Holes & Hollows
By Lynxgoddess and Illyria13
Disclaimer: Neither I or Lynxgoddess own Veronica Mars, the characters therein, etc.
Authors note: This is a collaboration between Lynxgoddess and Illyria13 exploring the perspectives of two characters. No AU's as of yet.
Timeline: Set season 1, no truly explicit spoilers, as of yet.
Summary: Come follow us into the minds of two characters, their feelings and responses, as life happens.
//
It was raining.
Against all odds and predictions, the normally pristine blue skies had been overrun by the pulsing, dark clouds. The day had started out picturesque, lonely rays of sunrise had cascaded over the beaches and into the homes and business of the costal town; it hadn't changed much as time passed, a gentle breeze rolling in off the Pacific, bringing the scents of fresh fruits and salt out of the ocean. A prefect day, it was a perfectly normal day that the residents of the town took for granted, thinking it was their tribute for being who they were. But it didn't last. Nothing perfect ever does. As the afternoon wore on, the first of the alien invaders made their move, an unexpected ambush that turned the playful winds into chaotic gusts. The atmosphere became harsh and heavy, a static charge warning all to head indoors. Finally, seeing her allies defeated, the vibrant sun bowed out, a graceful retreat covered by the grey and black curtains of her enemies. And so, as even the densest of Neptune, California's population sought shelter, it began to rain. All residents except one, that is.
~!~!~!~
The resounding pitter-patter is what first drew her attention. From the ball of flesh, fabric, and fur, a slight shift of the occupant's head was its first motion in hours. Tempted and attempting to ignore the noise as she ignored everything else, the ball curled back into itself. But it would not go away. Like the tapping of tiny hands against a hollow drum, the noise haunted her. She was haunted by so many things. None of them ever bowed to her wants, staying when she begged them to go and leaving when she cried for them to remain. Maybe this one was better than the others, newer and unknown and maybe, just maybe capable of unmaking the last few inches of her. What did it matter what she thought? They summoned and called and beckoned and no matter the cost she would follow. It moved. Slowly and disjointed and unwilling abandon, the ball moved until it was no longer a ball but a girl and a dog in dark room with no one watching. She stumbled and tripped but the girl made it to the door, the only barrier between her and her seducer. She didn't stop or pause or acknowledge anything as the knob jumped into her hand and the door banged open with the force of the wind against it. As the girl tumbled into the world outside, the door snapped shut behind her, a lonely protest to misbegotten actions. Not caring where or why, the figure was lost in the maelstrom, making its way to roars and grunts of the angry waves.
~!~!~!~
It was raining.
That was the first thing she really knew about today. The awful, saving, confusing, damning fog that played over her memories and emotions was finally lifted by the violent slaps of raindrops on her skin.
Why was she out in the rain?
Her question was cut off as the water rushed up the shore to grab at her feet and ankles, tauntingly inviting her to come join it. For a moment, without knowing why, she was tempted. Quickly shaking her head, the thought was pushed away. If she went in now, she'd never leave. The idea of being trapped and forgotten, held in the embrace of the ocean before her was horrifying and magnetic. But she couldn't. There were reasons why she couldn't, even if she didn't remember them right now.
Tilting her face up to catch the worse of the storm, the questions and concerns and responsibilities and fears fell away from her like so many drops of rain. She stood. Feet spread apart, head thrown back, arms fluttering at her sides, she stood and let the storm take her. Let it remake her into something new, something old, something that could do more than survive the storm but thrive in it.
~!~!~!~
Her hair was heavy. It was an anvil and tried, again and again, to drag her down. The dress wasn't much better, a stained white made whiter by sand and sea spray; it barely clung to the top of her chest, covering her modesty and keeping her unexposed. That bothered her.
What good was modesty now?
Her pale hands and pruned fingers turned to claws and desperation, struggling with the button of her gown. Unable to resist the onslaught of anger and panic, the garment sliced open and slithered down her body to pool at her knees. A shudder followed the possessive movement, disguised by the weight and determination of the dress to stay with her. Seeing the returning tide, she stepped out of the stagnant materials and allowed the ocean that called her here to carry the burden back out with it, never to be found again. As the downpour of the early evening turned into gentle rain and rising mist, the measure last measures of denial and confusion faded away. She turned, barefoot in only a bra and underwear, and left to find her way back, the vapors of the day obscuring and shielding her until she made it.
~!~!~!~
Her father wasn't home, chasing some fleeing criminal or other bad guy. Someplace that wasn't here. She was grateful for that. He wouldn't see the mess she made. The mess she was. As she had stepped back into her old new life, the faithful dog had come up to her, growling and whining, pleading in his way for her to be alright. She wasn't. She didn't even notice him. She locks the door out of habit or spite, she isn't sure which.
What was there left to take?
She doesn't stop until she's in the bathroom and the showers on and if she forgets to take off the rest of her clothes, no one's going to tell on her. The hot water doesn't last long, but while it does she lets it scald and burn the dark things from her. While it lasts. Then she feels the wet fabric and rips it off. The smack they make when they hit the tile would have startled someone if someone was here. No one is.
The water is beyond cold, and she shivers for a physical reason now. She wants to stay in here, with the cold and the shakes and the not feeling. No more water falls down on her, cleansing or punishing because she's turned it off. Stepping over the edge of the tub takes more effort than it should, not from slickness or lack of traction, but because she aches. And she hurts, maybe more than she ever has. And she doesn't think of that right now. She doesn't think of words – never should have come here – what a slut – grow some backbone - or thoughts – I know better – let this happen – stupid – asked for it – or deeds – fingers in her hair – teeth on her skin – flesh pressing her down – that echo though her.
She doesn't want to look in the mirror, doesn't want to see, doesn't want to remember. She doesn't want to know. But she does. She does. She does. She looks and she sees and she may not remember but she knows. She'll always know now. No matter what happens from here on, she'll always know this. The way her eyes are empty and shallow. The dark circles and make-up smears streaked her face. The nips and bruises and tiny cuts like the teeth that made them trailing from her jaw to her neck to her shoulders. The red and swollen breasts stinging her every time she moved. The finger imprints marring her wrists and hips and thighs and butt. Yes, she'll always remember this.
She leaves the bathroom and doesn't turn the light off. She doesn't dress and as much as she wants to fall, she gently crawls into bed. The dog doesn't come to her. She pulls the blankets up and sleeps.
~!~!~!~
She sleeps for two days. Her father is frantic and on the verge of coming home without his bounty. She tells him she was sick and couldn't get up. She tells him she's better and he listens. She's lying.
She knows there are things to do today. The dog must be hungry. She feeds it and takes it out to use the bathroom. The mess must the taken off. She cleans the living room and the bathroom and throws the dirty things away. She gets dressed and leaves. She goes alone to a free clinic in a nearby city. The workers don't ask about her bruises or her silence; they've seen it all. The doctor, an older woman, doesn't look at her face at all while she examines her, just looks and draws blood. A worker comes in and asks her questions. Most of them she can't answer; sometimes she lies. She thinks the worker knows this but says nothing. Finally they give her antibiotics and creams and offer one last pill. It's a special pill, what most call a bad one. A tool of the devil for hussies and brazen women who don't wait for the marriage bed and aren't careful. She doesn't care; there was no miracle that night. So she swallows and doesn't gag. They tell her to come back in two weeks for her blood panel results. She nods and leaves and wonders if she'll make it two weeks.
~!~!~!~
She does. Her father is back and watches her closely, sure something is wrong. She tells him it's the kids at school and not to worry because summer was almost here. The food on her plate is mostly untouched and her nights are filled with lack of sleep. The grades she brings home are better than ever and she doesn't speak. He is proud but he worries and hovers. Two days to go and he has another and leaves because they need the money and she told him to. She is alone and wishes she wasn't but is relieved that she is. She doesn't have a mother or a best friend or a boy friend or anyone at all to see her live and die in two weeks.
She goes back to the clinic and they put in her a conference room. She doesn't think this is good. Another weary and jaded worker comes in and sits across from her. The woman hands her a cup and tell her to go to the restroom and fill it while she looks over the results. When the cup is half full she comes back and gives it to the worker who pages for someone else who takes it away. Her hands are washed and clean and she fold them in her lap as she listens to what the worker has to say. She doesn't have HIV or herpes anything that is untreatable. She does have Chlamydia and her exam showed evidence of multiple partners.
She wants to cry but she doesn't feel anything. She is given a bottle of antibiotics that will treat the disease, a monotone lecture about safe sex, and a brochure for sexual assault victims.
Is that what she is, a victim? Or is she a shell, hollowed out by the force of the ocean and the nightmares she doesn't have, as pure and pristine as the salt of the sea can make her?
As she stands up to leave, the woman receives a call and tells her stop. There is one more thing. The worker tells her and she leaves. The pills are stuffed away, the lecture forgotten, and the brochure is thrown in the trash as the girl heads out the door. She knows she is never going back.
~!~!~!~
For the first time, she dreams. There is grabbing and pushing and hurting and laughing, and she sleeps through it all. An eternal bride that never wakes for her wedding night no matter who her husband is, the fairytale princess she always never wanted to be. Her best friend watches, bloodied and broken and stare at her with dead eyes like her own. She wakes up and knows it's a nightmare and a dream and she smiles. Because she can still dream. She goes back to the bathroom and looks in the mirror. She still knows it. But now she knows more and scissors appear in her hand. She cuts and golden innocence and promises fall like rain. When she is done she is different and she knows this. She'll remember this.
She goes back to her room and dreams again. This time her friend is smiling and happy in a sparkly dress, she watches as a ghost appears with long hair and a shy smile that wears a white dress. It is her. She watches as her ghost goes to her friend. They hug and spin each other in circles. She watches as they turn back to her and wave before they laugh together and dance away. She is alone again.
She is Veronica Mars and her best friend Lilly Kane is dead and her mother is an alcoholic who abandoned her and her former friends are now her enemies. She is Veronica Mars and she is hardened and sad and angry and determined. She is Veronica Mars and a victim and her life isn't going to end in nine months and she isn't a mother and maybe never will be. She is Veronica Mars and she is going to find out who killed her friend and who made her a victim and she is going to make them pay. And then they will be very sorry that she is Veronica Mars, the diviner of storms.
/////
He doesn't see her appearance at the mansion, but hears about it from the others around him. Their whispers and their taunts draw his attention, and he sees her in the room looking out of place and a part of him is drawn to her because they were are friends and he knows she is in pain just like he is. The rest of him feels only contempt and rage at her daring to come here, to the party thrown by people she is no longer a part of. In her white dress of lace and silk, of innocence and purity, she stands out among the others, but doesn't seem to let it bother her. He admires her guts and he hates her presence and he watches as she drinks from a cup of plastic and sin, knowing somehow that this night marks the beginning of the end of something he can't describe. So he turns his attention from the only real person standing in their midst and he drinks from his own bottle and thinks that maybe he can make it through just one more night.
He loses track of her after that, whether by purpose or ignorance he doesn't know and can't bring himself to care, and instead joins the rest of the group as they joke and drink and hide their already hidden pain through fake smiles and cutting remarks. And he doesn't want to admit that he is just like them, even though he'd rather slit his own wrists than become them, and then ignores how much that thought appeals to him. Instead, he accepts a bottle full of vice and pastes on his mask of broken shards and wonders when he became so good at lying to himself about how fucked up he really was and thinks that he never knew a time where he wasn't.
He stares at her from across the backyard, looking at the way she is draped over the couch, in the arms of two boys they go to school with. The drooling idiots are all over her, and a flash of irritation bursts through him. But he isn't sure if it is at them, or at her, for allowing them to be there, kissing them on the mouth and the lips and he wonders briefly if she is using her tongue. He sees the blonde Barbie named Sinclair glaring at the trio, affronted at the attention her boyfriend is giving the drunken girl in his arms, and thinks idly that the bitch should do something about it. And he catches himself on that thought, confused as to which girl he was referring to; was it Madison Sinclair with her sickening pink lips and glossy red nails or the inebriated wild child pouring down shots like they were going out of style?
He takes a swig of his beer to occupy his attention, but is frozen by the picture that flashes in his mind. He glances up and takes a second look, and sees an image of a blonde-brunette with a love for boys and money sprawled on red concrete next to an aquamarine shimmer, eyes the color of leaves glassy and blank. The imprint is stuck in his head and now when he looks at the scene in the living room, all he can see is a delicate, porcelain doll, helpless against the ferocity of the boys she is with. He steps forward, not knowing what he is doing or what he plans on doing, but knows that something is always better than nothing. It has nothing to do with the dead girl in red and everything to do with the girl that he thought he could love, even though she could never, would never, isn't, wasn't capable of loving him.
Yet nothing is what occurs because he too is drunk, and all he wants is to forget the pain. Because isn't forgetting the pain in your life the reason guys like him drink? Or maybe the reason to drink, for a high school rich kid, is that there is no reason; nothing other than his own shattered thoughts and the broken reel of film that plays the endless tragedies of life? Of course, he could create a reason if he really, truly thought about it, but he doesn't because he'd much rather delude himself with the no reason than be honest about the real ones.
But the thing he hates about drinking in front of them, his peers and his fellows and his wretched, weakling friends, is that none of them will stop him. Because they know deep down that they too would be drinking the way he does if they had his life; and they won't stop him, because to do so would give him a different target on which to vent his rage and then, God forbid, they might actually have to do something about him, help him, and that is just an unacceptable act. But he doesn't want their help; even though he knows he needs it, because nobody can help erase what has been done.
So he keeps with his drinking and stands in his own shadow and ignores the stupidity of the people around him. He doesn't think about the doll with her own glassy eyes and forgets about the girl-love lying dead on the ground. He knows only about the moment he is in, right here and right now, and decides to live his life two seconds behind, in that moment. Because tonight there is nothing but the drink and the party, and tomorrow there will be nothing but the sun and the porcelain god. And the only things around him are the broken rich children that play Mommy and Daddy and know nothing of the real world because of their own white lies.
He grabs a nearby girl and convinces her to dance, ring around the rosy which turns out to be more like a spinning top with arms and legs, and ashes to ashes they tumble to the ground with a nursery rhyme they all fall down ringing in his ears. He gets up and leaves her there, finding another girl that catches his attention, and together they drink. Making a game out of it is more fun than just straight drinking it and, with a few others joining in, they drink as if it were water and they were dying men in the desert. And he thinks to himself in the back of his mind, that maybe he should slow down a little, because spending the night in the hospital been there, done that is not the most fun thing to do. But tonight is a night of no consequences and he admits to himself, as he seems to be doing a lot lately, that he really doesn't care if he lives or dies, seeing as how he is doing neither, both, at the moment.
A shout of drunken laughter catches his attention, and he spies a large group surrounding someone lying down on a pool chair across the yard. And when he sees the blonde tresses, and the simple white dress, he feels the world fade as he recognizes the nearly unconscious girl. But it is for only a second, and the world returns with his senses, and he is no longer aware, no longer caring; that the girl is Lilly's other half or that he even knows her, once upon a time, because once upon a time was long ago, and things change. Here there are no princesses or knights, no dragons or towers high in the sky; there is only blood on concrete and alcohol to drink and the emptiness of never being loved, and the wondering of a scared little boy that thinks to himself can he ever love someone?, as he hides in the closet from the monster with the face of his father.
The only thing he has learned from his father is that alcohol dulls pain, whether poured directly on a wound or savored from a glass, and he takes that lesson to heart. Since he doesn't know the girl in front of him, completely out of it, it is easy to watch as the others pour their drinks on her arms and face and chest, to laugh as they lean down and lick it off, and to join in with his own poison of choice. He drinks and he laughs and for once, the voices in his head are silent, muted by the joy of being the one who is not at the center of attention. And he tells himself that there is nothing wrong with enjoying himself, that the strange-girl-that-is-not-a-stranger wouldn't be letting them do this if she wasn't enjoying it herself, ignoring the voice that is suddenly not mute that reminds him of how much she has had to drink and that someone with a blood alcohol level capable of blowing a hole in the world is not the poster child for consent.
He is brought back when another person joins their merry band of fools and he is affronted and pissed when he lifts the girl onto her unstable feet and starts to drag her away. In this world there are no heroes, and this knight-in-shining armor is destroying his illusions of the way the world works and it is too damaging, too unacceptable. Because he thinks that maybe it should have been him who saved the girl, and maybe he would have, if the other hadn't come along and ruined it all. But he doesn't know if he is jealous or relieved, for being saved from being the hero and all he can wonder is what to do with this dark-haired savior that the blonde is looking at so adoringly. While he can't remember her, he does remember the guy, and to see his best friend taking yet another thing from him brings suppressed urges to the surface.
The white knight is the epitome of everything he never was and it tore him up inside when he envied him or hated him, because this particular knight is no longer white or pristine, and the ruby red of a little sister stains his armor and his helm. But a moat of emptiness stretches between them, and no amount of friendship can ever give them back what they'd lost. And the pain that remained unspoken between them only succeeded in driving them further apart.
It is this that drives him to pick up a cup for his once best-friend and it is his own love for the brother he always wanted but never had that finds nothing morally wrong with spiking the drink. All he wants to give his friend is a good time, where he can finally be at peace with the death of his flower and ignore the pain that threatens to engulf him. He doesn't think about the consequences of this act, because tonight there are none, and by now, he too is so far gone that right and wrong are now purple and blue and lights and sirens could appear and he wouldn't do a thing except laugh. So he does, minus the lights and the sirens, and watches as his friend brings the now unconscious harlot inside, and he laughs as he stumbles on the ground he walks, barely catching himself on a nearby table a person's arm and he continues to laugh as he goes inside the house to seek a chair on which to sit.
He is still laughing, though it is quieter and more to himself than others, when he sees the not-white knight ambling, or more like stumbling, down the hall, returning from a room that he shut behind him. As he watches, eyes blurring and head spinning, lungs heaving with hysterical laughter, other people enter the same room and close the door not-quietly behind them. He doesn't understand what is so amusing about them opening the door and walking in, but the thought still causes a fresh peal of laughter to escape, but it stops quickly and suddenly it is hard to breathe. Red dots flash on the edge of his vision, and he lurches drunkenly to his feet, and he thinks to himself that he must be dying and it's so strange because he can swear that the carpet appeared a lot softer than it really was. But it's not soft at all; instead the fibers rub against his cheek roughly and he wonders if they are strong enough to rip off the skin and furiously, he rubs his face back and forth across the ugly brown carpet, hoping and wishing and praying that it would work. All he succeeds in doing is give himself a burn across his face and he realizes how truly pathetic he is that he wants a carpet to do what he can't seem to be capable of doing on his own.
So he picks himself up and leaves this place, his very own house of a rising sun, and makes it back to the dwelling that others call 'home'. But it isn't home, not for him, because isn't home supposed to be where the heart is, and last time he checked, the occupants of this home never had hearts to begin with. And he doesn't know how he made it there in one piece, considering the amount he has had to drink, and finds he doesn't care that he did. He pictures a bridge with its' unending tranquility of being high above water and wonders if it would be suspicious if he had an accident, the type that ends in twisted metal and a missing body in its' watery grave. It is too late, however, and he doesn't have the strength or presence of mind to even find his way to the ledge, so he drags himself to his room and collapses just barely on the edge of the bed. When the world stops spinning and his ceiling is no longer twisting above him, he'll think about something other than death and blood and loss; instead, he'll focus on the blonde in white lace that he hated because he knew that she was far too much like him and someone like that was dangerous because they had power over him.
The next morning, or rather afternoon, comes too soon and he finds himself in a familiar position, huddled on the icy floor of his bathroom, thinking that yes, the porcelain is his god, and that sooner or later his stomach will stop rebelling and that his head will finally desist in pounding in rhythm with his pulse. He thinks that he will not go to school today and knows he won't be the only one skipping due to post-party hangovers. But then he remembers that today is the first day of spring break and he has a whole week to himself, as dearest dad is filming a movie somewhere in Europe, sister is gone and mother, he is sure, has some kind of hair or nail appointment. So he sinks back to the floor and continues his routine and is thankful for the school board that gives kids like him a holiday. And he won't have to deal with the idiots at his school or the blonde half of his dead girlfriend's soul or his almost best friend with his issues and his so-called problems. Instead he can stay with his only true friend and continue the same empty routine of drink and be sick, drink and be sick, and it's comforting in its simplicity compared to everything else in the world.
And the week is over before he knows it and he goes back to the almost-hell of Neptune High and the students there that think they are the devil's advocate where they're only sad, broken versions of the children they used to be. He joins them however, because a week straight of alcohol has shown him that he is exactly like them, in his very own way, and he keeps his eyes peeled for the blonde in white lace so he can torment and hate her even more than usual. But he doesn't see her and he can't understand the disappointment that flashes through him or the concern that briefly crosses his mind. As the bell rings, and he melds with the crowd of students heading to class, something tells him to look to the left, and he sees a glimpse of the girl that he claims to hate and he stops in his tracks, almost colliding with a wall. Because the girl no longer has long blonde locks and her eyes are hard diamonds of scorn and mockery as they scan the faces that surround her, and he feels something inside of him harden in response but doesn't know why he feels threatened by that gaze.
He is Logan Echolls, son of actor Aaron Echolls and his oh-so loving wife, and he doesn't know what love is because neither do his parents and their job is to teach him everything they know. He is Logan Echolls and at night, he has dreams of the blonde-brunette with green eyes and a smile covered in sticky red blood, holding a lily in her hands. He is Logan Echolls, and he has no reason to drown himself in alcohol or think of slitting his veins open from wrist to elbow or have an accident where nobody knows where his body is.
He is Logan Echolls, and it isn't until later in the day that he realizes why the azure gaze of the now-short blonde unsettles him so much. He is Logan Echolls and she is Veronica Mars and she knows his secrets as much as her own because they are alike, him and her, because they walk with the living but dream with the dead. He is Logan Echolls and he knows only one sure thing in his crazy mess of a world and it is that Veronica Mars has a secret that has changed her, and that she will stop at nothing to take back the rain.
//
End.
Authors note 2: This may or may not be the end of the fic. We are thinking of doing more parts, but cannot promise anything.