alex

writing blog — main blog: @mxlcncholy

[mxgnctos]

random veronica x mcnamara fic

if there was one thing that heather mcnamara hated the most, it would be going on the school bus.

trapped in the midst of the asphyxiating rusting walls of the bus, she felt like a prisoner being laid out as prey, lying there for the hunters (that are more commonly known as the school jocks). she couldn’t shrug off the putrid scent of age-old puke lingering in the musty, humid air, the slimy sensation of gum that some student discarded on the floor previously, and the immature boys lurking in the back seats hooting and hurling sensual insults at her. the discomfort of it all was too hard to bear, and so every morning, instead of shivering in the cold at the bus stop, she would hop in her friend heather chandler’s car. and so it went on for a while.

until she died.

so heather had no choice but to take the bus. first day back, the boys sitting behind her tugged on her hair until her frustration bubbled to the surface and exploded out of her mouth, and another boy got on, cornered her in her seat and tried to touch her. she spent thirty minutes in the bathroom crying and trying to get the stray piece of gum out of her hair in the aftermath.

at that moment, she wished for nothing else but to die.

but this morning was different. and oh what a strange morning it was. the events of the previous days were constantly replaying in heather’s mind like a broken record. her wanting to die. her deciding to empty the contents of the pill bottle into her mouth. a voice ringing out in the distance, yelling at her to stop, to spit them out. and then veronica was there, holding her in her arms and telling her that everything was going to be alright. heather couldn’t help but lean into her embrace, and futilely wishing for more.

she got on the bus shakily but steadily that day. she couldn’t help but tell herself that everything was going to be alright, since veronica had willed it so. she saved her life, anyhow. she was the one who pulled her back from the tide. there must be some truth to her saviour’s words.

and there was that boy again, leaning into her and attempting to grope her. then a force yanked him backwards, and a familiar voice started yelling, and heather could finally blink the tears out of her eyes to see her saviour, seemingly engulfed in an angelic aura, looking back at her with a concerned expression.

“are you alright?”

veronica sawyer. in all her radiance and luminosity.

heather couldn’t remember what she said, or what veronica replied with, but all of a sudden she found herself sitting next to veronica on the hellish school bus, huddled close so that the combined heat of their bodies combated the chilled air of the musty vehicle.

heather knew that boys will always be boys, and heather chandler would not rise from the dead and resume her chauffeuring service every morning.

but when veronica took her hand, and didn’t recoil when she leaned into her, she knew that it was still going to be alright, and that she wished for nothing else but to stay in veronica’s presence forever.

(a/n: i drew a piece of artwork to go with this too but it’s terrible it cant see the light of day)

[mxgnctos]

“if you were ever given the chance, would you give up everything you owned, everything you held dear to your heart, just to get what you want?”

macbeth shifted on the grass and glanced at banquo. those dark, mysterious eyes bore into him, and that look held meaning. that look held all the affection, all the love in the world, and immediately banquo knew what his answer would be.

“yes.”

banquo’s breath hitched. he was hesitant. he wasn’t sure if he should say it or not. but it wasn’t like anyone other than macbeth could hear him, right?

years of wanting would just drive him to insanity. so he didn’t hold back. he had nothing to lose.

“what is it that you really want?” banquo whispered, his voice husky, his eyes returning the silent conversation that their eyes were having; and that conversation was something that only the both of them would understand; something that only the two of them could look back and smile upon when they grow old. together.

(growing old was something that terrified the both of them, for it just means inevitable change and an inevitable departure. but if they knew what was to come in their futures, perhaps they would’ve preferred it if they just grew old, together, just the two of them in their own secluded world.)

and macbeth exhaled; and every moment he wasn’t speaking was agonising to banquo, but he waited, like how he would wait for the masked figures to deliver the finishing blow, like how he would wait for macbeth to snap out of his trance when they meet those weird sisters all those years later.

“i want..” and banquo’s breath hitched in his throat, he wasn’t sure what macbeth would say, but he closed his eyes and wished, and wished, and wished.

“i-“ macbeth, usually decisive and confident in his every move, was now reduced to a speechless puddle, his flustered expression and his flushed face giving light to what he wanted to say next.

macbeth sighed, finally.

“i want… you.”

and banquo heard it clearly, even though macbeth’s voice was reduced to a whisper, even though the thudding of his heartbeat resounded in his ears louder than ever. and there macbeth reached across the grass and cupped his face, tenderly, affectionately, pulled him in close and kissed him.

but banquo should’ve noted that hint of uncertainty in his voice, but love made him blind and wanting made him ignorant to everything else that was happening around him. for as long as their youth remained in their bodies and their voices, their love was reminiscent to a violent thunderstorm in the middle of the summer. it ended, like all things do.

but banquo never actually knew what macbeth wanted, what macbeth would actually give everything up for.

up until the inevitable happened, when ambition corrupted the man he once knew, when he was reduced to nothing short of a monster.

and as spots of black constricted his vision and his shirt drench with his own blood, he wondered why he ever kidded himself that everything he had would remain the same forever.

[mxgnctos]

His melancholy is a ferocious beast, a hideous leviathan with fangs that could pierce through a rock, eyes that could turn an unassuming villager to stone and a tongue which resembles that of a snake’s, capable of spitting out words as sweet as honey but as deadly as poison. It slithered out of the tempestuous waves and coiled around his heart, suffocating him until he couldn’t breathe. It incarcerated him with an indescribable pain that no one other than himself could sense or see or feel. Yet the heavens seemed to reflect his sorrow, as lightning crashed and thunder clapped, resounding in his ears until he had to pause in his tracks and place a trembling hand over his ear and another over his chest to steady his rapid breathing.

The castle, once full of cheer and smiles, now stood lifeless and looming as he raced through the long, winding corridors. Perchance, it has always stood this way, but back then, the person who would make even graveyards seem like a party bursting with colours was present. The world shifts and the seasons change, until ultimately, one ends up with nothing but themselves to shield from the inevitable winter.

He arrived on the roof, halting in his tracks to catch his breath. The rain descended on him, leaving him soaked. But he didn’t care — rather, he paid no attention. Only one thing lingered in his mind, and it wasn’t something that would strike most as pleasant.

He stood on the edge of the roof, gazing down on creation as he pushed aside his dishevelled locks of hair out of his bleary eyes to get a clearer look. Thoughts raged inside of him, swirling up and about to form a storm. Is this how he felt? he asked himself. Being on the brink of death?

But something (or was it someone?) held him back. It wasn’t a hand pulling him back from the bottomless pit that assumedly led to hell. It wasn’t even a voice, a loose thread, calling out to him, pleading for him to stop. It was a mere apparition, a translucent figure that floated a few inches off the ground, staring at him with his hollowed, bloodshot eyes a distance away.

There he stepped off the edge and approached the figure. The storm of thoughts that plagued him faded into a huge mix of conflicting, overwhelming feelings.

“What.. what are you..”

But he was cut off by the ghost, who didn’t say anything, but shed a single tear. That tear, that melancholic look in its eyes conveyed meaning that not even a million words could replace. And somehow, through their eye contact, he instantly knew, he understood, and all the memories came flooding back to him, knocking him off his feet and bringing him to his knees.

“I’m.. i’m sorry,” he choked on sobs, tears streaking down his cheeks. He hoped that the ghost would understand, would somehow know of the million unsaid words he tried so hard to gasp out but failing. How could I forget our promise?

If you ever loved me, draw your breath in pain in this harsh world to tell my story.

He couldn’t imagine all that transpired before this meeting with this supernatural being; how the ghost, from the depths of hell, tore itself out of the chains that bound it and the flames that licked at its feet, just to save him.

But love does do indescribable things to people.

[mxgnctos]

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