𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞

"My teen angst bullshit has a body count." I utter. My blazer is lazily slung to the side in attempt to fight the sticky humidity that the island attacked us with.

"Try not to dwell on it." Simon smiles kindly. The tide crept up to our sitting positions, and swept over our feet. The water was nice and cool in the harsh temperature.

"How do I 'not dwell' on it?" My fingers lightly dig into the warm sand, designing shapes of ocean waves and variations of scribbles. Simon doesn't answer my question right away.

"Suicide gave Heather depth..." I take a breath when a nice breeze grazes over, sputtering when my hair blows into my face. The thoughts continue in my mind ... Kurt a soul, and Ram a brain...

Back then, I unintentionally prayed for the death of Heather Chandler many times. Anyone would think, how could someone do such a thing by accident? I guess my mind curved my wording into metaphors rather than being so literal. I felt bad everytime I did it, but I kept doing it whenever she would add another injustice to my life. I never realized how fucked up it was. I guess He was unfortunately listening all along. Praise Jesus, hallelujah, and whatever the hell else.

"I don't know what the situation gave me, but I had no control in my life with JD." I shutter at the hunting recollection.

Jason Dean's desire to kill was brash. No matter how many times he performed an evil action, it never tamed the lingering urge in the back of his head. It's like trying to scratch a mosquito bite. Unlike a normal itch, the restless boil beneath the skin doesn't vanish after one fix. When you go to itch it, it merely intensifies. Then it becomes addicting, and the ability to halt whisks away. Feverish nails will scratch and scrape. Over and over until the skin breaks and bleeds. Nothing less but a gory mess and bloody hands. 

I was very well-liked in high school when Heather Chandler wasn't causing me strife. Even before the era of popularity, I was heavily involved in intellectual activity. When I was with JD, I was untouchable, far more than when I was with anyone else. Me and Heather Duke had one of our many fallouts. Rumors spread like wildfire, and she conjured up one about me having a three way with Kurt and Ram in the cemetery.

On Heather Chandler's grave.

Sick, I know.

Obscenities were painted on my locker. The rumors had been drawn on bathroom stalls and mirrors. It got me kicked off yearbook committee. I spilled about it to JD. He said he would have a civil talk with her, then the boys. I'll talk her down, Ronnie. That's what he said. Despite my doubts, I didn't protest.

Heather called out of school early that same day. Not a single part of me believes he had a "civil talk" with her. He threatened her with something, and I don't know what. Did I step forward about this? No. Two days later, Kurt and Ram were shot dead, and I was there, but not alone.

Through my trials of pure success during the time where I knew him, I had to give the guy credit. I have an exceptional memory, and a decent amount of common sense. We had little games and bets from time to time. Sometimes it would be fire practice on glass bottles to better our aim, or who could make a teacher crack about their sick sins. JD made people pay for simply looking at me wrong, and I claimed it wasn't to my knowledge. Despite my denial, there was always an inkling. I knew how he played. Even a fool could recognize that the flow of the wind was shifted in my favor.

Even thinking about it, a mix of admiration and horror swirls and churns in my chest.

"A glowstick needs to break before it can glow," I chuckled, curling my upper lip into a self-disgusted scowl as my eyes lasered into the unforgiving ground.