There's the sound of an explosion ringing in my ears, and wherever I am, it's hot. Too hot. Wait, no, not anymore. Now it's just cold, and my trench coat isn't helping. I don't know how long it's been, but it's been long enough. I have to open my eyes eventually.

Looking up, there's a large hole in the ceiling. I'm a little embarrassed to say it's bigger than any hole in any ceiling I've created. I don't seem to cast a shadow here, and there's not much to see, save for a photo album on the ground, next to a CD player with my headphones plugged in. I try to go pick them up and discover my hands and feet are bound in chains. The shackles on my hands are red and hot, as if to prove how much blood is on my hands. Those on my feet are blue and vaguely cool, like the tears of the people of Sherwood. People like Heather MacNamara, and— and Veronica.

The moment I think of her by name, something happens in my chest. A sickly reddish-brown warmth spreads like I'm bleeding out through my blackened heart and I'm dragged down to the cold, gritty blacktop that is the floor here.

At least I'm closer to that photo album. On the cover is a note scrawled in someone's handwriting, but I don't remember whose— it looks like Veronica's but also like her forgery of Heather Chandler's, and her forgery of Kurt's, all at once. The note is short, only four words. "Say Hi to God."

The last four words I ever heard. Only now do I realize that she was saying that she still believes, or did believe me to be "good enough" to get into Heaven. I open the book and start staring at each photo intently.

Here's Veronica standing up to the Heathers, or at least trying to, at lunch that time. It's cliche (kind of), but the look in her eyes as she tries to get out of writing that note is so noble that she'd easily be mistaken for some princess. I chuckle at the notion of any princesses at Westerburg and reach for the headphones.

It's a little awkward not having any cushioning between them and my head, but it's one of those pains that makes me feel alive. Well, made. I think the only things that could make me feel alive now are a good slushie and the sound of Veronica laughing. Press "play" and speak of the devil, it's her. It's her voice, singing, laughing, mumbling, making that fun little "aAhH" sound, and it's all so gentle. All the other sensations I've felt are melting away, and I need to keep looking at the photos, with her voice in my ears. This photo gives a perfect view of her eyes and everything in her soul that... Do I really know it that well?

And this picture of her playing croquet is the most magical thing I've seen since that time I stared into the swirling ice in the slushie machine at 7/11 until the clerk kicked me out. The way the sun is illuminating her face and that absurdly soft hair of hers takes away my already not-there breath. If I could draw faces in profile, I would spend eternity trying to do justice to this view.

On and on, I devoured each image, trying to burn them into my brain and occasionally commenting on them to myself. A lot of these may not have come from "legitimate" sources, but my eternal thanks go to whatever force brought them to me. "'Say Hi to God,' she says. Well, Veronica, I'm doing just that, even if you don't hear it. And you're beautiful."

After who knows how long, I reluctantly pry myself away from the book and the CD player to try and sleep, and I just can't. I need to go back to my memory of Veronica. And all these thoughts are rattling around in my head. "Is she happier with me gone? Did I make her happy when I was there and not killing people? Does she still believe I could've gotten to heaven? Is this heaven? I mean, without her, it's hell. Why did she start making me feel things? If we were ever reborn, could we be lovers again? Would things go differently? Or will I always just be destructive to her and will she always be the one who has to destroy me to save everyone? I don't want either of us to be bad for the other, but if she inspired something in me that released all that I am, is that wrong?" I'm not used to thinking this much and it's very annoying. At times like these, I would normally fill up on flavored ice and Freeze My Brain. And then everything stops for a bit and it's so peaceful. But somehow I doubt I can get one here. Instead, I turn to what I know can comfort me: Veronica, or at least, an abstraction of her that I carry with me at all times. I flip through the pages in my mind a bit and settle on the moment she asked how Mom died. I vaguely hear my answer, but her sympathy rings loud and clear. Next thing I know, she's in my arms and hugging me really tightly for someone so small and who was that angry at me at the time. Yet I can still feel that she loved me, sort of, in it. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her chin resting on my shoulder, and my face being half buried in her hair. Just that alone is enough to regulate my breathing and stop the gasping sobs I realize I'd been trying to hide from... Nobody.

I've been through every one of these photographs so many times that I almost don't need it to feel better, but I still flip to one of my most favorites every now and again. There's the one of her smiling devilishly right before she broke into my room, and one of her asleep with my coat on her as a blanket. 126 photos are in this book in total, and even if I technically "should take a break from it," I say 1. It's there, why shouldn't I use this to comfort myself, especially when it's the only thing that can? And 2. These images are too precious to be lost.

That's why I've taken to sleeping with the album in my arms and Veronica's voice in my ears.

Once again, I'm pressing the replay button on the CD player when I hear something different than what it normally says. Normally it starts with long, loud laughter. This time she's saying my name, almost as if trying to wake me up. (Note to self: Imagine coming out of this and getting to be alive with her again, and hugging her for a long time. THE HUGGING IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PART.)

"JD. JD! Please. Look at yourself, what have you made yourself into because of me? Please, you need to snap out of this!"

"Veronica? Is that you? And what do you mean? I'm the same me I always was, and I'm proud of having traded my life for that of someone so nobl-"

"THAT'S exactly it, JD! You're the same you that you were, but now all you ever do is stare into that collection of God knows how many pictures like a creep, and—"

"126, to be specific. And I do it because you're the one who saves me from the darkness in my mind, and if you want me to stop doing whatever it is you're saying I'm doing, then... Then you can be the one who saves me again, and I'd do it for you and not for anyone else and, and..." Why are tears streaming down my face?

"JD, no, I can't. Not this time. I'm sorry, but I can't be the one to sing you through it this time. The fact that you need me to comfort you through this is what you need to be saved from."

I frantically searched around with vision growing blurrier, but the "walls" of this place were just turning blue, like they were plastered with her, everywhere I looked, inescapable. Once I finally found my thoughts, after what could have been literal years, I finally muttered, "But the idea of working through this alone is so terrifying that I need you to get me through it."

I didn't get any response from CD-Veronica for a long time, and pushed the replay button again and heard the laugh I expected before. It soothed me in the first moment I listened, but then I remembered Veronica's words, and the sound became vaguely painful now that I was weighed down by the knowledge of what I was doing. I tore off the headphones and tried to cry myself to sleep, holding the photo album close and trying not to think of Veronica too much. If she says I have to be my own hero, then— wait, that wasn't Veronica's voice telling me all of that.

It was my own, and I still don't know how to save myself from this.

I still need her, and that's the problem.