Veronica

It was quiet that night, while I sat on my corduroy chair. Quiet before the storm they forecasted this
morning. Dusk had settled over my town of Sleepy Sorrows, South Dakota, and in my quiet town on this
quiet night, one could hear the somber wolves howling in the forest all around. That’s part of the reason I
like it here. A man can sit and think about things that aren’t all that important to the flow of the world,
and can do things that aren’t life or death. In the city, it’s all drama, life and death. The honking and the
shouting and…
And the killing.

The killing is why I came here. I came here to keep the killing at the end of a ten-mile pole. I don’t need
to hear someone talking about the killing every morning while I’m drinking my coffee. I don’t need to
hear someone talking about the killing every afternoon when someone has nothing to do and there isn’t a
presidential election on. I don’t need to hear someone talking about the killing every night while I’m
drinking my whiskey. I don’t need to hear anyone talking about the killing.
I take my whiskey in my hand and swirl it around a bit. Whiskey’s my only companion in this lonely
room. It understands me in a way that no one else could, no one else would. I’ve considered letting
Veronica in here, but I’m never content with myself while she’s in room. So it’s whiskey’s and mine, this
lonely room of ours.
If I sit here long enough, and drink enough whiskey, Veronica will come in anyway. She has this
annoying habit of doing such. I don’t invite her in, though. She just decides that she’ll break my one rule.
I push her out as fast as I can, trying to make sure that my room doesn’t collapse. She’s clumsy that way.
Breaks everything in her path.

Sometimes I wonder why she does it. Why she breaks the rule. No one in all of Sleepy Sorrows
doesn’t know the rule, and no one in all of Sleepy Sorrows breaks it. My room is for two people;
myself and whiskey. But Veronica… Veronica always finds her way inside.

Sometimes she just sits and stares at me. Unflinching, undaunted and unsavory. Sometimes she’ll
dance around me doing the waltz all alone, with no partner. Sometimes she’ll kiss me on the head,
and I wonder why she hasn’t simply left yet.

And sometimes she’ll scream.

It curdles the blood, that scream. Sends goosebumps up and down the spine. She doesn’t seem to care
though. She wouldn’t, it’s just how she is. I try to make her care, make her understand. This room is
for whiskey and myself, and nobody else. She doesn’t seem to care. She never seems to care.
Why doesn’t she care?

I can hear the door creak open. I stand up this time. Sleepy Sorrows is beautiful at this time of night.
I turn to the door to tell her she needs to leave.

It’s closed.
I never heard it close.

“Veronica?”

I’ve never spoken to her before. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I have, but the occasions in
which I am required to are few and far between these days. She never responds when I do. She may be
one of those people who doesn’t choose to talk, or maybe it’s to send me a message. There are times
when I wonder why I keep her around. A choice mute who does nothing but go bump in the night.
Not the most wonderful person to keep my company.

I sit back in my corduroy chair when the first clap of thunder sounds off, and a crack of lightning can
be seen to the distance. So much for quiet. I take another sip of my whiskey. Veronica should be here
any minute. Screams are commonplace in thunderstorms. Still, as the rain begins to pour, Sleepy
Sorrows is the quiet little town it always is.
I can see the Kennedys entering their lot from my window, in their old Lincoln Continental. It’s a
wonderful car, that Lincoln. You can barely see it in the darkness of the storm, with its dark paint and
all. Mr. Kennedy exits the car with the nonchalance of a casino owner in his black suit, and Ms.
Kennedy, his trophy wife, looks just the part. With all the black, it almost felt like a funeral.
The door creaks again.
Rather than stand this time, I turn to view the door from the comfort of my corduroy chair.
“Veronica.”
Almost as though she read my mind, she’s dressed in a black dress like Ms. Kennedy, stunning as she
ever could be. She’s never dressed this way. She’s usually in that hoodie and sweats look from the
night we met. She struts towards me, confident and powerful, and runs her black-gloved hand over my
shoulder.
“Do I look nice?” She asks.
I’m taken aback by the question.
“Y-yes. Yes, of course. You always look nice.”
“I bought this dress the other day.” She says as she circles my chair with grace.
“You did?”
“I bought it for you.” She runs her hand over my neck.
“T-Thank you.”
“Do I look nice?” She asks again
This confuses me.
“Yes, I already said so.”
She stops in front of me and moves forward, and all I can do is think of is the city. The drama.
“I bought this dress the other day.”
Her knee graces my leg as she begins her approach, and I think of the honking.
“I bought it for you.”
Her hands move up my chest, and I think of the shouting.
“Do I look nice?
Her eyes look into mine, and I think of the killing.
Oh, the killing.
I’ll always remember the killing.