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CHAPTER SIXTY TWO good mourning. season six, episodes one and two.
tw: severe depressive episodes, alcohol as a coping mechanism, very brief mention of not eating, grief, & strong religious beliefs.
before you continue, please try to remember that your health & safety are more important than reading a fanfiction. if any of the mentioned warnings may be triggering to you, please skip to the next chapter or proceed with caution. <3
CASSIE DIDN'T BELIEVE IN HEAVEN. Truthfully, she didn't believe in god at all; at least, not the god she grew up with. God was supposed to be gracious, loving, and merciful. God was supposed to be fair. When she was a child, Cassie's mom told her that god gave his children not what they want, but what they need.
That's how Cassie knew for a fact that god wasn't real. Because in what twisted, fucked up universe did Cassie need her best friend to die?
Holding a nearly empty bottle of tequila in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, Cassie stared blankly into the mirror above the sink, her gaze fitting over the black dress she wore. She actually went out to the store to buy it, because she threw out her other funeral dresses after Denny died.
Cassie snorted at the memory, and the fact that she was so naive as to think she didn't need them anymore.
Bringing the scissors up to her hair, she made a harsh cut, chopping off a few inches at the middle of her chest. She tilted her head, the gaunt paleness of her face making her feel sick.
Not liking the length, she chopped another inch off, humming in satisfaction as she did the same on the other side. Haphazardly dusting her hair off of the counter and onto the floor, she left the mess for someone else to clean up.
With one last look in the mirror, Cassie exited the dimly lit bathroom, hopping back up on her favorite stool as she flagged the bartender down.
"Joe," she slurred, dramatically waving a hand in the air. "Another alcohol, please. Oh, and here's your scissors back."
Joe made his way over to her, frowning as he snatched the sharp object out of her drunken grasp. "Where did you even get these?"
She shrugged, taking one last sip as she finished off the bottle in her hand. "Saw them behind the counter, took them from behind the counter," she gestured to her hair, "voilá."
Observing her current state, Joe reluctantly handed her another shot of tequila — which he slyly cut with water when she wasn't looking — as he turned around to serve another customer.
