As horrible as it sounded. Veronica was glad nobody showed up to Jason Deans funeral. It would've made it real, made her numb, so that her emotions wouldn't show.

Hell. The last funeral she attended, there was a shouting father declaring that he loved his dead gay son. This one didn't even have a priest, or a dad. Just a lonely girlfriend who had to fake one last suicide note.

Dear whomever, it read.

I'm sorry Veronica. I guess I'm sorry dad. To the police, there's bombs beneath the bleachers. I wanted everyone to feel my pain. But upon death, I had a realization that it wasn't fair.

Goodbye,

-Jason Dean

That's what she wished he would've said. Wished he could've shown he was sorry better. You know, better than strapping a bomb to his chest.

The casket closed. She sat next to it for the three hour block that the showing had ran. Maybe ready to greet any greving people. If there was anything left of him, he'd be wearing his trenchcoat instead of Veronica.

He was still her boyfriend. So she'd had to honor him in some way. It's why a melting Slurpee sat there. Waiting for him to drink it and say something cocky. And it never happened. She'd lost four people in the past week.

Wondering if J.D was correct. And if she would grow old to marry a lawyer and live out life in a boring lawl; she wondered if those totals could go to five. If her boring life was worth it.

She was stupid for thinking that. Jesus. Maybe she'd write a book and become famous. Marry an actor. Have beautiful kids. Put all those nasty deaths and suicidal thoughts in a diary and sell it to the world.

Maybe she'd dedicate each book to each asshole that died.

Standing up at exactly three in the afternoon. She patted the grey coffin and walked down the steps with the trenchcoat around her catching the wind.

She'd go home and write her own suicide note for fun. Burn it, and watch The Princess Bride with Martha tomorrow. And live her life knowing that this was the highlight.