red lips, blue throat, empty insides
;;
"You can have anything you want, Princess." Her father says to Heather Chandler as her mother swoops in and offers pretty, pink shoes for Heather to wear. It matches her room but, honestly, Heather's not feeling it.
"I don't want those." Heather replies.
Heather Chandler knows she's spoiled rotten. The side effects of being an only child. Actually, it's also a side effect of being a sick child, to be frank. Constantly coddled when she was little after developing high fevers and throwing up.
Her father asks, "Then what would you want, Princess?"
"I want the shoes but just not in this colour." Heather answers, she was entering high school soon. It's time to grow up.
"What colour would you like then?" Her mother says this time.
"Red." Heather replies. "I want red."
;;
She's one of the popularity princesses at Westerburg High but she wants to be more than just to be a princess. She wants to be Queen Bee.
;;
Heather Chandler forgot how sluggish and heavy she would feel whenever she was drunk. Everything is so difficult, she thinks she might have forgotten how to breathe, she's shaking too much.
She can't believe how quickly hours have passed with her emptying her stomach seven times; attempting to keep her cool while trying to water down her drunkenness. It does help but the taste of vomit leaving her mouth makes her feel bad and she knows she's going to feel like shit tomorrow. Heathers knows she's going to have to clean up some big messes in the morning plus suffer a wicked hangover.
Heather's only a Junior, the most popular girl in Westerburg High, but she's standing alone over a bathroom sink. No one's holding back her silky blonde hair, no one's rubbing her back warmly, no one's comforting her over her mistakes.
Why is that? Why?
.
.
.
Fuck everyone. She decides as she looks into her hazy reflection and spits back the water that was swishing in her mouth.
;;
Two hours – five glasses of mixed alcohol and a shot that didn't taste like a shot. It was peach flavoured, sickening sweet like candy. A trick of sorts.
Heather Chandler remembers telling herself as clutches the bathroom sink, running the tap to wash over her endless vomit, 'You're shaking. You're shaking you're shaking you're shaking'. It's obvious a bad sign because only overdosed crackheads and old frail, dying people could ever shake this violently.
'Don't drink this much ever again!' The voice at the back of her head says. 'Don't drink EVER again!'
God, at this moment, she wonders how can puking feel so easy and effortless? She used to dread puking when she was little, whenever she got sick – she used to hate the taste of it and the feel of her chocking back the bile that threatened to rise up from the back of her throat. But now it's a different story.
.
.
.
"Heather, are we going to Ram's party this week?" Heather Duke asks.
Heather Chandler stiffens. Last week was a nightmare. But, regardless, she has her reputation to hold up. The blonde answers, "Did you have a brain tumour for breakfast this morning, Heather? Of course, we're going."
;;
In the stall next to her, Heather Duke is emptying her stomach from the carbs that is also known as her breakfast. And several steps ahead, Heather McNamara is singing a song aloud, something along the lines of 'I feel like a natural woman'.
Heather Chandler is forced to endure the sound, smell and memory of so many party nights gone wrong. No one seems to care that she's disturbed by one of her cliques' voluntary vomiting. Goddamn it, can't Heather just piss in peace?
After flushing and charging to the front of the sink, Heather Chandler washes her hands like how she wants to wash down the memory and says, "God, Heather, bulimia is so 87."
"Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather." Heather McNamara says and Heather Chandler feels instantly betrayed. So Heather cares about Heather but NOTHeather?
"Yeah, Heather, maybe I should," Heather Duke says.
And Heather Chandler frowns at her reflective much like those many drunk nights. Fine. So be it.
;;
"Clean up your act, Heather." Veronica snaps the next day she lets herself into Heather Chandler's room, a glass of water in her hand. Veronica had come all the way just to check up if the mythic bitch was still alive and breathing.
If Heather's eyes didn't hurt so much, she would have rolled it long along. Heather snaps back, "Lower your voice now, will you? This hangover is killing me."
"Which is why I'm telling you to get yourself together." Veronica grounds with a tone of a strict mother then plops herself on Heather's bed. Veronica doesn't even seem the least bit bothered by the fact that Heather's room smells like vomit. Veronica asks, "Did you use the bucket I gave you?"
"Yeah, I puked two more times after you left then went to bed." Heather says, sitting up. There's no doubt that she needs a shower and to change the bed sheets. There's no bite behind her words as she says, "Thanks for the water."
Veronica only hums back in reply. "You owe me for vomiting on my arm."
Heather's face twists with confusion. She did that? She doesn't remember. Everything came back in short flashbacks and some empty spaces.
And judging by Heather's expression, Veronica knew that Heather must have forgotten too.
Veronica explains, "I held back your hair back. You told me to turn the tap on for you and then you puked on me."
This surprises Heather. All she says is, "You held back my hair?"
"Hmm. You apologized for it though. But, you ruined my watch and it was a gift from my grandmother so ..."
Heather is once again surprised. She apologized?
"I'll pay to get your watch fixed up." Heather says slowly as Veronica finally passes Heather the glass of water in her hand.
"Thanks,"
Then there's a silence as Heather drinks every drop from the glass she's handed.
"... Veronica?"
"Do you need more water?"
Heather shakes her head. "Let's go to the mall after this and get a picture taken together from the photobooth."
"You puked seven times yesterday, you should stay in bed and recover." Veronica voices, always the voice of reason.
"No, I want to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"You being a good friend." Heather explains and prays she doesn't sound too cheesy.
"I'm a good friend?" Veronica asks. She always considered being popular and shit being more of an obligation than anything. Like work. Being high up in the social construct that is high school.
"You're my best friend." Heather Chandler declares.
.
.
.
"This is what I get?!" Heather Chandler seethed, furious, standing outside a college party with someone's insides on her expensive Prada shoes. "Paid in puke?!"
It's cold and a trash can that's lit on fire battles the chill as red flames burn angrily and cast itself against blue painted walls.
Veronica glares, challenging Heather's authority. She says, "Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up."
;;
She drinks the cup offered by Veronica's boyfriend, none other than Jesse James himself, and Heather instantly regrets it. The feeling burns down her throat, squeezed her insides and makes it blue.
She can't breathe, she feels her throat clogged and –
.
.
.
With all her heart, she wishes she could puke.
"Corn nuts." She utters her last words and crashes into her glass coffee table in front of Veronica and Jason Dean. So much for best friends.
;;
"Heather!"
Veronica squeezes Heather McNamara's cheeks and force the pills out of the blonde's mouth before it's too late.
"Jesus, Veronica, what are you trying to do? Kill me?" Heather McNamara cries.
"What are you trying to do? Sleep?" Veronica fires back and Heather sinks onto the bathroom floor.
Heather Chandler's ghost sneers as she overlooks it all. She thinks, How lucky.
;;
end
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Notes
Didn't think I'd write about Heather Chandler and puke but here you go.
– 26 May 2018