You Do Belong.

FlorMorada

I do NOT own Victorious.

...

Part One of Two.

Caterina Valentine sighed as she leant her head against the wall, attempting to fight the urge to inhale all the oxygen in this ridiculously tiny room and just scream - something she hadn't really done since the first few months of her fifteen year old life, like any other baby. Her attempt was a success, however; the girl knew that if she did scream, an adult would come running in and she'd be in trouble.

If Cat had a knife, she'd have slit her wrists right about now. Ended her life before the constant misery in it had a chance to consume her into a death-like state anyway...like this room was consuming her personal space. Dying would be better; Cat was always sure of that. Although she was completely clueless as to where she'd end up, if or when she'd killed herself, she was positive she'd be happier there than living as a...a half-alive existence here.

(The reason as to why Cat felt this way, a question seemingly always in thought, even Cat herself was unsure of. A 'dark' feeling, before depression, had just taken over her from the age of eight, before her actual depression a few years later, and ever since.)

Although presently 'bladeless', the red haired girl had been lucky enough to find her way into the kitchen some nights and drag a knife across her forearm a few times - never sure of having enough time to go deep enough to end her life, however. And even if Cat somehow managed to take a knife into her bedroom to do it there, she'd be instantly found out anyway. Not just by the dozens of security cameras hidden around the place, but the people here were trained to be on the lookout for 'that' type of activity... The possibility of an adult finding her and stopping the bleeding, Cat supposed, keeping her alive, which would result in them then probably tying her wrists together to stop a suicide attempt again…would be more unbearable than dying itself.

Although, there'd always be other ways.

Cat could always…lock herself in the gym one evening and hang herself with one of the climbing ropes. For a small girl, Cat had quite strong arms; she could easily get to the rope which would do her best…'worst'. Or, Cat thought, she could do something more thrilling, like sneak outside at the dead of night for...for 'air', and, stepping onto the road, get 'accidently' hit-and-instantly-killed-with-no-chance-of-surviva l-whatsoever' by a car...'accidently'. Or, Cat laughed dryly, she could even just go with the common overdose. She was sure the dozens of pills she'd been demanded to take were close to exceeding some sort of limit...saving her meds for a couple of months then swallowing them all at once would be more than easy enough.

The girl let out a humourless chuckle. There were many ways Cat could (at least attempt to) end her life, many. And, if she really tried, no one could really stop her. Just a knife, or a rope, or a few handfuls of pills, and she'd be done.

Dead.

...The small girl suddenly felt a wave of uneasiness take over her. The realisation of knowing she'd just been musing on how to kill herself sent a cold feeling to the pit of her stomach.

She'd done this before; lost herself in a daze of knives and pills and death, but knowing she could do it so casually still made her feel uncomfortable.

Cat angrily bit down on her lip.

It was because she did stuff like this, because she had thoughts like this, that, as much as she hated admitting it, proved that maybe people were right…maybe she did belong here.

A tired sigh escaped her lips. The girl had only been in this place for a week and a half yet already she was questioning her sanity - just as the people here wanted you to do.

Quickly wiping a hand across her watery eyes (oh...allergies...), Cat pushed stood up from her bed. She walked over to her tiny excuse of a dressing table, sitting down on the stool, before picking up her brush, beginning to comb through her hair. There wasn't anything better to do. Cat had a free period and her next lesson started in an hour, so she was sure there was not a thing more time-filling to do than doing nothing, like absent mindedly brushing her hair.

Or, perhaps this place had just drilled into her brain how important it was to do nothing too much; be 'normal', act 'normal', neither of which she thought she had the ability to do.

Cat leant to the side slightly, her white shirt sleeve sliding down her arm as she did so, and her gaze was immediately drawn to the small expanse of once flawless, once perfect, white skin...or the little that was left of it.

The girl's wrist was now scarred with stripes of discoloured white, pale stripes of pink, some even deep maroon - the last time she'd cut was just...a few days ago. Or yesterday, last night. (Who cared about when last? Cat sure didn't.) She stared at her arm, analysing the dozens of scars - to Cat, an unwritten diary.

Cutting was an art to her. A sick art, but an art, nevertheless; a way to almost vocalise her emotions. Her wrists, her thighs, her stomach; all places Cat could slice her feelings into, carve her emotions, unbeknown to her friends, family, the world. Her cutting was not only a release, Cat mused, but she could express herself, and she always cherished the feeling. That freedom as the blade would pierce her skin, as she dragged the knife across in lines, drawing rivers of scarlet on a bed of white. She simply loved creating the 'masterpieces' - those lines, those crosses, the words. Simply the sight of her blood was enough to slow her racing mind sometimes, but overall, just how she felt when she cut.

It was sick; Cat knew. But she loved it.

Placing her hairbrush onto the wooden table again, the girl scrutinised the imperfections even more (it was only the cutting she 'loved'...the marks from it were far from perfect). Cat pushed her sleeve up higher. More scars, more cuts, more proof of her eternal hurt...she grazed her fingertips over them. A small sound escaped from her, first heard, probably much like a laugh, but Cat knew herself - it was a cry. Staring at each line, each cross, each 'masterpiece', 'unwritten diary' 'entry'...Cat suddenly thought her scars were almost repulsive. They..they disgusted her.

Shedisgusted herself.

'Cutter'. Even the word sounded vile, a word Cat supposed best described herself. There was no real wonder as to why the Hollywood Arts population categorised the girl as demented - the demeanour of a self mutilating psycho was more revealing than a cut could ever be. She'd looked crazy because she was crazy - there needn't be a scar or such to prove it.

Yes, she loved cutting...but there wasn't way in which she loved what it'd caused her - moving her from Hollywood Arts and landing her a place here.

Cat changing school, on the one hand, was good...but it didn't mean that the world outside this place would change. Cat would always 'be crazy', at Hollywood Arts, or here - anywhere in the world. Plus, when she would one day step foot out of here, she'd still really be the same...no, she wouldn't have changed either. Still, her wrists would have to be adorned with dozens of her 'pretty bracelets'. Still, she'd have to 'hate water' - her reason for her constant swimming inability (it wasn't as if she was terrified of revealing her scars or anything). Still, a smile would have to be stretched across her face, to hide her hurt. Her pain.

Just as they had all done for the past two years.

Plus...cutting in itself? Another reminder that Cat maybe did belong here... Despite months of angry tears, insisting not only to her family but to her friends that she was 'fine!', that she didn't belong in 'places like this'…perhaps it wasn't so.

Although she'd shouted and fought and screamed that there was nothing wrong…perhaps she was trying to fool herself.

Not admit to herself that something...was wrong.

Not admit to herself that she, her thoughts, her actions, her mind...were wrong.

She needed mental help and could not deny it.

...

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Part two will be up tomorrow or Friday, whether I have 10 reviews or 5 reviews or none. :)

…Too much to ask for, maybe, 3 though?

FlorMorada.