone! I wanted to tell them how blind they all were!
This is exactly what JD wanted. I'm sure of it. This was the proof he
needed to tell the world he was right. We're all fucked up. The sick,
psychotic children of a society that degrades us.
I don't know what was worse, having to listen to such psychobabble
bullshit while playing the part of the victimized girlfriend; or
sitting there, staring at that shiny black box and
knowing that it was empty. The police couldn't salvage one scrap of JD
to put in the coffin. He was just so successful in spreading himself across
Ohio State. Only a glossy photo rests on the satin where his body
should have been
It was unnerving.
People were at JD's funeral out of sheer morbid curiosity. JD was
only in Westerburg for 2 weeks. No one knew him, I mean really knew
him. Except me. Ms. Flem was there. I think she always saw JD as her
prime mental case ever since he pulled the gun on Kurt and Ram in the
caf. She was probably the only one crying. JD's father didn't look
too disturbed. He sat there objectively listening to the sermon as
though he were the furthest thing removed from it. He was even
laughing! That amused, evil look plastered on his sick face-a look I
knew so well from JD himself. I think I was almost angry at him.
Worst of all, I still can't figure out if JD's death is to be
celebrated or mourned.
As crazy as this sounds, I sometimes find myself thinking of his smooth
face, of his lips; I lie in bed and wait for him to crawl through my
window, slip between my sheets . . . thoughts like this scare the shit out of
me. Did I ever love JD? Or was it just my overactive hormones lusting
after some mysterious rebel who knew how to hold a Harley between his
legs? Goddamnit!! Why can't he just get the fuck out of my head!?
I watched his father sit there with relaxed amusement over his only
child's death. I watched Ms. Flem wipe her eyes with a handkerchief
because she lost her fourth student this month. Martha Dunstock sat
beside me and said that she couldn't understand why JD had done it. He
seemed so intelligent, so lively. I actually told her that everyone's
life has got static. And then I caught myself saying it. Heather and
Heather were there, Betty Finn, Peter, Rodney, my parents ("He seemed
such a nice boy"); but there was only one thing I could focus on. And
every time I stared at it I saw my reflection in its shiny black
finish.
*May 11, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's prom night, junior prom night. I've actually had several
legitimate offers to go, but I found myself turning down every one of
them. I say I'm too tired after all the shit that's happened, but am I
lying to myself? Is there something else at work here? Betty says I'm
in mourning. She's completely misinformed. She thinks JD was the
coolest guy she had ever laid eyes on. A boyfriend to kill for . . .
to die for.
Oh the humanity.
I've convinced myself that I'm not in
mourning for JD any more than I'm in mourning for Heather and Kurt and
Ram. In fact, I wish JD were even more dead than he already is! He
just won't get out of my head! Yesterday I resisted the urge to go to
his grave just to reassure myself that he's gone.
I feel like shit. I think I have the flu. I'm always nauseous and
I've thrown up a few times in school. Martha says I have an eating
disorder, "I'm too thin." I think my body is just a biological mess.
All I've wanted to do is get on with my life, but I can't. Perhaps its
suppressed guilt eating away at me? I'm a murderer and I can't really
deny that to myself. The same conscience that made me fight JD won't
let me live without the shadows of the dead hanging over me.
I saw a Big Bud Dean Construction truck parked outside of an old
apartment building. The very sight of it made my insides curdle. In
that moment I thought I smelled JD's cigarette smoke in my car. He's
not gone. There's something of him around every corner.
Sometimes I wish that everything were back to normal. God, what am I
saying? It's true though, in some sick sort of way. I wish JD and I
had been normal. I wish we had gone to prom. I wish he hadn't turned
crazy. I know now that he was fully aware I was feeding Heather
Chandler Liquid Drainer that morning. He knew and he didn't stop me.
Goddamnit, why JD?
Just why in general.
That first night with him was probably the last real night of my life.
He made me glow. And I can't lie to you anymore than I can lie to
myself. There was something about him that I loved. There I said it.
At that point there was definitely something about him that I loved.
So do I hate him now for fucking up my life? My soul is probably
slated for Hell as it is. But is all the blame on JD? I went along
with him. I shot Kurt because he told me to. I'm probably more at
fault because I knew better. I was never the psychotic one.
Right?
Jesus! Listen to me! I'm making excuses for him! I think I've been
brainwashed to the extent that even MY memory of him has been
distorted.
Ms. Flem has set up a tribute mural of all the students who committed
suicide in these last few months as a tragic reminder of just how fragile
life can be. There are a million pictures of Heather, Kurt and Ram.
There's one of JD, it's right near my desk, and his eyes are
always on me.
As if the guilt wasn't bad enough.
*May 20, 1989*
Dear Diary,
JD, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!!
I should have known!!! I should have fucking known!!! He's laughing
at me from his cage in Hell, I can almost hear him. I can't believe
this! It's some sort of divine retribution. My life is on a one-way
trip to hell and I've just hit rock bottom.
I'm pregnant.
And I know JD is the father. I haven't been with anyone since him.
And before him-god the time just doesn't figure. It's his, it's his
child! He's dead and he's still twisting the knife. Of all the guys
in the fucking world I'm having his baby. JD is alive in me. What the
hell am I supposed to do?! It's not the baby's fault its father
was a fucking psychopath! But what if it turns out like him? What am
I saying?! I can't keep this child! I'm sixteen! I can't have a
baby!! Especially a psycho--baby. JD's baby.
I'm pregnant with JD's baby.
Suicide almost looks tempting.
*June 5, 1989*
Dear Diary,
My life is a waking nightmare that just keeps getting more bizarre. I
went ballistic when I found out I was pregnant with JD's baby. I cried
for days. I couldn't think straight; I couldn't talk without my voice
cracking. I threw up over and over again. I went to school,
but I don't even remember it. No one knows yet--well, almost no one.
I don't know if what I did was stupid. My feet sort of led the way and
the rest of me followed. I found myself at JD's house, knocking on the
front door. Before I could actually turn and run, his father answered.
Something dangerous moved in his face when he saw me; but he covered it
up quickly. And he didn't invite me in until I stated my case.
I assumed JD had disclosed nothing to him regarding our relationship,
so I was free to lie as much as I wanted. But I found myself telling
Bud Dean more truth than I was prepared to. I told him I was pregnant
with JD's child. I just blurted it out. Not that I ever liked the
man to begin with, not did I actually think he would care, or was going
to help me in any way. But it really wasn't help I was looking for. I
don't know what it was. Peace of mind? Closure? There was some need
in me to tell JD I had his child. But JD was dead, so I found myself
telling his father. I said I didn't need money, not that he would give
me any. In fact, the look on his face seemed to say that that was all
he was concerned about. It was just one of those moments in life where
you want to crawl into a corner and die. I didn't know what else to
say. I stood there like a fool with JD's baby maturing in my
belly--a fact that made him more of a part of me than I ever wanted--and
there was his father staring at me like I was some sort of alien. He
let me in though. I don't even know why I wanted to go in, but he let
me.
I followed Big Bud Dean through the house, which was still a disgusting
mess of cardboard boxes. All the while I was babbling like an idiot
about how I needed "closure," and how if I decided to have the baby I
wanted to know a little more about its father so I could tell it later
on in life. Was that the truth? I don't know. Bud Dean just "ahemed"
and nodded. I don't know if he was even listening as I justified
myself up the ass. He was definitely preoccupied, but he didn't look
like he was in mourning for a second. I remember asking JD if he liked
his father. "Never given the matter much thought," he had said.
At the end of my mindless jabbering Bud turned to me, looking quite
bored and uninterested even though this was his grandchild we were
talking about.
"Well," he said loudly, as if he were announcing it to the house in
general. "I haven't junked his room yet so you can go on up and have a
look around if you like. Don't know if you'll learn much though."
He gave me a big, confident grin and waved me upstairs.
'Junked his room?'
I know that remark made me angry. I don't exactly know why, but I felt
it flare inside of me and I held on to it tight.
("So maybe I am blowing up the school--cause nobody loves me!")
I went upstairs to JD's bedroom, where I realized I had never been
before. Betty Finn always says "you can learn about a person from
their bedroom." JD's was a pigsty. Even weeks after his suicide it
still looked lived in. It was eerie. There were clothes thrown all
over the rugs, tapes scattered across the dresser, posters covering the
walls and ceiling. His desk was buried beneath mounds of junk and
paper. His bed was unmade, his closet open and overflowing with stuff.
I kind of stood there in shock before drinking it in. It occurred to
me then that I didn't know very much about JD as far as his personal
life was concerned.
His wall posters ranged from The Cure, to Sid Vicious, to Jack
Nicholson from "The Shining." He had all different kinds of weird
music as far as tapes were concerned. On his desk were scary, abstract
faces done in charcoal--I assumed the drawings were his. I didn't know
JD was into art. There was a saxophone case at my feet, sheet music
stuffed into a drawer.
What is that saying about cleanliness and Godliness?
The room smelled weird. At first I thought it was the fish tank or the
cat litter. Cat? But beneath that was an overpowering stench of
Bacitracin. It smelled vaguely like a hospital. I think I shuddered.
I started looking through JD's drawers and came up with a small photo
album, I was actually looking for a journal or something, hoping to
catch a glimpse into his mind on paper. But a picture is worth a
thousand words right? And the picture album in my hands was pretty
odd to say the least.
I can't describe all the pictures--there were ones of JD's mother with a
baby boy on her lap I assumed was JD. It was actually hard to tell,
only the eyes gave it away. The photos went up through childhood,
photos of a boy who didn't look very happy or very loved by anyone,
save his doting mother. I sat there on the floor among T-shirts I
recognized--T-shirts that still smelled like JD's body--with these
pictures in my hands and a baby in my belly and I think my emotions
took over.
When I finally recognized JD as JD he was probably 14 with sandy-brown
hair looking angry and miserable. A few pictures later he was about 15
or 16 with bleached-blonde hair cropped short and spiky. It was definitely a
surprising look for him, and even with the photo in front of me I
couldn't picture JD as a blonde. He must be turning in his grave knowing I saw
these.
The pictures continued for a while, and in each it seemed as if JD were
someone else. Still JD, and yet not JD. He had a different look in every
different place as if he were "cleaning the slate" every time he moved somewhere
new. Continually starting over. Yeah, I suppose that sort of
rootlessness could drive anyone insane. Finally I found a photo I
recognized, black hair, black coat. I hesitated and then slipped it
from its plastic sleeve and into my purse. "It's for the baby," I
thought.
It's for the baby.
I heard the shower start up in the next room and figured it was JD's
father. I cast one last longing look around--not that it would do me
any good. Here I was, surrounded by JD's things, his scent, his life
and death all in one room, and I was trying to get rid of him?
God, what was I thinking.
When I left, the shower was still going. I went downstairs hoping to
just slip away unnoticed, but JD's father was walking his tread mill
and watching Oprah. He waved and called out "Goodbye Veronica." I
smiled weakly and left, still wondering why I had ever gone there to
begin with.
*June 15, 1989*
Dear Diary,
I still can't believe it's JD's child. I know when it happened too,
the only time I wasn't careful and forgot to take the stupid pill,
forgot to make him wear the stupid rubber. After JD and I ambushed
Kurt and Ram in the woods our only means of escape from the police
was to masquerade as a couple of dumb kids making out in my station
wagon. The cop bought it and left. At the time, I was on the verge of
exploding at JD. He had tricked me, had lied to me, but his arms were too
tempting to leave once I was in them. We came so close to being caught that
my heart was in my mouth and JD's flesh seemed like the safest thing
around.
It was just as guilty as mine.
*July 4, 1989*
Dear Diary,
School is thankfully over. One less nightmare I have to worry about.
I'm nearly four months pregnant and it's starting to show. I obviously
didn't decide about the abortion yet. Maybe bringing a life into this
world after I took so many out of it is my way of cleaning the slate?
I don't think I can kill this baby. I don't want to kill anymore, I
never wanted to kill in the first place. Shit.
This is my flesh.
Mine and JD's. I killed him once. I can't do it again.
Martha and Betty were over tonight to watch my father play with his
stupid fireworks. Every time I heard one explode I thought of the
bomb. I thought of JD. I ended up going inside.
Martha is happy that I'm putting on weight. Gee thanks. She told me
so in front of my parents and my heart thudded to a halt. If there had
been any color in my cheeks at that point it totally drained away.
Betty saw my hands shaking, and later on in my bedroom she asked me
about it. That's when I told them both I was pregnant. That in itself
shocked them, and then I blurted out who the father was.
Their mouths hit the ground.
Something inside me curled up and died--unfortunately it wasn't the baby.
Betty asked me what I planned to do. I told her that I thought of aborting it-
that upset Martha. I wasn't aware that she felt so strongly about abortion.
And then she made it sound as if I were obligated to keep the baby for JD's
sake, so that a part of him could live on.
Because he's dead and I'm not.
I dreamt about him later on that night.
I fell asleep ten minutes after Betty and Martha left and I dreamt about him.
He came at me with a knife in those last few minutes and I shot him twice. I
thought I killed him but he followed me outside with the bomb strapped to his
body.
The dream distorted things.
JD showed me the bomb, and grinning, he grabbed me and dragged me back inside.
I was screaming at the top of my lungs; screaming until my throat was soar. JD
dragged me all the way back to the gymnasium where everyone was having the pep
assembly. I was still screaming and crying and the bomb was still blaring
loudly like an alarm clock. JD pulled me close. We were standing there in the
middle of everything. I told him I was pregnant with his child. He
said it didn't matter, that I was going to kill it anyway.
And then we blew up.
I was watching everybody burn, JD and myself included. Ms. Flem was
yelling something about it being "one mighty circus" and everyone was
dying. And then I felt my baby clawing its way out of my flaming
stomach, trying to get to its charred father.
I woke up screaming, my alarm clock blaring in my ear.
*July 20, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Why must we forgive the dead? Was this another part of JD's master
Plan? He knew so well the stupid mores of our society. So I ask you
this, Dear Diary, am I actually forgiving JD the Hell he caused me
because he is the dead father of my child? Tears are streaming
down my face right now.
My secret's out.
I spent hours staring at my slightly rounded belly in the mirror before I went
downstairs to tell my parents. It was one of the worst moments of my life.
More for irony than anything else.
The look on my mom's face was exactly the same as when she found me
hanging in my bedroom. My dad just looked confused, as usual.
They said: "I thought you were on the pill?"
I said: "I was."
The said: "Then why are you pregnant?"
Maybe they were in shock? It took my mother a few moments before she
finally asked if I knew who the father was. His name stuck in my
throat. They had only met him once and had been impressed by his
concern for my "mental well-being." His death disturbed them,
but I'm almost positive they had no idea he was my boyfriend.
"The dark horse in the running."
That was the only time I mentioned him to them.
So I told them who the father was.
Jason Dean.
So again let me ask: Do I truly have a responsibility to JD for
carrying his child? Do I owe it to him to have this baby so it can
correct the sins of its father? Is his life, because it's over, more
important than mine?
I'm not going to have an abortion.
I'm going to have this child, not for my sake, not for the baby's, but
for JD's.
How fucked up is that?
God! I'd kill JD right now if he were here in front of me!
But this baby is going to live unless the hand of God itself comes down
to abort it.
So there will be no abortion, but there will be an adoption. I can't
bring this child up. Part of me doesn't want to. I'll carry this
spawn of my ex-boyfriend. I'll let JD live on through his child--but I
won't be a part of it.
I'm due in December, five more months of this turmoil. I dread it
though. And at this point my biggest fear is that I will fall in love
with this baby the way I did with its father. That I won't be able to
give it up. Oh, God, I can't raise JD's baby. Not after what
happened to him. Not after what happened to us.
Shit.
*October 13, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's been awhile, I know. I just didn't feel like writing down all
this depressing crap anymore. I heard recently that Big Bud Dean
cleared out of Sherwood and headed for New York. If JD were alive he'd
be going with him. It would have marked the end of our "normal
relationship." We may have written letters to each other, or something
corny like that. But those long distance things never last. And I
would have found a new boyfriend, JD and a new girlfriend and life would
go on.
Ha Ha.
But JD's not going anywhere.
He's inside me.
*November 21, 1989*
Dear Diary,
The adoption agency called today. They found parents after only 1
month of searching. The adoptive parents are wealthy, the way my mom
insisted they should be. The woman, the "mother" of my child, of JD's
child is a psychiatrist. How fitting. I don't know. I suddenly feel
empty. Part of me now doesn't want to give up the baby anymore. I think I have
fallen in love with it. Either that or I've fallen back in love with its
father.
They're a part of me.
*December 30, 1989*
Dear Diary,
For many mothers this would be the best day of their lives. I don't
really know what it is for me. I had the baby today by caesarian.
They knocked me out and when I woke up they told me it was a boy. My
heart wrenched. I wanted to cry. Something about the idea of a
son--a child to grow up in its father's image. I feel a bond with JD
because of this baby. I know that in the past few months I over-
romanticized our relationship. I've forgiven JD for all the evil shit
he did. I've thought many times about the photos in his album. I
wished I had slipped the whole thing into my purse.
My heart, my truest and deepest inner self doesn't want to give this
child up anymore. I keep telling myself it's the best thing. I'm too
young, I'm not ready to raise JD's child, to have to explain to him
what happened between me and his father.
I just can't do that.
*December 31, 1989*
Dear Diary,
I saw my son early this morning for the first time. I watched him
through the glass because I didn't want to hold him. But there was
this aching need to take him in my arms. I knew that if I lived the
rest of my life without ever holding my baby then I would hate
myself forever.
So before I could change my mind he was in my arms staring up at me.
It felt so right.
When my vision cleared of tears and I looked down into his face I saw
JD staring back at me.
Elisa Higgins Part I: "After JD" (c) 2000
scarlett@li.net
Next: Part II: "Mad As Hell"
By Elisa Higgins (c) 2000
scarlett@li.net
VERONICA'S DIARY
*April 30, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Last Entry.
No one can stop JD.
Not the FBI, the CIA, or the PTA.
He once told me that "the extreme always makes an impression."
Well, let's see how the sonofabitch reacts to a suicide he didn't
perform himself.
*May 5, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's not over. I stood on the steps of Westerburg watching JD like
some sort of Christ-figure as he embarked on his final suicide mission.
The constant beeping of the bomb strapped to his chest was like some
sort of derisive hallway chatter going on behind my back. I thought my
2 week long trip to hell had finally ended. I was ready to start my
life, or just keep living. It's funny how JD turned himself into some
sort of martyr. Dying so I could live, so everyone in that gymnasium
could live. Was that his way of cleaning the slate? I have to
wonder. Did he actually believe he was saving us after he went to such
extremes to try and take us with him? Did he plan on leaving the
building if he had gone through with blowing the school up? Or was he
going to follow the way of his mother? I stared into his black eyes
and he grinned at me, ready. For what? Hell? Heaven? Would the
ghosts of Heather, Kurt and Ram claw at his soul in some fiery pit
under the earth? Or was JD ready to spread his wings and fly?
God, what am I thinking?
He made sure he was standing far enough away from me so I was safe. It
was hardly a thought in the back of my head at the time. I seemed
oddly sure of the boundaries of his psychosis. He had failed in his
part to annihilate his microcosm of society and there was
only one thing left to do. Why was I so confident at the time that JD
wouldn't try to take me with him? Why didn't he? I would love to ask
him.
Yes, I watched him die. I wanted it to be the catharsis of my life.
After this, no one could touch me again. I would be my own person.
And not Heather, or Courtney, or anyone else could take that away from
me. I thought JD was giving me my freedom. Now I'm not so
sure. All I know is that I could barely read those beeping red numbers
because there were tears in my eyes
*May 7, 1989*
Dear Diary,
In death as he was in life, JD is a predator on my mind. I can't get
the bastard out of my head. He haunts me. I hear Heather Chandler's
voice in the hallways, but it's JD's lithe form I see outside my
window. It's his eyes that plague my dreams. I want to be rid of
him. But at the same time only part of me agrees with that. Sometimes
I can still taste the smokiness of his mouth.
He was so confident in the end, I should have known he'd have one last
trick up his sleeve. The fucker knew what he was doing. He handed me
my cross to bear on the steps of my high school and it gets heavier
every day.
No one knew quite how to handle what JD had done. But because he was
dead, he was no longer to blame. Most people pointed fingers at his
father. Ms. Flem immediately ran to the news stations and elevated JD
as the victim. Troubled youth. It's all such bullshit.
"Society nods its head at any horror the American teenager can THINK to
bring upon itself!"
Was JD right? Is he sitting in some canoe with his sax on some
mythological river right now laughing at it all? He beat the rap. He
was never caught, and I can't expose him because my ass is on the line
too. Big Bud Dean now needs an army of lawyers to bail his ass out of
scandal. Both his son and his wife blew themselves up.
Part of me thinks JD was perfectly sane in his insanity. He had
everything figured out to a T.
*May 8, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Of all the funerals I've attended in the last month, JD's was the
worst. Father Ripper presided as usual, and JD would have delighted to
hear himself eulogized as an "innocent victim of society's sins." I
can't believe how they turned this whole thing on its head! JD
wasn't a Victim! He was the mastermind behind the whole fucking
nightmare! I sat there in the pew and everyone was looking to me for a
reaction because I was his girlfriend. God! I wanted to jump up and
scream at everyone! I wanted to tell them how blind they all were!
This is exactly what JD wanted. I'm sure of it. This was the proof he
needed to tell the world he was right. We're all fucked up. The sick,
psychotic children of a society that degrades us.
I don't know what was worse, having to listen to such psychobabble
bullshit while playing the part of the victimized girlfriend; or
sitting there, staring at that shiny black box and
knowing that it was empty. The police couldn't salvage one scrap of JD
to put in the coffin. He was just so successful in spreading himself across
Ohio State. Only a glossy photo rests on the satin where his body
should have been
It was unnerving.
People were at JD's funeral out of sheer morbid curiosity. JD was
only in Westerburg for 2 weeks. No one knew him, I mean really knew
him. Except me. Ms. Flem was there. I think she always saw JD as her
prime mental case ever since he pulled the gun on Kurt and Ram in the
caf. She was probably the only one crying. JD's father didn't look
too disturbed. He sat there objectively listening to the sermon as
though he were the furthest thing removed from it. He was even
laughing! That amused, evil look plastered on his sick face-a look I
knew so well from JD himself. I think I was almost angry at him.
Worst of all, I still can't figure out if JD's death is to be
celebrated or mourned.
As crazy as this sounds, I sometimes find myself thinking of his smooth
face, of his lips; I lie in bed and wait for him to crawl through my
window, slip between my sheets . . . thoughts like this scare the shit out of
me. Did I ever love JD? Or was it just my overactive hormones lusting
after some mysterious rebel who knew how to hold a Harley between his
legs? Goddamnit!! Why can't he just get the fuck out of my head!?
I watched his father sit there with relaxed amusement over his only
child's death. I watched Ms. Flem wipe her eyes with a handkerchief
because she lost her fourth student this month. Martha Dunstock sat
beside me and said that she couldn't understand why JD had done it. He
seemed so intelligent, so lively. I actually told her that everyone's
life has got static. And then I caught myself saying it. Heather and
Heather were there, Betty Finn, Peter, Rodney, my parents ("He seemed
such a nice boy"); but there was only one thing I could focus on. And
every time I stared at it I saw my reflection in its shiny black
finish.
*May 11, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's prom night, junior prom night. I've actually had several
legitimate offers to go, but I found myself turning down every one of
them. I say I'm too tired after all the shit that's happened, but am I
lying to myself? Is there something else at work here? Betty says I'm
in mourning. She's completely misinformed. She thinks JD was the
coolest guy she had ever laid eyes on. A boyfriend to kill for . . .
to die for.
Oh the humanity.
I've convinced myself that I'm not in
mourning for JD any more than I'm in mourning for Heather and Kurt and
Ram. In fact, I wish JD were even more dead than he already is! He
just won't get out of my head! Yesterday I resisted the urge to go to
his grave just to reassure myself that he's gone.
I feel like shit. I think I have the flu. I'm always nauseous and
I've thrown up a few times in school. Martha says I have an eating
disorder, "I'm too thin." I think my body is just a biological mess.
All I've wanted to do is get on with my life, but I can't. Perhaps its
suppressed guilt eating away at me? I'm a murderer and I can't really
deny that to myself. The same conscience that made me fight JD won't
let me live without the shadows of the dead hanging over me.
I saw a Big Bud Dean Construction truck parked outside of an old
apartment building. The very sight of it made my insides curdle. In
that moment I thought I smelled JD's cigarette smoke in my car. He's
not gone. There's something of him around every corner.
Sometimes I wish that everything were back to normal. God, what am I
saying? It's true though, in some sick sort of way. I wish JD and I
had been normal. I wish we had gone to prom. I wish he hadn't turned
crazy. I know now that he was fully aware I was feeding Heather
Chandler Liquid Drainer that morning. He knew and he didn't stop me.
Goddamnit, why JD?
Just why in general.
That first night with him was probably the last real night of my life.
He made me glow. And I can't lie to you anymore than I can lie to
myself. There was something about him that I loved. There I said it.
At that point there was definitely something about him that I loved.
So do I hate him now for fucking up my life? My soul is probably
slated for Hell as it is. But is all the blame on JD? I went along
with him. I shot Kurt because he told me to. I'm probably more at
fault because I knew better. I was never the psychotic one.
Right?
Jesus! Listen to me! I'm making excuses for him! I think I've been
brainwashed to the extent that even MY memory of him has been
distorted.
Ms. Flem has set up a tribute mural of all the students who committed
suicide in these last few months as a tragic reminder of just how fragile
life can be. There are a million pictures of Heather, Kurt and Ram.
There's one of JD, it's right near my desk, and his eyes are
always on me.
As if the guilt wasn't bad enough.
*May 20, 1989*
Dear Diary,
JD, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!!
I should have known!!! I should have fucking known!!! He's laughing
at me from his cage in Hell, I can almost hear him. I can't believe
this! It's some sort of divine retribution. My life is on a one-way
trip to hell and I've just hit rock bottom.
I'm pregnant.
And I know JD is the father. I haven't been with anyone since him.
And before him-god the time just doesn't figure. It's his, it's his
child! He's dead and he's still twisting the knife. Of all the guys
in the fucking world I'm having his baby. JD is alive in me. What the
hell am I supposed to do?! It's not the baby's fault its father
was a fucking psychopath! But what if it turns out like him? What am
I saying?! I can't keep this child! I'm sixteen! I can't have a
baby!! Especially a psycho--baby. JD's baby.
I'm pregnant with JD's baby.
Suicide almost looks tempting.
*June 5, 1989*
Dear Diary,
My life is a waking nightmare that just keeps getting more bizarre. I
went ballistic when I found out I was pregnant with JD's baby. I cried
for days. I couldn't think straight; I couldn't talk without my voice
cracking. I threw up over and over again. I went to school,
but I don't even remember it. No one knows yet--well, almost no one.
I don't know if what I did was stupid. My feet sort of led the way and
the rest of me followed. I found myself at JD's house, knocking on the
front door. Before I could actually turn and run, his father answered.
Something dangerous moved in his face when he saw me; but he covered it
up quickly. And he didn't invite me in until I stated my case.
I assumed JD had disclosed nothing to him regarding our relationship,
so I was free to lie as much as I wanted. But I found myself telling
Bud Dean more truth than I was prepared to. I told him I was pregnant
with JD's child. I just blurted it out. Not that I ever liked the
man to begin with, not did I actually think he would care, or was going
to help me in any way. But it really wasn't help I was looking for. I
don't know what it was. Peace of mind? Closure? There was some need
in me to tell JD I had his child. But JD was dead, so I found myself
telling his father. I said I didn't need money, not that he would give
me any. In fact, the look on his face seemed to say that that was all
he was concerned about. It was just one of those moments in life where
you want to crawl into a corner and die. I didn't know what else to
say. I stood there like a fool with JD's baby maturing in my
belly--a fact that made him more of a part of me than I ever wanted--and
there was his father staring at me like I was some sort of alien. He
let me in though. I don't even know why I wanted to go in, but he let
me.
I followed Big Bud Dean through the house, which was still a disgusting
mess of cardboard boxes. All the while I was babbling like an idiot
about how I needed "closure," and how if I decided to have the baby I
wanted to know a little more about its father so I could tell it later
on in life. Was that the truth? I don't know. Bud Dean just "ahemed"
and nodded. I don't know if he was even listening as I justified
myself up the ass. He was definitely preoccupied, but he didn't look
like he was in mourning for a second. I remember asking JD if he liked
his father. "Never given the matter much thought," he had said.
At the end of my mindless jabbering Bud turned to me, looking quite
bored and uninterested even though this was his grandchild we were
talking about.
"Well," he said loudly, as if he were announcing it to the house in
general. "I haven't junked his room yet so you can go on up and have a
look around if you like. Don't know if you'll learn much though."
He gave me a big, confident grin and waved me upstairs.
'Junked his room?'
I know that remark made me angry. I don't exactly know why, but I felt
it flare inside of me and I held on to it tight.
("So maybe I am blowing up the school--cause nobody loves me!")
I went upstairs to JD's bedroom, where I realized I had never been
before. Betty Finn always says "you can learn about a person from
their bedroom." JD's was a pigsty. Even weeks after his suicide it
still looked lived in. It was eerie. There were clothes thrown all
over the rugs, tapes scattered across the dresser, posters covering the
walls and ceiling. His desk was buried beneath mounds of junk and
paper. His bed was unmade, his closet open and overflowing with stuff.
I kind of stood there in shock before drinking it in. It occurred to
me then that I didn't know very much about JD as far as his personal
life was concerned.
His wall posters ranged from The Cure, to Sid Vicious, to Jack
Nicholson from "The Shining." He had all different kinds of weird
music as far as tapes were concerned. On his desk were scary, abstract
faces done in charcoal--I assumed the drawings were his. I didn't know
JD was into art. There was a saxophone case at my feet, sheet music
stuffed into a drawer.
What is that saying about cleanliness and Godliness?
The room smelled weird. At first I thought it was the fish tank or the
cat litter. Cat? But beneath that was an overpowering stench of
Bacitracin. It smelled vaguely like a hospital. I think I shuddered.
I started looking through JD's drawers and came up with a small photo
album, I was actually looking for a journal or something, hoping to
catch a glimpse into his mind on paper. But a picture is worth a
thousand words right? And the picture album in my hands was pretty
odd to say the least.
I can't describe all the pictures--there were ones of JD's mother with a
baby boy on her lap I assumed was JD. It was actually hard to tell,
only the eyes gave it away. The photos went up through childhood,
photos of a boy who didn't look very happy or very loved by anyone,
save his doting mother. I sat there on the floor among T-shirts I
recognized--T-shirts that still smelled like JD's body--with these
pictures in my hands and a baby in my belly and I think my emotions
took over.
When I finally recognized JD as JD he was probably 14 with sandy-brown
hair looking angry and miserable. A few pictures later he was about 15
or 16 with bleached-blonde hair cropped short and spiky. It was definitely a
surprising look for him, and even with the photo in front of me I
couldn't picture JD as a blonde. He must be turning in his grave knowing I saw
these.
The pictures continued for a while, and in each it seemed as if JD were
someone else. Still JD, and yet not JD. He had a different look in every
different place as if he were "cleaning the slate" every time he moved somewhere
new. Continually starting over. Yeah, I suppose that sort of
rootlessness could drive anyone insane. Finally I found a photo I
recognized, black hair, black coat. I hesitated and then slipped it
from its plastic sleeve and into my purse. "It's for the baby," I
thought.
It's for the baby.
I heard the shower start up in the next room and figured it was JD's
father. I cast one last longing look around--not that it would do me
any good. Here I was, surrounded by JD's things, his scent, his life
and death all in one room, and I was trying to get rid of him?
God, what was I thinking.
When I left, the shower was still going. I went downstairs hoping to
just slip away unnoticed, but JD's father was walking his tread mill
and watching Oprah. He waved and called out "Goodbye Veronica." I
smiled weakly and left, still wondering why I had ever gone there to
begin with.
*June 15, 1989*
Dear Diary,
I still can't believe it's JD's child. I know when it happened too,
the only time I wasn't careful and forgot to take the stupid pill,
forgot to make him wear the stupid rubber. After JD and I ambushed
Kurt and Ram in the woods our only means of escape from the police
was to masquerade as a couple of dumb kids making out in my station
wagon. The cop bought it and left. At the time, I was on the verge of
exploding at JD. He had tricked me, had lied to me, but his arms were too
tempting to leave once I was in them. We came so close to being caught that
my heart was in my mouth and JD's flesh seemed like the safest thing
around.
It was just as guilty as mine.
*July 4, 1989*
Dear Diary,
School is thankfully over. One less nightmare I have to worry about.
I'm nearly four months pregnant and it's starting to show. I obviously
didn't decide about the abortion yet. Maybe bringing a life into this
world after I took so many out of it is my way of cleaning the slate?
I don't think I can kill this baby. I don't want to kill anymore, I
never wanted to kill in the first place. Shit.
This is my flesh.
Mine and JD's. I killed him once. I can't do it again.
Martha and Betty were over tonight to watch my father play with his
stupid fireworks. Every time I heard one explode I thought of the
bomb. I thought of JD. I ended up going inside.
Martha is happy that I'm putting on weight. Gee thanks. She told me
so in front of my parents and my heart thudded to a halt. If there had
been any color in my cheeks at that point it totally drained away.
Betty saw my hands shaking, and later on in my bedroom she asked me
about it. That's when I told them both I was pregnant. That in itself
shocked them, and then I blurted out who the father was.
Their mouths hit the ground.
Something inside me curled up and died--unfortunately it wasn't the baby.
Betty asked me what I planned to do. I told her that I thought of aborting it-
that upset Martha. I wasn't aware that she felt so strongly about abortion.
And then she made it sound as if I were obligated to keep the baby for JD's
sake, so that a part of him could live on.
Because he's dead and I'm not.
I dreamt about him later on that night.
I fell asleep ten minutes after Betty and Martha left and I dreamt about him.
He came at me with a knife in those last few minutes and I shot him twice. I
thought I killed him but he followed me outside with the bomb strapped to his
body.
The dream distorted things.
JD showed me the bomb, and grinning, he grabbed me and dragged me back inside.
I was screaming at the top of my lungs; screaming until my throat was soar. JD
dragged me all the way back to the gymnasium where everyone was having the pep
assembly. I was still screaming and crying and the bomb was still blaring
loudly like an alarm clock. JD pulled me close. We were standing there in the
middle of everything. I told him I was pregnant with his child. He
said it didn't matter, that I was going to kill it anyway.
And then we blew up.
I was watching everybody burn, JD and myself included. Ms. Flem was
yelling something about it being "one mighty circus" and everyone was
dying. And then I felt my baby clawing its way out of my flaming
stomach, trying to get to its charred father.
I woke up screaming, my alarm clock blaring in my ear.
*July 20, 1989*
Dear Diary,
Why must we forgive the dead? Was this another part of JD's master
Plan? He knew so well the stupid mores of our society. So I ask you
this, Dear Diary, am I actually forgiving JD the Hell he caused me
because he is the dead father of my child? Tears are streaming
down my face right now.
My secret's out.
I spent hours staring at my slightly rounded belly in the mirror before I went
downstairs to tell my parents. It was one of the worst moments of my life.
More for irony than anything else.
The look on my mom's face was exactly the same as when she found me
hanging in my bedroom. My dad just looked confused, as usual.
They said: "I thought you were on the pill?"
I said: "I was."
The said: "Then why are you pregnant?"
Maybe they were in shock? It took my mother a few moments before she
finally asked if I knew who the father was. His name stuck in my
throat. They had only met him once and had been impressed by his
concern for my "mental well-being." His death disturbed them,
but I'm almost positive they had no idea he was my boyfriend.
"The dark horse in the running."
That was the only time I mentioned him to them.
So I told them who the father was.
Jason Dean.
So again let me ask: Do I truly have a responsibility to JD for
carrying his child? Do I owe it to him to have this baby so it can
correct the sins of its father? Is his life, because it's over, more
important than mine?
I'm not going to have an abortion.
I'm going to have this child, not for my sake, not for the baby's, but
for JD's.
How fucked up is that?
God! I'd kill JD right now if he were here in front of me!
But this baby is going to live unless the hand of God itself comes down
to abort it.
So there will be no abortion, but there will be an adoption. I can't
bring this child up. Part of me doesn't want to. I'll carry this
spawn of my ex-boyfriend. I'll let JD live on through his child--but I
won't be a part of it.
I'm due in December, five more months of this turmoil. I dread it
though. And at this point my biggest fear is that I will fall in love
with this baby the way I did with its father. That I won't be able to
give it up. Oh, God, I can't raise JD's baby. Not after what
happened to him. Not after what happened to us.
Shit.
*October 13, 1989*
Dear Diary,
It's been awhile, I know. I just didn't feel like writing down all
this depressing crap anymore. I heard recently that Big Bud Dean
cleared out of Sherwood and headed for New York. If JD were alive he'd
be going with him. It would have marked the end of our "normal
relationship." We may have written letters to each other, or something
corny like that. But those long distance things never last. And I
would have found a new boyfriend, JD and a new girlfriend and life would
go on.
Ha Ha.
But JD's not going anywhere.
He's inside me.
*November 21, 1989*
Dear Diary,
The adoption agency called today. They found parents after only 1
month of searching. The adoptive parents are wealthy, the way my mom
insisted they should be. The woman, the "mother" of my child, of JD's
child is a psychiatrist. How fitting. I don't know. I suddenly feel
empty. Part of me now doesn't want to give up the baby anymore. I think I have
fallen in love with it. Either that or I've fallen back in love with its
father.
They're a part of me.
*December 30, 1989*
Dear Diary,
For many mothers this would be the best day of their lives. I don't
really know what it is for me. I had the baby today by caesarian.
They knocked me out and when I woke up they told me it was a boy. My
heart wrenched. I wanted to cry. Something about the idea of a
son--a child to grow up in its father's image. I feel a bond with JD
because of this baby. I know that in the past few months I over-
romanticized our relationship. I've forgiven JD for all the evil shit
he did. I've thought many times about the photos in his album. I
wished I had slipped the whole thing into my purse.
My heart, my truest and deepest inner self doesn't want to give this
child up anymore. I keep telling myself it's the best thing. I'm too
young, I'm not ready to raise JD's child, to have to explain to him
what happened between me and his father.
I just can't do that.
*December 31, 1989*
Dear Diary,
I saw my son early this morning for the first time. I watched him
through the glass because I didn't want to hold him. But there was
this aching need to take him in my arms. I knew that if I lived the
rest of my life without ever holding my baby then I would hate
myself forever.
So before I could change my mind he was in my arms staring up at me.
It felt so right.
When my vision cleared of tears and I looked down into his face I saw
JD staring back at me.
Elisa Higgins Part I: "After JD" (c) 2000
scarlett@li.net
Next: Part II: "Mad As Hell"