FEAR OF DYING – HEATHERS.
Heather Chandler was not his first kill.
While she had not met her end from a gun's barrel, she was in no way the first one to go by his hands. She was important, yes, because of everything she brought together, but she was not his first.
He doesn't quite remember his first victim. He remembers her face and some of her personality, but when trying to recall her full identity he comes up clueless. She was just somebody who made the mistake of crossing his path, and she paid the price for it.
He didn't remember the motive. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure if he ever had one. He supposes it was just pure curiosity, and the desire to feel like he was accomplishing something.
It didn't seem to matter much in the moments he stood above her corpse, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. It rained around them, and he had stood silently to watch the mud form around her fingers, staining her skin.
He never heard anything of her. He never once saw a missing persons poster for her, even when it had been weeks. That was when he realized that he could get away with it.
He could get away with it if he killed people nobody cared about. Quiet little nobodies that no one would report missing, even when they didn't show up for their jobs, or pay late on their rent. He could get away with the ones that didn't matter, or with the ones that everyone truly hated. The latter was Heather Chandler.
Heather Chandler was not somebody you loved. She was a stone cold bitch that loathed everything she had, despite seemingly the entire world kissing her ass. She was a spoiled diva, and when it came down to it there was really nothing to mourn. There was nothing worth saying goodbye to. She was a prime target. She was bound to fall by his hands no matter what, and when the opportunity with Veronica arose, he was quick to take it.
It was not exactly the way he wanted. He had thought about a frontal shot, leaving a bloody mess on the wall for whoever found her to see. Just something to take the bitch out so he never had to hear her galling voice ever again.
Poison, surprisingly, was new to him. It was new to Veronica, too, and he knew that by the way she stood above her friend's corpse, hand poised over her mouth in shock. He had figured she had never killed anybody before. On her own, that girl couldn't have hurt a fly, and he was without a doubt sure that Heather would still be on her tyrant ways if he hadn't intervened.
They were a lot different, him and Veronica. She had potential, had something to work towards. She had the GPA to get into a good college and go off to do whatever serious job she wanted to do. Jason Dean had nothing except his gun and a dead mom.
She had so much potential, yet she still leaned against the nearby corner of the 7/11, periodically giving him glances when she wasn't looking at the wild haired girl before her. Bonnie, he thinks her name is. He didn't know anything about the girl, and Veronica never had a single complaint about her, but he was sure he'd put a bullet through her head the moment his lover asked.
J.D swished the remainder of his drink around in his cup, watching intently as she continued to chatter. Another girl has walked up – Meghan, he believes. He's seen them together. Never cared enough to note who they were, but it was hard to miss them when one was dressed like Siouxsie Sioux and the other had an atrocious shade of dyed red hair and more nose piercings and jacket pins than one could count.
He doesn't think Veronica would ever ask him to hurt them, and in a way it disappoints him. He'd love to pull her in further – show her that there was fun outside of textbooks and essays, even if it was a little unconventional.
Wannabe Siouxsie Sioux pauses and looks over Veronica's shoulder, grimacing lightly when she finds his eyes trained on her. The other continues to speak, though she turns her attention to her friend when Veronica follows the goth girl's attention and catches his eye, smiling softly.
He smiles back, and again it feels natural. He doesn't have to force it.
He's waiting for her to leave them and come to him so he could take her back to his house. He knows he's father isn't home. He wasn't even in Sherwood, as far as J.D could remember. He'd take Veronica home and hold onto her for as long as he could, slyly convince her to lie to her parents so they could lay together for the rest of the night and he could return her in the morning.
The idea of her leaving him makes him feel empty, and suddenly he's not smiling anymore. He's gotten too attached; that was no secret. He had gotten way too attached to her in such a short amount of time, and he really can't tell if it was something he'd regret or not.
He doesn't believe it is. He doesn't feel angry when he looks at her. He doesn't feel bitter, violent and venomous against the world that he believed had so badly wronged him. He feels content, no longer feeling like he had to look over his shoulder every second he got.
There's a buzzing sound when the 'open' sign besides Veronica flashes erratically, red reflecting on the large 'EQUAL RIGHTS' pin that had been forced into the punk girl's jacket. They collectively stare at it for a second too long before Veronica laughs, adding something before offering a weak wave and turning on her heels.
J.D briefly watches the girls retreat behind her, bringing his attention back to a blushing Veronica when they lock hands with each other and head off into the parking lot.
"Sorry," She murmurs, and reaches for his hand. J.D allows her to take it.
He doesn't reply, but she knows he's gotten the message when he squeezes her hand gently.
He thinks back to his first kill when they take a step off the curb. The memories almost seem foreign to him, intrusive. He's prying into the brain of somebody that was no longer him. When he thinks of them, all he feels is anger. He feels the resentment that had been built up from years of neglect and his mother's suicide.
And then Veronica squeezes his hand back, and he feels nothing at all. Nothing negative, at least. The animosity drains to be replaced with satisfaction, brought only by the girl that hobbled awkwardly beside him. The corner of his mouth twitches when she mutters a curse about her feet hurting.
There's a sense of fulfillment he gets from her. There's the thrill he got from chasing somebody down with his pistol out without the danger of being caught. She's a breath of fresh air, and for once J.D finds himself caring about what happened to him.
Before, it was whatever happened would happen. At the end of the day, he didn't care what went down as long as he still got the exhilaration he desired. His life was nothing but a chase after something he truly didn't deserve.
Not much had really changed, though what he wanted was a lot different. It was no longer the violence that he had let build inside of him, but instead the meek Veronica Sawyer that wanted nothing more than for everyone to get along. He had found a new muse; and just like last time, he didn't deserve a single bit of it.
He hadn't cared before. He had been okay with throwing his life away without a second thought, never feeling like his existence mattered.
It probably still didn't. Jason Dean was still a nuisance to the world and there was no way around it. His existence didn't matter, but hers did. Veronica Sawyer mattered, and he'd keep himself alive just because of that.