Fic: with the furies breathing down your neck, VM, Logan
with the furies breathing down your neck
Veronica Mars, Logan
For the_avril_game
***
You are sixteen years old, and your girlfriend was just murdered. You think this is the worst day of your life. You are sixteen, and you don't know any better.
You wonder who you're supposed to go to Homecoming with now.
On the day it hits the internet, you watch the streaming video of her body three times. Casey tries to make you stop, but you won't, you hit play again, and again. Then you go to the bathroom, carefully, slowly, and throw up in the second stall. When you come out, you are shaking all over, so that when you go back to class you have to push your hands flat against the desk to keep anyone from noticing.
You flick seventeen spitballs and a piece of chewed gum into Haley Greene's hair before Mr. Travis sees you. The wads of paper cluster, round and wet, in her brown frizz, and the gum's going to have to be cut out. Everyone snickers, and she turns red and looks like she's going to cry. No one likes her, anyway, it's not like she matters.
"I'm sorry, is this the third grade?" Mr. Travis says, and you sit back and smirk.
"It must be," you say, "judging from the intellectual caliber of the instruction."
The principal sends you to the guidance counselor to talk about your feelings.
"Fuck Lilly," you say, and you mean it.
"You're angry," the counselor says.
"And how much do they pay you for these shrewd observations?" you say. "Because you're worth so much more."
Three more snide remarks and she's pinching the bridge of her nose. You get detention for a week and a lecture on empathy.
You escape the office at the last bell, and push your way through the rush thinking about whether Dick and Beaver want to go surfing this weekend, and when you finally pay attention to where you're going, you're standing by Lilly's locker instead of yours. Habit, because whenever you get detention you have to go by and tell her you're going to have to make out at four o'clock instead of three. Two months dead and you're standing by an empty locker, kids pushing their way past you on every side, and you can't move.
Everyone used to cluster here after school, you and Lilly and Veronica and Duncan, but now no one's here but you, standing still in the crowd, and some flowers, set at the bottom of the lockers like a shrine. When you kick them they skitter down the hall, dirt spilling out of the pot as it goes.
You think things can't get worse. You are sixteen.
***
END
Veronica Mars, Logan
For the_avril_game
***
You are sixteen years old, and your girlfriend was just murdered. You think this is the worst day of your life. You are sixteen, and you don't know any better.
You wonder who you're supposed to go to Homecoming with now.
On the day it hits the internet, you watch the streaming video of her body three times. Casey tries to make you stop, but you won't, you hit play again, and again. Then you go to the bathroom, carefully, slowly, and throw up in the second stall. When you come out, you are shaking all over, so that when you go back to class you have to push your hands flat against the desk to keep anyone from noticing.
You flick seventeen spitballs and a piece of chewed gum into Haley Greene's hair before Mr. Travis sees you. The wads of paper cluster, round and wet, in her brown frizz, and the gum's going to have to be cut out. Everyone snickers, and she turns red and looks like she's going to cry. No one likes her, anyway, it's not like she matters.
"I'm sorry, is this the third grade?" Mr. Travis says, and you sit back and smirk.
"It must be," you say, "judging from the intellectual caliber of the instruction."
The principal sends you to the guidance counselor to talk about your feelings.
"Fuck Lilly," you say, and you mean it.
"You're angry," the counselor says.
"And how much do they pay you for these shrewd observations?" you say. "Because you're worth so much more."
Three more snide remarks and she's pinching the bridge of her nose. You get detention for a week and a lecture on empathy.
You escape the office at the last bell, and push your way through the rush thinking about whether Dick and Beaver want to go surfing this weekend, and when you finally pay attention to where you're going, you're standing by Lilly's locker instead of yours. Habit, because whenever you get detention you have to go by and tell her you're going to have to make out at four o'clock instead of three. Two months dead and you're standing by an empty locker, kids pushing their way past you on every side, and you can't move.
Everyone used to cluster here after school, you and Lilly and Veronica and Duncan, but now no one's here but you, standing still in the crowd, and some flowers, set at the bottom of the lockers like a shrine. When you kick them they skitter down the hall, dirt spilling out of the pot as it goes.
You think things can't get worse. You are sixteen.
***
END