Author's Note
This is probably in some AU where the storm doesn't hit Arcadia Bay directly after the party, probably.
For six months, Victoria would scoff and snort at the missing person posters littering the school, the diner, the town. The posters were a pathetic reminder of a pathetic skank, of an agitating girl who'd tricked nearly the entire town into eating out of her palm like the goddamn livestock they were. At the sight of them, Victoria felt her blood pressure skyrocket, eyebrow quirking up in agitation.
Victoria Chase remembers ripping those papers off any surface she could find them on, provided no one was nearby to see her do so. There was no sense in her hatred being exposed, there was no pleasure to be taken in others watching her shred the papers with manicured fingers, no pleasure to be taken as other watched her vent her rage on the image of a girl who was long gone. The only gratification Victoria would receive from the action would be the knowledge that those pages would be tarnished beneath the dirty boots of pedestrians, or ground up in the dumpster with other irrelevant pieces of this town.
Now, as she's holding a stapler in one hand and a thick stack of papers in the other, she feels so much more. It's disgusting, almost, how familiar the sensation is from before. Though there's something so painfully different about this, something different about the way she feels her blood pressure rise and her heart thump away in her chest. The burn in her nose and blur in her eyes is all wrong.
Victoria is used to tearing these up, to ruining the hardwork of a trashy blue haired punk.
( At the thought of that punk, she swallows hard through a sudden lump in her throat. )
Victoria is by no means used to putting these up herself.
But here she is, standing tall and proud with a stupid stapler in her hand, pages crinkling under her tight grip. This is almost laughable, is what it is. Victoria wants to scoff and spit at how ridiculous this is, at this idiotic turn of events. Maybe if she did that, she could rid herself of the emptiness in her chest, of the sensation of bile swirling in her stomach and the back of her throat.
She doesn't. All she does is continue her work, dutifully, because a Chase never slacks off, no matter what. And when she's decided to do something, the only option is to continue. She doesn't half ass things; she takes things and runs through them meticulously. Even with the annoying buzz in her ears—
( "Is that Victoria? What is she doing?"
"You wouldn't think that she would—"
"I didn't even know she was that close to—"
"Could have sworn she was nothing but a bitch—" )
— she plows on through the stack, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Where she can, she throws a few sneers here and there, a few piercing stares to shush the voices. They always come back.
"Victoria..?" Taylor's hesistant voice cuts the girl from her reverie, from the insistence with which she's pressing the stapler against the paper, pinning it onto the bulletin board in the hall. Her blood boils when she sees the spots where someone's ripped one off, and she stops to tear at the leftover staple. Her fingers hurt from the force she's exerted on this, the amount of times she's found herself putting these up over and over andover—
"What?" Victoria snaps curtly, stepping back to examine her work. It's not good enough, it's crooked and too low for everyone to see it. Too low to catch everyone's attention at first glance. She curls her painted lip up and moves forward to fix it and pry the staples off that one, too.
Taylor grabs her wrist before she does, stopping her, and Victoria's immediate reaction is to jerk her wrist back, but her friend's hold is surprisingly tight. Taylor's eyes flicker over her face, and there's an expression there that makes Victoria feel even more nauseous; sympathy, the sight of Taylor trying to sooth her, like Victoria fucking needs someone's comfort, like she's too pathetic to do this on her own—
"Fucking what, Taylor? Let go of me." Victoria hisses, and yanks her wrist free from Taylor's grip.
Taylor, to her credit and Victoria's annoyance, doesn't take a step back. She simply crosses her arms and stares Victoria down, expression still far too soft for her liking. "You've been at that for like, ever."
"Do you want a treat for being able to use your eyes?" Victoria sneers and watches as Taylor's bravado doesn't waver in the face of her irritation.
"… God, Tori, stop acting like everyone's out to get you." Taylor suddenly murmurs, and Victoria sucks in a short breath and narrows her eyes, something in her heart twisting.
'Nathan sure fucking was,' She thinks and wants to curl in on herself, but that's weak and she knows it. Something must flash in her eyes however, because Taylor's eyes widen for a moment and then she lifts her hand up to tuck a bit of her hair behind her own ear.
"I— I don't know what's happening, or whatever the hell happened, but we are friends Victoria."
Victoria stays silent at that, very pointedly looking the other way, trying to focus on her breathing rather than the tightness of her throat, or the anxiety that's slowly slipping into her bones, admist the anger and worry. The bags under her eyes feel so much heavier now, and she wonders if they're visible despite the foundation she'd painstakingly applied that morning.
( It happens to be much harder to apply when the skin is red and irritated, soaked with tears she could only describe as a mix of fury and guilt. )
Taylor steps forward, and touches Victoria's arm gingerly. When Victoria doesn't respond to that either, she reaches for the papers, and Victoria jerks backwards, finally turning her eyes to Taylor. They're blazing with a certain protectiveness that almost makes Taylor retreat, and then it's gone, weary. "Fine. What do you want?"
Taylor attempts to take control of the mild scare, and clicks her tongue, crossing her arms. "I want to help you."
There's another few moments of silence, and when Taylor thinks Victoria has resorted to ignoring her entirely, she hears a telltale scoff and watches Victoria split the stack and shove half in her direction.
"Seriously, don't fuck it up." The threat is there, clear as ice, but Taylor doesn't have to hear it to know Victoria is grateful.
( And she is grateful. The chains around her heart loosen slightly, though they're still taut against her tender flesh, bruising. It's like a brief moment of relief for the girl, but not nearly enough to keep her from wanting to crumple into herself. Not that she could. )
And then she storms off the other way, leaving Taylor with a stack of papers and no stapler. Classic. Victoria won't baby her; she expects Taylor to have enough drive to get this done without her orders. As Taylor steps away from the board and towards the science classroom to steal a stapler, she watches Victoria leave, shoulders squared and back straight.
Her eyes drift back to the papers in her hand.
MISSING
Maxine Caulfield
Date Missing: Thursday, October 10th, 2013
Age: 18
Height: 5"5 …