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One. Two. Three.
And...
JD's body is thrown backward in response to my silent count. But the sight that greets me isn't nearly as glorious as the one he promised me. Blood floods the clothes that once covered his stomach, and ash stains every inch of his skin and the ground around him. The image is the physical manifestation of his final downfall, one last reminder that there was nothing left in him that could be saved.
And that's what I try to keep in mind as I take a drag from my freshly lit cigarette.
Instead of the memories threatening to haunt me like a nightmare.
Or the realization that no one else would ever try to understand me the way he did.
That's why my hand barely trembles as I exhale the smoke from my mouth.
At the end of the day, I barely knew him.
I never really would have.
None of this should mean anything to me.
Jason Dean was just another idiot, potentially shitty guy on my list of high school boyfriends—a list made up entirely of idiots and half-assholes. That's all he was supposed to mean.
And, shit, I didn't want to get closer to his corpse.
But I knew it wasn't that simple.
The instinct telling me how important he'd been to me screamed when I hesitated to leave the crime scene. When I forced my heavy feet to carry me toward his body.
I kick aside pieces of plastic that had been blasted across the grass as I crouch beside him. Up close, I notice the burns across his stomach, wrapped in the remains of the electrical tape the suicidal idiot used to strap the bomb to himself.
It's hard to see anything clearly when all I can see is a sea of red.
None of it is beautiful.
Yet some force still draws me toward his rot, even after death.
"What the hell did you do to yourself, asshole?"
My voice comes out hoarse, carrying an ache so desperate to bring him back that it gnaws at me from the inside. I want to scream everything trapped inside my chest, but a stone lodged in my throat steals both my words and my breath.
And the feeling that refuses to leave finds its escape through the tears gathering in my eyes.
For the first time, I allow myself to cry.
I was truly alone.
This was different from everything that came before.
JD was more.
He meant more to me.
Far more than any of the other deaths.
What was I thinking, letting him do this?
I wipe my face with trembling hands as my entire body begins to weaken. Grief crashes into me alongside a deep sense of remorse.
Why didn't I try harder to stop him?
Why didn't I prevent all of this by simply giving myself to him as a sacrifice?
He was my salvation from this empty school, and I let him go because I was irrationally afraid of being exposed for what we'd done.
I take a deep breath and my eyes find his.
Still closed exactly as they were when the explosion happened, tense and squeezed shut as tightly as possible.
I narrow my gaze, trying to understand why they aren't relaxed.
The thought of him leaving this world in pain bothers me in an act of complete hypocrisy.
Jason Dean didn't deserve divine forgiveness.
And yet I would devote myself to heaven itself if it meant he was safe on the other side.
Protected by the same shelter he'd given me during our brief time together.
I focus on every vein standing out beneath his eyelids before recoiling at the sight of a faint twitch.
Shit.
What was that?
I stand and take a step back without looking away, nearly stumbling in the process.
Another twitch.
His eyes squeeze shut even harder.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Suddenly my feet are frozen in place, and all I can do is stare at what's happening in front of me.
My expression hardens.
The cigarette becomes tempting again, another quick way to smother my stress.
Everything connected to JD seems determined to drag me toward self-destruction. Still, I keep watching him as though I were the creator of some undead thing. As though, starting today, it were my responsibility to govern this anomaly.
"Help."
The word slips out in agony.
One.
Word.
Slips.
Out.
My not-quite-dead boyfriend is talking to me.
And now he depends on me to stay alive.
Somehow, that feels even worse than his supposed death.
What exactly are you supposed to do when your ex-boyfriend-crime-partner-murderer survives his redemptive suicide attempt and failed act of terrorism?
Call an ambulance?
The police?
Or skip straight to the funeral home and let them know I've just been handed a death sentence?
Because helping him wasn't simply about saving a life.
Nothing was ever that simple with Jason.
It meant admitting that I cared about someone utterly devoid of character and completely detached from morality.
It meant helping a potential teenage terrorist for selfish, ugly reasons.
My fingers shake as JD tries to spit out the blood pooling inside his mouth.
I have to do something now or he's going to die—and he knows it.
The way his head lifts in pain betrays a growing panic at the possibility that I might leave him like this. Ignoring the cold that bites at me as I take off my cardigan, I press the fabric against the wound in his stomach. His attention shifts toward me, revealing a flicker of surprise and disgust at my act of kindness. As if he couldn't understand why I was helping him. Truthfully, I should let him drown in this sea of red. Yet his pained groans and shaky breaths push me to help.
"JD, I don't know what to do."
The confession comes out desperate as I search around for help.
The tears keep falling, but now, with him watching, I feel humiliated. I desperately try to make myself useful somehow. But my efforts are worthless. I'm not helping him.
And he notices.
His fingers wrap around my wrist.
"Sorry..."
"Veronica?"
I turn at the sound of a deep voice calling my name.
The moment I recognize the principal standing at the top of the stairs, surrounded by curious students, my shoulders sag. I cry for help until my voice dissolves into sobs. The people staring at the scene don't understand my urgency.
They remain frozen, almost expressionless, as they watch me fall apart.
"What happened here? What was that noise?"
I crawl aside to give them a better look at the injured boy on the ground.
My blurred vision prevents me from seeing the figures approaching until they pass right through my field of view.
Then suddenly someone pulls me away from JD against my will.
I'm swallowed by a crowd of students who blur together into one indistinct mass. None of them try to comfort me. None of them try to stop the tears running uncontrollably down my face.
Everyone's attention is fixed on Jason Dean's body as three teachers lift him from the ground.
Including mine.
I watch him anxiously, my jaw trembling. I know they're taking him somewhere he can be treated.
But some irrational part of me wants to scold them for taking him out of my reach. Another part wants to scold me for being an idiot.
For being such an idiot that I couldn't even stop him from doing something as stupid as blowing himself up.
JD was wrong when he said I had more power than he thought.
I don't have.
I never did.
I depended on him for that.
Before him, I depended on Heather for it.
When I'm alone, I'm too responsible for everything I do. There's no one else to blame. Only me. Every bad decision. Every impulse too immoral for the image I try to maintain. The cost always falls on me. Never on anyone else.
JD has to survive this.
The thought echoes through my head and drowns out everything else.
He's strong. He made it this far with three bullet wounds. He can survive a little explosion.
Unlike him, I don't have any choice except his survival.
Jason Dean was smart enough to outmaneuver blowing up a school.
He was resilient enough to endure every injury thrown at him.
But me?
I can't even overcome my own bitterness without him.