A/N: Hey! I had received a few requests to continue this, so... I began writing some drafts and ideas down and I think I can make this a multichapter fanfiction.

I will switch the point of view between Max and Victoria every chapter. So, an uneven number: Max. An even number: Victoria. I'll write the name in the chapter's title to make it easier!
So as you probably got it by now, this chapter is told from Victoria's point of view. I hope you enjoy her side of things!


SILENT PLEA [VICTORIA]


A soft snore reaches my ears, in between relaxed breaths.

I tilt my head to the side, trying to get a better look at the face pressed against my chest, only to confirm my thoughts – Max has, indeed, fallen asleep.

I can still see the trail that her tears have left on her freckles, her disheveled hair sticking to her wet cheeks, and there's even a bit of snot falling off her nose. Which is totally gross. But she is asleep, and that alone is more important than her pathetic looks. And my cashmere. I can always buy another one.

I stop my hands in their movement – I had been stroking her back for a while now, and even though I finally put my muscles to rest, an odd sense of emptiness lingers in my palm. I push the thought back in the corner of my mind, as I definitely have more important things to focus on right now. Namely the hipster currently drooling on me. She doesn't seem to be waking up despite my hands becoming still, so I take this as a good sign she has fallen deep enough into her slumber.

I carefully pull the blanket off of her shoulders, before pushing her body further back, one of my arm still maintaining her somewhat close. I hesitantly, very hesitantly, slip my other arm under her knee, then the other. I readjust my own position, before finally lifting her body up. And, admittedly, I stumble back a little, struggling to find some balance. She might be extremely slim – worryingly so, I tell myself as I sneak a reprehensible glance at her legs – but a human body happens to weight more than I had anticipated.

I still succeed to settle her on the bed, and she twitches a little, but fortunately her eyes remain shut. Thank God she's a heavy sleeper. I bring the comforter back on her, making sure to cover her entire frame. I quickly rearrange her hair and – ugh – I even manage to grab some tissue to wipe off those tears and that disgraceful snot.

I internally scold myself every single step of the way, as I know, I know I should not be doing this. Every cell in my body cringes at the unfamiliar attitude, they beg for me to get away, far away from that waif and just go back to pretending I don't care.

But I stare at her face – which looks slightly more presentable thanks to my administrations – and I am inevitably reminded of the sorrow that was painted all over it not even an hour ago. I only got to witness it for a brief moment, but… she was in so much pain. Her eyes were literally begging for help. What the hell was I supposed to do? Push her away and leave her there? Alone to deal with her grief? Fuck no. Actually, fuck every cell in my body. There is no way I can leave her right now.

God knows I'll regret this.

But still, I finally take a sit on the bed, pondering my decision for a few more seconds before finally lying next to my nemesis.

It feels so great, and I immediately scold myself at the thought – the feeling – no matter how expected it was. I shouldn't, I really shouldn't. I am not supposed to feel great lying next to some loser, especially not after someone close to her died by my best friend's hands. Especially not after she broke down in tears in my arms.

My heart pounds heavily against my chest as soon as the memory fills my brain. Out of excitement or fear, who knows? I have made my decision regardless – I will stay with her. For tonight, that is. I wouldn't be able to sleep with the thought that she might wake up alone and in tears.

But now, she is snoring peacefully, and I can only hope that her dreams are gentler than the harsh reality we live in.

I cringe. That was way too cheesy. I need to stop this, whatever this is. But there's a sting of worry pinching my heart, and that is a feeling I cannot brush aside. That is a feeling I cannot bear to ignore. Not now.

Now, I need to be here.


A phone buzzes, the vibrations echoing in the room.

I frown at the unpleasant noise. I press my face further against my pillow, hoping to block the sound out. And the pillow… moves?

My eyes suddenly open wide.

Max. It's Max. I am in her room. Right. She was crying. I tried to calm her down. She fell asleep. And so did I, apparently. Against her body.

I gulp, feeling the pulsations of my heart resonating severely in my head. She is so close – more than close, as our bodies are tightly pressed together. I grow excruciatingly conscious of my leg, resting over both of hers, almost – definitely – possessively so.

And most importantly, she's awake.

A cold sensation ghosts over my arm, and I come to the realization that she had been tracing circles on it with her fingertips and only now stopped.

Oh shit.

She is warm, too warm, her touch is burning my skin and I have to jolt away from the embrace. My brain sends alarming flares through my entire body. Away. I need to stay away.

I remain seated next to her, trying to regain some composure as she stares at me with a mixture of curiosity and shock in her eyes. And something tells me it's not because of my ridiculously tenacious bedhead that I desperately keep trying to tame.

"Oh- are you okay?"

She uses her elbows to sit up straight. The surprise on her facial features has now been replaced by what I recognize as concern. It isn't a face I'm used to seeing – well, sure, when she looks at Saint Kate Marsh, or that Alyssa chick maybe, but definitely not directed at me. And it makes me feel uneasy, because she isn't supposed to see me as a person she should worry about. She never has.

But then again, I was not supposed to baby-sit her yesterday, and yet here I am.

I simply nod as an answer, not quite willing to bother with words yet. It seems to be enough for her anyway, as she now stares at her lap, fiddling with the blanket nervously. I lower my hands, judging that my hair doesn't matter much anymore. Is she looking for something to say to fill the silence? Or does she actually know what she would want to say? I can't quite tell, but she remains quiet. The silence is becoming heavier by now and the awkwardness of the situation begins to weigh on my shoulders.

Would she be okay if I left now? She does look more emotionally stable. So it would be alright, wouldn't it?

"What time is it?" I finally ask while frowning at my thoughts.

She looks at her desk, on which her phone rests. I get up and reach for the device that I hand to her, of course not without exaggerating an annoyed sigh in the process.

She mutters a "thanks" before grabbing it.

"Oh, Kate messaged me."

This explains the buzz that woke me up. Be damned, Marsh.

"And it's almost nine." She continues.

"Nine already?" I feign surprise, mixed with a bit of annoyance certainly.

She glances up at me, her gaze diving straight into mine. There is a certain intensity in her eyes, but I can't, for the love of me, decrypt whatever she is thinking.

"Well, I should go now. I have things to do." I actually don't, but I'm sure I can come up with something.

She merely nods. Is she disappointed? She doesn't look disappointed. But she doesn't look relieved either. What the hell is she feeling? What is she thinking?

Ugh.

I turn towards the door, all my frustration condensed in my stride, ready to make my dramatic exit-

"Wait."

I startle at the sound of her voice, my dumb heart getting stupidly excited.

"I'll open the door. T-To make sure the coast is clear. So that no one sees you."

I stare at her obtusely while her words process in my head. Right. I shouldn't be seen leaving her room. Especially not in the morning while both wearing yesterday's clothes, that would be difficult to explain.

"Alright." I hurriedly reply, forcing certain thoughts away from my mind as a flush creeps its way onto my cheeks.

She gets up as well, carefully. It infuriates me. She isn't slow enough to make me think she wants to extend her time in my presence, but she doesn't seem eager to get rid of me either. She is in that perfectly vague in-between that my brain cannot decipher.

She makes her way to the door nonetheless, perking her head outside while still hiding her body – and clothes – behind it.

"Wait, Dana is heading for the shower…" she pauses. "Alright, it's clear now."

She spreads the door wider, turning towards me.

I know I have to hurry, to make sure I can reach my room before anyone else leaves theirs.

But then I see it, I finally see it – that look in her eyes, that silent plea, wordlessly questioning my decision to leave.

And for a moment, I hesitate. I could close the door, and stay with her. But then what? Would she rant about her late friend? Would she break down, would she cry, would she ask why I could not stop Nathan? Would she blame me?

Or would she forgive me and reach for another embrace? I shiver. That scenario terrifies me most.

So all I am able to do is send her a pathetic, definitely unconvincing smile. And with that, I finally rush my way outside, opening the door to my own room before entering it.

It's probably best this way.

I am greeted by the familiar hollowness ghosting in my room. A certain emptiness clings to the walls, despite the luxurious furniture I had meticulously chosen to position against them. As if the perfection surrounding me would somehow leak into my being. It is comforting, perhaps in a twisted way.

But admittedly… I had tried to create a warmer environment, create a place that would be more welcoming, that would truly feel like a home. Without success. Despite sneaking multiple times into the hipster's trash of a room, which is, to my dismay, incredibly charming – the room, not the hipster, mind you.

I roll my eyes at my own idiocy. I shouldn't be thinking of her. Especially not that way.

I sit on my bed, the bed I should have slept in last night if not for that loud thud coming from her room. I was about to get into mine when I overheard it, but I don't know how long I stayed circling in front of her door instead, pondering whether or not I should intrude. The worry had overcome my reason the exact moment I could perceive the sound of her sobbing.

And even now, that same worry had followed me here. I know she isn't feeling well – how could she? That knowledge alone makes my heart a little heavier, a little harder to bear. A part of me wants to message her, tell her I am here should she need it again – should she need me again… but that is foolish, isn't it?

I release a laugh, one that is too frozen in sarcasm to hold even a hint of joy.

No, of course not. She is emotionally fragile. She needs support, I just happened to be here, at the right moment. If her mind had been clear, she would have probably reached to someone else. Someone like Marsh. Or literally anyone else.

It shouldn't hurt. Should it?

It doesn't matter. It's all in my head anyway. Or ribcage. Or whatever.

Max is not my top priority right now – is what I tell myself as I fumble through my purse to retrieve my phone.

I swiftly unlock the device to see that exactly fifteen messages await me. Two of which are from Taylor, sending me support and deciding that she will pay me a visit sometime today. One is from Courtney, also sending her support. I shrug. It doesn't sound as genuine. Another is from Hayden who offers me a joint to relax after the crazy week.

The eleven messages remaining happen to have been sent by none other than Nathan Prescott.

I stare at the screen blankly. Wasn't he in custody? We weren't able to communicate after he got arrested. Does that mean he got out? While the curiosity gnaws at my insides, an uncomfortable sensation settles in my chest. My finger shakily tap on the screen, displaying the messages.

'Vic I'm sorry'

'I didn't mean to do this I didn't mean to hurt anyone'

'I told them I was guilty'

'they said i got eight years'

'they sendin me to some fuckin mental hospital prison fuckhole'

'for eight years vic EIGHT FUCKIN YEARS'

'what hve i done'

'i don't k now what to do'

'i wanto see u'

'iam so sorry'

'pleas forgive m e oneday'

The screen turns black. A little bit shocked, I realize I accidentally locked it.

My hands are shaking. They're shaking a lot and I want them to stop but they just don't. I feel tears threatening to escape. I blink a few times. It stings, and I unconsciously begin to chew my lower lip. I can't cry. I can't break.

I could have done something. Anything. I knew he was unstable. I knew he was getting worse. I should have known. I could have prevented it. If I had, he wouldn't be in this situation.

Eight years. What did I even expect? As if I knew. I want to see him just as much as I want to stay away, I want to comfort him as much as I want to beat him up. He is my best friend as much as he is a killer. How can I be mad at him? How can I forgive him?

My mind jumps to my, now former, teacher. Mark. Jefferson. Oh, fuck no. The thought of him makes me sick to my guts. I can't. I just can't picture him doing… any of what he did. And Nathan helped. Fuck.

What kind of fucked up mess is this?

Enough. Enough lamenting, enough torturing myself over this. I close my eyes, my entire body shivering as I take a deep breathe. One loner tear streams down my cheek, but this doesn't count. I need to calm down. Relax. Breathe out. I can do this. Breathe in. I got this.

I'll deal with these matters some other day. I'll think of a solution later. But not now. Now I need to change my mind. I seriously consider Hayden's offer when a few knocks on my door snap me out of my thought process.

Fuck. I'm still in my suit. And I probably look like utter shit. I hurriedly rub my hand against my face, when I suddenly hear a familiar voice.

"Vic, you here? It's Taylor."

I pause. Would it be safe to let her in? She's always been a good friend, but… ugh, to hell with this. I jump to my feet, ignoring the light dizziness reaching my head. Another few knocks.

"Vi-"

I wrap my hand around the doorknob and yank it open, coming eye-to-eye with a surprised Taylor, her fist still in midair.

"Get in here." I say.

"Oh."

She rushes inside, turning towards me as I close the door. I have to resist the urge to sigh when I see her gaze running over my clothes, before setting on my face with a concerned look.

"So, what do you want?" I ask tentatively.

"You know damn well why I'm here." She's right – if her text from earlier is any indication.

She trots to the couch, claiming her sit on it before patting the space beside her. Any other day, I would have probably scolded her for her audacity, remind her firmly that I was the queen bee. But instead, I finally release the sigh I had been holding before complying. For once, her assurance is appreciated.

I sit next to her as she rests her elbow on the back of the couch, her stare visibly trying to analyze me.

"So… how did it go?"

I try to look for words, which proves to more difficult than I had thought. She arches an eyebrow at me, urging me on.

"It was… what you would expect from a funeral. People crying. Mourning. Nothing too surprising here."

She nods slightly. "Did they, like… say anything to you?"

"No. They were too busy sobbing to care about my presence, obviously."

"Well", she drags out the syllabus, clearly attempting to ignore my sarcasm. "At least, like, now you don't have to worry about anyone thinking it's your fault."

"I wasn't worried!"

"Sure, you weren't." She smiles. "But you're still wearing the clothes. I mean, like, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

My voice is definitely not the most convincing.

"Are you still blaming yourself?"

Against the best of me, I advert my eyes, staring at the plasma screen in front of me. I shrug nonchalantly.

"Vic, please… you know you're not responsible for this."

"We've already talked about this enough."

She sighs, offering me a tired, exasperated look. A look of disbelief.

"Apparently not."

I shrug again. I know she expects a different reaction from me, a sudden change of heart, a confession of sort. I can see it in her eyes.

And I can see the concern, too. It's heavy, weighing on me, cracking my walls only a little. We are both thinking about the same thing, and we are both aware of it, but none of us would dare to mention it. As much as I wish she could forget, there is no way she could scrap the image out of her mind. That particular scenery – one of my weakest moments.

Monday. She had never seen me cry before that day. And I had never sought for comfort before that day either. And while she had proved to be a reassuring friend, successfully handling my panicked self, I still wish this had never occurred.

Because now she knows I am nowhere near as calm as I pretend to be. She knows how terrified I am of pointed fingers screaming "guilty", or how I really loathe the image of myself I so desperately try to project.

And now she expects a change. I can see it in her eyes, all those expectations I cannot meet. Not yet.

And I can see the exact second her hope subsides into disappointment, when she realizes insisting will only lead to a dead end.

"Do you have any news from Nathan?"

I nod, a bit uneasy, yet still glad she changed the subject, even slightly.

"He got out of custody", I explain. "Apparently he didn't even try to defend himself. He got sent to some prison with mental care."

"For how long?"

"Eight years." My voice suddenly sounds way too dry.

I can see a mixture of shock and pity swarming in her eyes.

"Damn…" she whispers.

I shrug. My shoulders feel sore.

"He could've got much more for what he did. Money helps, no doubt."

"That's still a fucking lot. Like, do they even allow visits?"

"No clue. Even if they did, I'm… not sure I can see him right now."

"I understand… even if you're like best buds, what he did… that's a hard thing to forgive."

Especially because we're best buds.

"Yeah…"

"I can't imagine what that Chloe chick's parents feel like… Losing their daughter like that…"

A knot forms in my throat as images of the funerals force their way into my mind.

"Her dad died years ago."

"Seriously?" she gasps.

"I saw her stepfather at the funerals. He's actually a security guard here."

"Wait, you mean Madsen? Like Mustache-dude?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Oh fuck…" she breathes out. "I heard he was the one who found her…"

I feel a sudden sting in my heart.

"Well… not really…"

"Right. Max was there."

I nod absentmindedly. She was there, at the scene. She saw it all, unfolding before her eyes, life fading away, only leaving a blood-stained cold body behind. A body that apparently belonged to someone she knew.

"Did you know that… Max knew her?"

"She did?"

"Well, uh… I overheard her talking to the mother. Apparently they were friends or something."

I'm not actually certain myself. They mentioned playing together as children, but does that even mean they're close?

"How is that possible? I never saw them together."

"Me neither…" I admit.

"Did you talk to Max?"

I rub my hand against my suit, just below my collarbone, desperately trying to soothe the peaks of pain pinching my heart. Each memory from yesterday oddly resonates through my chest, fills it with worries I really can't bother with at the moment.

"Just to tell her my condolences."

She frowns a little. I don't like it. I'm supposed to show a reasonable amount of remorse – just enough to be seen as a decent human, while still keeping my position as the Queen you can't mess around with.

Did I mess up by attending the funerals and being polite to the hipster? Was that a step too far for my image? And here I thought that Taylor, of all people, would be pleased to see me turn into a more sensitive being. Was I wrong? Fuck, did I allow myself to get too involved? What if people are talking already?

"But who cares about Caulfield right now?" Certainly not me, I assure myself, cringing at how bitter the words felt as they left my mouth.

She seems taken aback for a second. Shit, was that the wrong thing to say again? At least she isn't frowning anymore.

"Let's just… go out and try to change our mind, okay?"

She nods, seemingly convinced by my sudden spurt of wisdom.

"I'll go get Courtney while you change", she exclaims while getting to her feet and walking towards the door.

Without further needless exchange, I scuttle to my closet. I stare at the clothes hung before me, trying to think of an attire that wouldn't scream "I haven't been doing anything interesting with my life for the past week".

I finally choose a rather loose shirt with long sleeves. Its creamy beige color would go well with a certain jacket I haven't had the opportunity to wear yet. I could actually convince my minions to go shopping with me, grab a new scarf and maybe even a new pair of shoes. New clothes. What better way to say that I am still the Queen Bee than proving I have enough inner strength to move on and set my mind on fashion? And all the while showing that I still own enough cash to treat myself with the best quality there could be. My own lips carve into a smirk as I fix my makeup.

I'm on top of it. Idiots may have opened their filthy mouths to spew some bullshit about me being too kind to losers, now their mouths will stay wide open when they realize how far ahead I am.

So it's full of assurance – and expensive clothes – that I finally step out of my room.

I am instantly greeted by the door opposed to mine. It's still closed, and it forces me to a pause, against my will. I can immediately feel my confidence wavering. I know she is probably still inside, and no reasonable thought can stop my mind from jumping to pointless questions. What is she doing? Did she go back to sleep? What if she's crying again?

Am I just running away?

I shake my head, try to shake these interrogations out, these concerns out, these feelings out. They have no place to be. They don't belong within me.

And yet, they persist.

But as I step away from this door, from her, I can feel these interrogations, these concerns, these feelings, shaking me to my core.

Just please, be alright.


A/N: "Quick" note about Nathan's case... I am not a lawyer and my knowledge of criminal cases is very limited. I did my research before writing this chapter, and from what I understand, an arraignment takes place about 72 hours after an arrest, and sentence is given not long after (if the defendant pleads guilty, of course). This might be wrong, and I'm sorry if it is. ;u;

I hope you enjoyed it anyway! I'll try to improve as I go on with this fanfiction!