The darkness had been closing in on her ever since Homecoming, like a noose hanging around her neck, getting tighter and tighter, heavier, slowly cutting off her air. The oddest part of it was that nothing had triggered it. There was no reason for her to feel the way she did. Yes, Jughead had transferred high schools to the Southside, but he'd left the Serpents jacket in the closet. But what if Jughead did join the Serpents? What would happen to them then? Betty already knew. If Jughead Jones was the king of the Southside Serpents, then she would be their queen. She'd follow Jughead anywhere. They were solid. Nothing could tear them apart. So why wasn't she happy?
For the last twenty-four hours, Riverdale had been quiet. Jason Blossom's murderer had been brought to justice, she and Jughead were in good place, and FP had been cleared of all murder charges. Yes, Fred had been shot and was in the hospital, but Sheriff Keller had apprehended the shooter, locked him away. The criminal was a transient with a long rap sheet of violent crimes. It was a robbery gone awry, wrong place at the wrong time, an open and shut case. After a blood transfusion, and a touch and go surgery, Fred had been moved out of the ICU and into a regular hospital room. He'd be in the hospital for a while, but he was going to pull through. There was nothing to worry about.
And Betty should be overjoyed that her family was back together. Wasn't that what she'd wanted all along? But now her home seemed more like a theatrical stage, everyone saying the lines they'd been assigned, moving the way the choreography dictated. None of it was real. She'd rather have pain, rather them fight, rather Polly say out loud how creepy it was to be carrying twins conceived by her dead Coopers were experts at playing make believe, but pretending to be perfect came with a price. For her it was draining to keep that perky, fake smile always plastered on her face and to ignore the breaches in the Cooper's foundation.
The rest of the Coopers were happy in their fantasy land, but not Betty. Every night at the dinner table, she'd ball her hands into fists, jabbing her rounded nails into her palms until they pierced through her flesh. It was the only time her skin didn't feel too small for her body, her chest didn't feel too tight to breathe, and her heart wasn't too weak to pump an adequate amount of blood through her system. For a moment, the self-inflicted pain made her feel less crazy. Almost normal.
That little nick of pains wasn't enough anymore, and that was why she was sitting alone in the abandoned projection room at the torn down drive-in, shivering in the rain, alone, phone turned off, silent just like she'd been for the last twelve hours. She came here before dawn after a restless night of sleep. Tucked into the safety of her house at 6th and Elm, she'd jolted awake every time she'd closed her eyes, heart beating in her throat, terrified of . . . something. She didn't know, didn't understand. She couldn't put it into words.
Last night in her bed, she tried focusing on the glowing cupid nightlight that Polly had given to her when she used to have these nightmares as a child-panic attacks really, though she didn't know what to call them then. But staring at the light, willing it to fill the room with brightness, only reminded her that sometimes the darkness doesn't end. So she pulled the pink quilt over her head, and whispered a mantra to herself, "You are Elizabeth Cooper, first in your class at Riverdale High, editor in chief of The Blue and Gold, a River Vixen, girlfriend of Jughead Jones, and a goddamned gift to anyone you meet. You are not crazy. You are not your sister. You are not your mother. You are smart, you are brave, and you are stronger than all the white noise."
It was similar to what Jughead had said to her a few weeks ago when she had started to fall apart after her parents split up. If he believed it, believed in her, she needed to believe it too.
But it hadn't worked last night or the night before. The only time she'd slept in the last week had been with Jughead in FP's trailer. And a person wasn't built to live off of so little sleep. She remembered reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar this summer. Plath had slowly lost her mind and it all started with a long bout of insomnia. While Sylvia wasn't sleeping, madness slipped into the cracks of her psyche. Was that what this was? The beginning of Betty's own undoing. She'd always been able to control it, the slithering, consuming darkness that lay beneath the sunshine she radiated to the world. But not lately. In the past, when she'd curl her fingers inward, nails biting the fleshy surface of her palms, that lurch of pain had been enough to ground her, bring her senses back into check. But not this time. It hadn't been enough. What if the darkness stayed forever this time?
She flexed her hand, causing the newly formed scabs on her palms to pop. She shifted slightly on the stool where she had been perched for hours, and she felt the new wounds on her right thigh stretch, start to bleed again. The fresh blood was the only warmth in the freezing mist filtering through the broken windows of the projection room. But she had hardly noticed the cold. She'd hardly felt anything. But the cut on her leg was different. This was the first time she'd used a blade, and it had been liberating.
In those early hours, before she'd wrapped her pink coat around her nightgown and stepped off the Cooper's porch, she had gone into her father's bathroom. She could still hear the clink of metal against porcelain as the box of razors spilled into the sink still covered in dried shaving cream and her father's blonde beard stubble.
She closed her eyes and recalled it, the red, gush of blood cascading down her leg, to her calf, and ankle, soaking into the white shag bathroom rug below her feet. It had been such a rush, the control of it, giving the pain something physical to cling to. Her body tingled now with just the recall if it, the heady surge that thrilled through her. The release she'd felt as the blade sliced through her skin had reminded her of the first time Jughead's expert fingers had slipped into the front of her panties, and she came against his touch.
The cut had stopped bleeding hours ago. She tilted her head downward, touched it lightly with the pad of her index finger. It didn't form a straight line like she thought it would. It curved upward, grinning at her, mocking her for her stupidity. Yes, it hurt like hell. Yes, it had momentarily shocked her back into sanity, but it hadn't kept the darkness at bay. Maybe it hadn't been deep enough.
She thought she'd get better now that she finally had someone love her. Now that she had Jughead. But the darkness was still there, still everywhere, all consuming, never ending. And she wanted it to stop. Even if just for moment. She pushed her finger harder into her thigh until the fresh wound stung. Everything should be better. Her mind should have cleared.
Last night, before the sleeplessness, she had sat in the passenger seat of FP's truck, stock still, suddenly unable to move. Even though Jughead was right beside her, the darkness but it was there, its thick, ugly hands around her neck.
"You think Mama Cooper is watching us through one of the windows?" he asked as he put the car into park in front of Betty's house.
He reached across the short distance of the cab, undid her seatbelt and pulled her closer to him on the bench seat. She tried not to stiffen at his touch. This feeling of foreboding had nothing to do this him. Jughead nudged her throat with his mouth, breathed her in, kissed her collarbone. His hands were in her hair now.
"Seeing Fred so close to death, knowing Cliff and Jason are both dead, it makes me appreciate being alive. Being with you," he said. "I love you so much, Betty."
She tried to respond, to concentrate on the movement of Jughead's lips against her skin. Jughead loved her. She loved him. If she could get out of her own head, she could climb onto his lap, take him inside herself, and he could make her feel more than alive, something other than this weighty sadness
"Betty?" Jughead's voice reached through all her thoughts. He had pulled away, but still had his hand on her shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"
She shook her head and smiled. "What? Nothing! I'm fine!" she said, finally finding her voice She nodded her head, her ponytail swinging against her neck. Her voice sounded fake, even to herself.
"My hand was under your skirt and you didn't even notice," Jughead said.
She grabbed his hand and slid it up her thigh. Maybe if he kept touching her, he'd chase her demons away.
He drew his hand away. "Betty." His voice was firm yet concerned. "What is it? You haven't been yourself since I picked you up to visit Archie and Fred in the hospital, not since yesterday morning in the trailer. When you woke up you were different. If you're worried about the Serpents, don't. They're harmless."
"I know," she said. "I'm not worried about that."
"Then what is it?" he asked.
"Nothing! I'm fine!" Again her tone was too bright, too rehearsed. "Just tired. So much has happened in the last few days."
He reached into her jacket pockets, where she had carefully kept her hands hidden while they had been together tonight in the hospital. She rested her balled up fists in her lap, but he didn't let that stop him. As he uncurled her fingers, she looked out the passenger side window. A light turned on downstairs at the Cooper house.
"Oh, Betty," he said when he discovered what she'd done to herself.
"I'm okay," she said, still not looking at him. The front porch light switched on. "I swear. Like I said, I've just been a little overwhelmed, that's all."
His dark eyebrows were drawn together in concern, like he didn't buy her excuse. He knew what was really wrong. He turned her head towards him. "I love you. All of you. Everything. Every part. I'll be the light if you let me. I want to be there for you."
Alice came out onto the porch. Looking out to the street, she cupped her hands over her eyes, and then she waved when she spotted both of them.
"You are there for me, Jug. I'm okay. I promise. I love you." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "
"Betty, wait," he said, taking hold of her arm as she reached for the door handle. "Talk to me."
"I need to go," she replied. Alice had taken the first two steps off the porch and was walking down the cement walkway. "She's still pissed I slept over at FP's the other night. When she and Hermione compared notes, they realized Veronica said she was at my house, and I said I was at hers. I'm kind of grounded, and she lectured me for over an hour on the risks of teen sex even though I'm on birth control. The only reason she let me out of the house tonight was because she likes Fred."
He unfolded her fingers, exposing the raw, crescent moon shaped cuts on her palms, and kissed them. "I love you," he said, locking his gaze on hers. "Whatever you need, I'm here. Call me Text me. Shit, email me if you need anything tonight. It's only a seven minute drive from the Southside."
God, she was lucky. He loved her so much, so much more than she thought was possible. "Okay," she said. Yes, she had showed him her scars and he had kiss them, loved her despite them, but he really had no idea how bad it could get.
How bad it was right then. Instead of calling him, she was here, alone in the projection booth, bleeding and shivering in the dark. This was stupid. She should be with Jughead right now, not alone. She needed him. Retrieving her phone, she reached into the pocket of her coat. As she punched in her access code, she heard someone yell her name. She had fifteen voicemails, sixty-two texts, and thirty-seven missed calls from Jughead alone.
"Betty!"
It was Jughead. He was he person she was about to call, but now that she realized he was so close, she started to panic. She caught her reflection in the broken glass of a window. She looked every bit as crazy as she was. Her ponytail had half come hair that was hanging loose was matted to her head. Her legs were streaked with crimson lines, dry drips of blood. She wanted to hide in the shadows. She didn't want him to see her like this, but when she heard the tremble in his voice as he called out of her again, she said, "Juggie." Since she hadn't spoken in hours, her throat sounded scratchy.
He came through the opening, stopping short when he saw her. His dark damp hair was plastered to his forehead, his head free of his crown cap. His blue eyes were wide with fear. "What happened?" he asked. His fingers brushed up the length of her leg, along the red lines. "Who did this to you?"
All she had to do was look at him and he knew.
"Oh, Betts," he said.
Burying her head in his chest, she melted into him as he lifted her up into his arms. Jughead didn't speak as he carried her to the truck. He didn't have to because she felt how much she loved him as he gently placed her in the passenger seat, belting her in. They drove through the empty streets of town. The glowing green numbers on the radio clock told her it was hours later than she thought it was. She'd been in that projection shack past nightfall. Jughead parked the truck next to the trailer's front steps. He went around to her side, opened the truck's door for her, and helped her out of the cab. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and as they walked up the icy front steps, she was grateful for the steady feel of him next to her. Once inside, Jughead flipped on the lights and lead her to the back bedroom, where he sat her on the bed.
"I'm going to run you a hot bath," he said. "Your lips are blue." He didn't look at her as he spoke, and when she saw her reflection in the glass doors of the closet, she knew why. Her skin was the color of fine china and looked just as thin, the circles under her eyes the color of eggplants. She looked like a ghost, like she was already dead. She turned away from her ghastly reflection and curled into herself on top of FP's bed.
Jughead came back a few minutes later, and held out his hand for her. She took it, he pulled her to her feet, and then she followed him across the hall. The small bathroom was filled with steam from the bath water, the mirror fogged up, too. She knew she needed to get into the tub, but her limbs felt like they were packed with wet sand. She couldn't move. Jughead stepped in front of her, and she watched him as he undid her coat and let it fall to the floor. He pushed the hem of her nightgown up her thighs and over her head. Like a nurse taking care of a patient, there was nothing sexual about the way he undressed her.
He glanced down at her legs, and she knew he saw the cut and the dried blood. He squeezed his eyes tight, a single tear escaping, but he didn't say anything about it. She was grateful because she didn't have the strength to explain it right now. He took her hands in his and brought them up to his lips to kiss each one in turn. Her face turned up to meet his.
"I love you," he said.
She needed to respond, but her lips wouldn't move. She was mute. She dropped her gaze to the cracked tile floor beneath her feet. She didn't deserve Jughead. This isn't what he signed up for. For the first time tonight, she realized he wasn't wearing his crown cap. His grey sweater was wrong side out, and he too had dark circles under his eyes. He didn't look like he'd slept last night either. He must have been up all night looking for her, worrying, wondering where she was, if she was okay.
He took her face in his hands, "I love you, Betty Cooper." His eyes were wide, vulnerable.
He didn't demand she say back. He didn't pepper her the thousand questions she was sure he wanted to ask. He simply kissed her forehead and helped her step into the bathtub. Closing her eyes, she sank into the warm water. Jughead had filled the bath up so much that some of the water sloshed over the sides.
From the nitch in the shower wall, she picked up the soap, but winced when the suds stung the cuts on her palms. The bar of soap plopped it into the water with a splash. Jughead grabbed it, worked up a good lather, and started to work his hands over her body. When he got to her shoulders, he squeezed them gently, like he always did when she needed reassurance and she needed that now. Needed to know she was still alive, that everything would be okay, and that he was there with her. He was still with her. Jughead Jones searched for her throughout the night, and when he found his girlfriend a mess and alone and bleeding, he didn't complain. He didn't ask her why. He picked her up and brought here to his home. He protected her, saved her.
That was it, all it took to bring her back into the light. Jughead Jones loved her, and for the moment, was enough to chase the darkness away.
Her shoulders quaked as the sobs she'd been holding in finally escaped. For a moment, his fingers left her. She heard him toe off his shoes. Then his jacket and the rest of his clothes hit the floor, too. The water overflowed as Jughead joined her in the tub. Positioned behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. She turned her body into him and rested her head on his chest, and he let her cry until the tears cleansed her, until she could start anew.
After she calmed down, he let the water drain from the tub, and helped her out. He wrapped a warm, thick towel around her shoulders, drying her off. He lead her to the bedroom and pulled the covers back for her. He laid down next to her, and she scooted over until she could rest his head on his chest. She listened to the steady beat of her heart.
He kissed the top of her head, and the said, "Do you want to tell me what happened?" She shook her head. "Okay. I'm here when you're ready," he said. His arms tightened around her and he sighed.
She wanted to tell him what happened, how sorry she was that he'd been so worried, and how grateful she was for what he'd done for her tonight, but her throat was too dry, and there were too many things that needed to be said and it was so late. So instead, she said the one thing she knew would always be true.
"I love you, Jughead Jones."
"I love you, too," he replied.
With the drum of his heartbeat in her ear and the warmth of his body next to hers, Betty fell asleep, finally at peace in the darkened bedroom of Jughead's trailer.