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Apr. 19th, 2006 03:08 pm"Do you think you're through being haunted?"
"I better be."
+ + +
Veronica wraps her arms around herself, and stares out the windows of the bus, sees the sky rushing past. The clouds are going up. Funny how that works. What's it called again? Gravity.
The voice from behind her is lacking in it.
"Kind of disappointing, huh? Not a suicide thing. Just a song I liked. That brings us back to you."
"To me?"
"It was a fun exercise. Probably a little comforting for a while, thinking it was someone else's fault. But it's not, is it? We're dead because of you."
Her head spins. When she looks down there's pen marks on her hand, again, scribbles spelling her own name, letters from the flesh of a dead man. It's her fault, her fault, the words sink in. Everything's falling apart, the bus is falling down, a phone is ringing.
He hands it to her.
"It's for you."
She takes it, doesn't open it. She knows it's Rhonda, that happy-fake voice,
("Where are you, loser?")
knows it's the trigger for the bomb, knows it's meant for her. Knows everything, knows nothing. The bomb is sitting beside her. It doesn't matter whether she answers or not. They're all dead.
They're all dead.
"I better be."
Veronica wraps her arms around herself, and stares out the windows of the bus, sees the sky rushing past. The clouds are going up. Funny how that works. What's it called again? Gravity.
The voice from behind her is lacking in it.
"Kind of disappointing, huh? Not a suicide thing. Just a song I liked. That brings us back to you."
"To me?"
"It was a fun exercise. Probably a little comforting for a while, thinking it was someone else's fault. But it's not, is it? We're dead because of you."
Her head spins. When she looks down there's pen marks on her hand, again, scribbles spelling her own name, letters from the flesh of a dead man. It's her fault, her fault, the words sink in. Everything's falling apart, the bus is falling down, a phone is ringing.
He hands it to her.
"It's for you."
She takes it, doesn't open it. She knows it's Rhonda, that happy-fake voice,
("Where are you, loser?")
knows it's the trigger for the bomb, knows it's meant for her. Knows everything, knows nothing. The bomb is sitting beside her. It doesn't matter whether she answers or not. They're all dead.
They're all dead.
