How to Love
Author's note: This story was written in response to one of the Veronica Mars April Fic Prompts (Option 6d: Every day at the station, you see someone you're attracted to. How would you go about getting yourself noticed?). You can check out the prompts by going to Veronica Mars Fanfiction Recommendations tumblr. I decided to take a bit of artistic license with the prompt because I was pretty keen to write this particular story. Thanks in advance for your support.
Spoilers for 2.22 "Not Pictured"
Warnings: The following story contains discussions, descriptions and references to suicide and references to child abuse. Please continue with care.
Disclaimer: I don't own Veronica Mars. I don't own any of the characters, the settings or the ideas related to Veronica Mars.
6:29pm Saturday
6th April 1996
You saw her for the first time at the train station. You were eight years old; small and slight and shy. You stared at her as she held her mother's hand and, flipping her dark ponytail across her shoulder, waited for the train to arrive at the platform.
She was with her whole family. You wondered what it would feel like to hold her mother's hand; softly gripping your fingers and swinging your arm up and down, up and down.
You were most definitely not with your whole family. You were sitting at the dinner table approximately sixteen minutes ago, listening to your brother go on and on about this and that. You were nudging the peas on your plate with your fork. You hadn't eaten anything. You hadn't been able to settle your stomach since the afternoon.
"Honey, what's wrong?" asked your mother and, man, if only you'd said something then and there. But you didn't. You shrugged.
You shrugged and, all at once, dashed from the dinner table at a speed which would've made your Little League coach shout in triumph and your stomach perform a spectacular flip-flop.
You run out of the house. You ran down the street. You stopped. You took a deep breath and then another… and then another because, Jesus, it felt like there was a heavy weight pressing against your chest. You took a few more breaths—slow and steady—before it felt like your lungs were getting enough air.
You walked from the corner to the train station.
You walked past the security guard at the ticket stand without a second glance.
You walked onto the platform and, in desperate need of a distraction, stepped towards the white line which indicated the edge of the platform and looked down at the dark, dirty tracks. You wondered what it would feel like to move over the edge of the platform with a crash and a crack. You wondered—
"A train! A train!"
You turned. You looked at her. She was jumping up and down wildly. She was pointing at a pair of headlights which moved towards the platform. You stared at her as her mouth pulled into an animated grin and her eyes followed the train. It didn't slow down. It didn't stop.
It passed the platform and obscured your view of the girl for just a moment. She was still smiling as the train moved away from the platform. You stared at her until the next train arrived, until her mother tugged at her hand and pulled her through the door, until the train left with the girl and her whole family and a small splinter of your heart.
6:36pm Saturday
13th April 1996
You saw her for the second time a week afterwards. You were eight years old; small and skinny and sneaky. You stared at her as she held her mother's hand and, standing on the tip of her toes, cooed at the baby settled against her father's chest.
She poked her tongue out and laughed in delight when the baby attempted to imitate the behaviour. You wondered what it would feel like to have a baby brother or sister of your own; babbling, gurgling, giggling and always, always, always following your directions. Right? Right.
You were sitting on a bench at the end of the platform. You had a plan. You had a plan and part of the plan was to avoid people and the other part of the plan was to get back home before your absence was noticed. You were extra careful when leaving the house.
You waited until dinner was finished before walking to the train station. You waited until your mother answered a work call and your father settled himself in the lounge for some sort of sporting game. You waited until your brother punched your arm with a thwack and a thump and hurried upstairs to play a video game.
"You can't play!" declared your brother, which was the signal for an indignant reply and an irritated pursuit upstairs. But that wasn't part of the plan.
You stayed at the train station for fifty three minutes. You stayed for a long while after the train left with the girl and her whole family and a curious look in your direction.
6:19pm Saturday
29th May 1999
You saw her for the third time, fourth time, fifth time at the train station and all the other times afterwards. You were eleven years old; small and sparkling and strange. You stared at her as she held her brother's hand and, turning with a tiny smile, crouched to his level and whispered a secret in his ear.
She grinned at the look of awe on his face. You wondered what sort of secret was appropriate to share with such a little boy. You wondered what it would feel like to share your own secret; leaning towards the girl and breathing the words you'd wanted to say since the first summer all those years ago.
You were walking along the platform. You were scuffing your shoes and twisting your toes. You had excess energy this evening.
You were starting middle school after the summer. You were starting middle school and joining your brother at lunchtime. You were starting middle school and joining your brother at lunchtime and finishing Little League—finally—because your father had stopped caring about your sporting abilities.
"It's a shame," sighed your father. "It's a shame because that coach of yours was a good man," and, sure, you had the chance to say something… anything… with your father at his desk and your brother in his room. But, really, what would happen?
"He's actually not a good man," you'd say, timid and terrified and, all at once, eight years old again.
"He's a good man—a lot better than any man you'll become."
You were sick with the thought of the whole thing. You paused. You attempted to settle your stomach and slow your heart. But your stomach was twisted like a knot tied by your brother (impossible to untangle) and your heart was going thump-thump-thump-thump.
You dashed along the platform, ignoring the girl watching your departure.
You hurried out of the station, ignoring the security guard shouting about your disregard for the other people.
You sprinted and staggered. You shuffled and stopped. You seated yourself on the sidewalk. You gripped the edge of your shirt…
You sobbed.
You screamed into your knees, pulled against your chest and damp with your tears. You wondered what it would feel like to sit there forever. You wondered what it would feel like to wait for your body to freeze and, eventually, for your thoughts to freeze too. You wondered what it would feel like when everything just…
It didn't matter. You chickened out.
It was almost midnight when you finally walked into the house through the front door and realised that neither your father nor your brother had noticed your absence.
6:31pm Saturday
9th June 2001
You saw her for the hundredth-or-so time at the train station. You were thirteen years old; small and scrawny and sorrowful. You stared at her as she held her father's hand and, through the crowds of people, clutched the edge of her brother's coat to keep him nearby.
She was frowning. She was pressing herself to her father's side. She obviously didn't like the crowds of people. You wondered what it would feel like for her to huddle against your body when things were overwhelming; comforting in her closeness and pushing all the bad memories away with her warmth.
6:02pm Saturday
27th July 2002
You saw her for the who-knows-what time at the train station. You were fourteen years old; small and sullen and spiteful. You stared at her as she held her arms across her chest and, gripping the fabric of her shirt tightly in her fingers, studiously ignored her mother, her father and, especially it seemed, her brother.
She had dyed a bit of her dark hair a deep sea blue—a streak, a splash, a stream of blue overflowing along her cheek and falling against her shoulder. You wondered what it would feel like to talk to her; to ask her why she'd dyed her hair and why she'd picked a deep sea blue and why, why, why…
You knew her name. You could call out across the tracks and ask all the questions which sat with a sour taste on the tip of your tongue. You could describe how you'd watched her the whole day during the orientation for high school and how you'd hoped her assigned seat would be nearby.
"Cindy! The train!"
She glared at her brother. You glared too. She stepped back as the train approached the platform and hurried through the door as her brother jumped up and down in delight. She settled into a seat on the opposite side of the train—on the side of train which faced in your direction.
She looked out the window. She glanced at you as the doors to the train closed with a low clunk and as the train pulled away from the platform with the girl and her whole family and a great fragment of your thoughts.
6:48pm Saturday
28th August 2004
You saw her for the last time at the train station. You were sixteen; small and scared and suffering. You stared at her as she held her gaze to the ground and, hearing the sound of the train approaching, stepped away from the edge of the platform and slowly raised her head.
She stared at you as you rushed onto the platform. You wondered what it would feel like kiss her—or to kick her; to do something which would push the black sticky thoughts out of your mind.
You were drowning in tar. You were pushed into the pool eighteen minutes ago, fumbling with the words to bring you back, to bring forgiveness, and falling deeper and deeper.
"He killed my father!" and you staggered to your feet.
"He killed everyone on the bus!" and you stared at the gun shaking in her hands and pointing at your head.
"He raped me!" and you stumbled away; tears stinging your eyes and anger stinging your lips.
You were running. You were running faster and faster. You were thinking about your Little League coach when you'd tripped before reaching first base and when he'd taken you into the change rooms alone to check the wound on your knee. You were thinking about your father when you'd cried after that first practice at eight years old. You were thinking about your brother when he'd make a joke at your expense and your friends—his friends—when they'd laugh and slap you back.
They were running after you. They were running towards you while you rushed towards the white line which indicated the edge of the platform. You wondered what it would feel like to be forced into something terrible and terrifying… But to be stopped before your thoughts turned cold with loneliness and your actions turned cruel with revenge. You wondered—
"Beaver! Don't!"
You turned. You looked at Veronica—forced into fixing a hard shell across her heart—and, God, with her obsession for revenge, she was pointing a gun at your head only a few moments ago and thinking about pulling the trigger. You looked at Logan—forced into forming an arrogant façade to hide his pain—and, despite it all, he had cared enough to stop Veronica, to convince Veronica that she was better and that she was worthy.
"My name is Cassidy!"
"Cassidy! Don't!"
"Why?" and you jumped off the edge of the platform. You stared at her as your body moved through the air and as your ears sounded with an all-consuming thud-thud… thud-thud… thud-th—
And then there was nothing at all.
FIN.