Veronica's musings on death.
Then you hear it on the radio, that Lynn Echolls just stepped off the Coronado Bridge into the Pacific, and a part of you (and not as tiny as you'd prefer to pretend) is jealous. That night, when you're lying in bed, memorizing the ceiling, covers pulled tight to your chin, you imagine doing it. Staring at the ocean bleeding into the sky bleeding into the ocean. Blue blue blue. Feeling the concrete under your feet then feeling nothing at all, nothing but the wind tugging your hair and that drop in your stomach you can feel just lying in bed, memorizing the ceiling, covers pulled tight to your chin. You'd love to disappear into all that blue.
But you know it's not that easy. Or graceful. That a swan dive from that height would crush you on impact. Blood, shredded skin, shattered bones. And then you feel guilty for wanting it (more than you'd prefer to pretend) and nauseous from imagining so much red in all that blue. You have to laugh at yourself, even though there's nothing funny at all, because you've kind of become obsessed with death. It happened sometime after Lilly. After you saw Lilly (/ohgodohgod/) crumpled, staring, drowning in her own blood and blond hair, staining the pavement, missing half her skull (/ohgodohgod/). You can't stop thinking about it. In the shower, with the faucet spitting hard and hot and burning your skin, you imagine drowning. During math class, you envision yourself playing tag in rush hour traffic. You start to realize anyone could go at any second. Dad's heart could just stop beating while chasing a bail jumper in Arizona. A vein in Wallace's head might explode while he's shooting a free throw. A speeding car could easily flatten Backup. Your mother might be curled around a toilet in a motel room, skin seeping alcohol. You could have some seriously fatal blood disease. You could go at any second. And sometimes, when you don't, you're disappointed (more than you'd prefer to pretend). But it's only for a second, and then you remember Dad. Wallace.Backup, too. And your mother you hate to love, love to hate. Fucking /Logan/, whose mother is blood, shredded skin, shattered bones in the blue blue red of the Coronado Bridge's horizon, and who was just at your door wrapped in a coat and his own arms, grasping an engraved flask, grasping the tiniest glimmer of hope.
And now you're understanding. You're surviving (more than you could ever pretend). You really are ok. Resilient and stubborn. Not so fucking invincible but still breathing, still beating, still breaking. Still.