Chapter Text
For a long moment, the only thing Heather Chandler feels is pain.
She knows something is wrong the instant the liquid—whatever the fuck Veronica handed her—slides down her throat. It gnaws at her insides, burns its way through her, turning everything into blinding, white-hot pain, eating her alive from the inside out. Blood floods her throat, and soon all she can do is gasp for air that never comes.
She claws at her throat, certain it’s being ripped apart from the inside, shredded with every convulsive breath that won’t form. Through hazy eyes, she sees Veronica and her pathetic little boy toy, staring at her. Jason Dean watches with fascination, like he’s been handed front-row seats to a private show, her agony nothing more than entertainment to him. Veronica stands frozen beside him, watching it all with unblinking eyes.
Heather opens her mouth. She tries to speak, to swallow her pride and beg them to call 911, but nothing comes out. Not a sound. It seems to snap Veronica out of her stupor, though. She rushes forward, and Heather clings to her outstretched arms, fingers digging in like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Veronica’s hands clutch her just as tightly.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, dying like this, Heather thinks. At least she’s not alone.
And then Heather remembers that Veronica is the reason she’s here. Veronica is the one who handed her the poison. Was this her idea all along? Or did her psycho boyfriend convince her to do it?
It doesn’t matter. Either way, Heather Chandler is dying by Veronica Sawyer’s hand. And she hates herself for clinging to her now, for trying to find comfort in her arms in her final moments.
God, she can’t die like this. Pain and anger can’t be the last things in her head.
Think of something else. Anything. Don’t think about her.
Her parents, maybe? She almost laughs at that. They’d probably be relieved. Heather and Heather? No. That only drags her back to Westerberg, and she refuses to die thinking about that hellhole.
Good memories, then. She searches for them, frantic, and finds so few it hurts worse than the poison. Trips. Beach days. Parties. The mall, just a week ago, with Heather, Heather, and Veronica. That had been a good day. Dragging Veronica from store to store, then the four of them going to the movies.
Back then, Heather had really thought bringing Veronica into the group had been a good idea. Veronica was interesting. Smart, sharp, snarky. Heather had liked that. She’d liked being challenged, liked being tested. And now she’s dying for it.
She never would have thought the girl who shared a bag of CornNuts with her in a movie theater would be the one to end her life.
“Corn…Nuts.”
That’s the last thing Heather Chandler hears—her own voice, strained and broken—before her legs give out, her body hits the floor, and the world goes black.
Heather wakes gasping for air. She sits up in her bed, one hand clutching her sheets tightly, the other instantly going for her throat. Slowly, she takes a deep inhale, and air doesn’t struggle to enter her lungs this time.
God, what weird fucking dream. And so vivid that Heather can practically still smell the lingering scent of drain cleaner burning her nostrils.
Must be some alcohol induced nightmare from the many Jell-O shots she took last night at Ram’s homecoming party — though, strangely, she isn’t feeling the effects of a hangover as she usually does after ragers.
Heather adjusts herself in bed again, ready to sleep the Sunday off, until her alarm starts blaring on the bedside table. The same alarm she remembers having turned off on Friday, like she always does, exactly so she doesn’t get woken up at 7:30 a.m. on the weekends.
She tries sleeping again, but that weird dream has made her restless, and after long minutes of tossing and turning in bed, Heather gives up and decides to head to the kitchen and grab something to eat — maybe it will settle down the strange sensation she has in her stomach.
She takes slow steps down the stairs, certain the house is empty, because Sundays always mean weekly visits to her grandmother’s — though this time, unusually, Heather’s mother hadn’t burst into her room to ask if she wanted to come along. To her surprise, she finds both her parents seated at the dining room table, her father with his nose buried in the local newspaper, while her mother stirs a cup of tea.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” her father says in lieu of a greeting, taking his eyes off the paper long enough to give her a judgmental look. The page he’s holding reads Payphone on Murphy St. Gets Fixed. God, hadn’t they fixed that shit a week ago? “We were beginning to wonder if you’d decided to take a personal holiday from school.”
Heather resists the urge to roll her eyes at him. “Well, if I remember correctly, we don’t have school on weekends yet,” she says. “If we did, I probably would have killed myself by now.”
“Oh, Heather…” her mother scoffs.
“The good news is they don’t,” Heather’s father says. “The bad news, for you at least, is that today is Monday, and you are running late.”
“What? No, it’s not, it’s-” Heather begins to speak, but stops. Had she actually slept through Sunday?
“Yes, Heather, it is,” her dad says. “Monday, September 18th, 1989, to be precise. In case all that MTV has done a number on your brain cells.”
“Did you say the 18th?”
“Yes, what is wrong with you today, Heather?” her mother asks sharply.
What the hell? Ram Sweeney’s party was scheduled for the 23rd. The party Heather is certain she went to. So how the fuck is it still the 18th?
Heather walks — steps a little faster and tighter than usual — to the living room, grabs the remote, and flips through the channels until she lands on the local news. A blonde woman, with a swoopy hairdo and huge hoop earrings, appears in the middle of the screen, with a bright smile. Heather waits for her to speak.
“Today, Monday, September 18th, the stock market closed lower amid continued concerns over inflation-”
Well, gag her with a spoon. It really is the 18th. So that means that everything — the party, that prank on Martha Dumptruck, Veronica spewing on her shoes, that weird trench coat guy… had been one extremely long, extremely detailed dream.
And worst of all, it also means that today is Monday. And Heather has to get ready for school.
School is still boring, whichever day of the week it is, and the fact that Heather’s sour mood lingers throughout the whole morning doesn’t help. On the bright side, at least she doesn’t share any classes with Veronica until after lunch, because Heather really doesn’t want to deal with her at the moment. So the whole thing was a dream, and Veronica didn’t actually kill her, but whatever — Heather is still pissed at her.
The rest of the morning passes by like Heather is stuck in the longest deja vu in history. She isn’t usually one to pay attention to whatever the lowlifers at Westerburg are doing, or what bullshit her teachers ramble on about, but through the day, bits and pieces of it feel weird, like rewatching a movie you hadn’t watched in years — you don’t remember the exact details, but it feels familiar.
Heather tells herself it’s just the result of a bad night’s sleep, plays it off as best she can, and manages to seem normal enough that Heather and Heather don’t hassle her about it. And it mostly works, until they’re in study hall together and Country Club Courtney passes by their table. Heather feels Heather McNamara’s bony elbow pressing into her side as she muffles a laugh.
“Oh my god, check out Courtney’s sweater,” she says. “Isn’t it the most hideous thing ever?”
Heather Chandler follows where Heather McNamara has been subtly pointing to see Courtney in the ugliest red, teal, and pink wool monstrosity. It is hideous, but...Courtney has already worn that sweater before. Heather remembers it because Heather Duke had made a comment about how Courtney looked like one of the Rainbow Brite Sprites, and Heather had genuinely thought it was funny, so she didn't even tell her to shut up.
Heather opens her mouth to ask McNamara if her brain has drowned in AquaNet or something, but is interrupted by Heather Duke.
“God, does she not have a mirror? She looks like one of those Rainbow Brite toys.”
Beside her, Heather McNamara laughs like it’s the funniest joke ever.
“Shut up, Heather,” Heather Chandler groans, though she isn’t even sure which Heather she’s talking to. Luckily, both of them obey her.
The rest of the day goes fine until lunch happens. They sit at the table dead in the center, like they always do, Heather, Heather, and Heather.
And, ugh, Veronica, too. She shows up a few minutes after they do, her appearance a giveaway that she ran all the way here.
“Hey, I was waiting for you by Ms. Connor’s class. Isn’t there where we always meet on Mondays?” she says, a little breathless. God, she’s such a sad loser. It’s ridiculous that Heather would die because of her, even in her dreams.
Veronica sets her tray in front of Heather — cluttered with her diary, a milk carton, and a sad little sandwich her mommy must’ve made — and moves to sit. Heather lifts a finger, and it’s enough for Veronica to stop dead in her tracks. Heather slides the tray back to Veronica, keeping it as far away from herself as possible — she so doesn’t want to be near anything edible that was touched by Veronica’s hands — and gives her a saccharine smile, the one she’s perfected to look harmless to everyone else, and a threat to whoever it’s aimed at.
“Oh, no. You’re not sitting here today.”
For a few seconds, all Veronica does is blink, like she’s still processing the words, or how to respond to them. “Hm…Did- Did I do something wrong, Heather?”
“You’re just annoying me today, so go sit somewhere else,” Heather shoos her with her hands.
Veronica’s widened eyes make her look like a poor little puppy who knows it’s about to be kicked out. “Look, whatever I did to upset you, I’m sorry. I didn’t-”
“Veronica, the longer you stay here, the more you increase your chances of having me slap your face off,” Heather says in a sweet voice. “So scram, before I actually do it.”
Veronica glances at Heather and Heather, clearly searching for support, but since the two of them seem to be more interested in the items on their trays, she finds none. She sighs, grabs her lunch tray with an eye roll, and leaves. Heather watches as she sits alone at a faraway table and begins unfolding her sandwich, eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance like a sulking child. Part of Heather had assumed Veronica would walk over to Martha Dumptruck’s table, but it’s good to see Veronica still knows who to obey.
Curious eyes dart between the Heathers table and Veronica, hands over their mouths as they whisper, everyone clearly trying to make sense of it all. Obviously, Heather won’t tell them the real reason — I kicked Veronica Sawyer out of our group for a day because she killed me in my dream doesn’t make Heather sound very cool — but she likes to keep them guessing.
“What was that?” asks Heather Duke.
“Yeah, who pissed in your Cheerios this morning, Heather?” Heather McNamara snickers. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”
Heather turns to them, and the way they both recoil a bit isn't lost on her.
“No, I’m not. Now stop pulling on my dick, you two, or I’ll make you join her.”
Heather spends the next few minutes staring at Veronica, as subtly as she can. And that’s when she sees him. Sitting in the corner, half-lost in shadow, his trench coat blending into the dark. It’s him. The same dark hair, the same razor-sharp eyebrows, the same eyes that look like they can see straight through you. The guy who had appeared in her dreams, right next to Veronica, watching quietly as Heather died.
His face sends shivers down her spine—and another wave hits when his name rises to the tip of her tongue, unbidden.
Ever since Heather realized the past week had been a dream, she assumed he was, too. He had to be. Just something her mind made up, like the drain cleaner and the whole drama at the party. That’s normal, right? People make up other people in their dreams all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except he’s actually here. Actually real.
And he’s staring at Veronica, analyzing her like she’s a piece of meat and him a hungry predator.
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Heather doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but she knows she cannot let Veronica go near the guy. Alarm bells blare in Heather’s mind when she sees him getting up and starting to walk over to Veronica.
Oh, hell no.
Heather walks over to her, ignoring all the eyes that follow as she moves. She’s closer to Veronica than the guy is, so she gets there first. Her nerves calm down a little when that pubescent Dracula makes a face and turns around, walking back to his table. Crisis averted…for now. Heather nudges Veronica with her finger.
“Come on, you can go back to the table now.”
Veronica looks at her, surprise and relief clear on her face. “Really?”
“Yeah, your time out is over,” Heather says.
They start walking, and Heather feels it—the familiar weight of someone watching. She turns and finds him staring straight at her.
Heather grabs Veronica’s arm and leans in close. “Oh, and stay away from that trench coat freak. If anyone sees you with a guy who looks like a school shooter, they’ll assume you’ve got seriously low standards,” she says. Then, even quieter: “And between you and me? I have a feeling he is bad news.”