#unheather.

[ichtgod]

@unheather, plotted.

“seeing ghosts again?” jd’s smile is bloodied, face soot-dusted, but just as smug as it was when he was alive. he smooths his expression into false concern. “gee, veronica, maybe you should talk to a shrink about that.”

he’d never thought much about an afterlife when he was alive. just figured it probably wasn’t as simple as the paintings at his mother’s church, with puffy clouds above and boiling lakes below. sure, he’d studied his dante, his bosch, but found nietzche’s dead god best suited to his tastes. and in actuality, the afterlife — or whatever this is — seems to conform most closely to ol’ william: hell is empty and all the devils are here.

still, he’s not complaining. an eternity of veronica is far from torture. sure, jd misses his bike, smoking, the general independence that came with having a physical body, but it sure beats soaking in a lake of fire for the rest of time.

she’s not doing so hot, these days. it’s something that jd blames more on her lack of vision than himself. doesn’t mean he enjoys seeing it. and sometimes, when she wakes up from what was clearly a nightmare, sweating and pale, with jd sitting at the edge of her bed like a fucking pet, he hates her. hates her for not letting him hold her and soothe her and stroke her hair until she falls back to sleep. hates her for making him want to anyway.

so he gets his jabs in where he can.

[ichtgod]

@unheather: STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU CARE.

“alright, you got me. i don’t care about a couple of fist-humping neanderthals.” he spreads his hands, the what-can-you-do shrug of a falsely condemned man. “but, i care about you.” his girl’s cute when she’s pissed, narrow-eyed, sulky-mouthed. jd holds her hand in his, dusts a light kiss to the back of it.

“and you’re upset.” upset because she didn’t want them dead, or upset because she did? sad little rich girl veronica sawyer, not used to getting what she asks for? he’ll believe that when he sees it. no, she’s sad because of some misplaced guilt, some kind of kumbaya-let’s-all-hold-hands-and-forget-we-used-to-be-animals-with-teeth belief that every life is worth the same. it’s bullshit, but it’s not like anyone taught her better. not in sherwood, ohio: manicured lawns and a tip left out for the pool boy every friday.

veronica’s too smart for that suburbanite pretense. cynical. no wonder she’s unhappy with her life, her friends. she’ll come into her own, he really believes that. in the meantime, however, he can play at contrite. leans up from his artful sprawl on veronica’s bed to kiss her neck, and murmurs, “so why don’t you tell me how i can make it up to you?”