So this is my version of a continuation of season 2A (which, by the way, was totally amazing). It's a bit dark and deals with themes such as cutting and depression so turn away if you can't handle reading those types of stories.

And as for whether there will be Brallie…yeah. There will be. I'm not gonna bother lying about it. BUT I'm not putting the spotlight on them 200% of the time (I personally find that extremely annoying). That's why I didn't really bother mentioning it in the summary, their romance isn't really the main focus (although it will play a part later on).

Disclaimer: I don't own The Fosters, Bradley Bredeweg Peter Paige do.


"You're not my sister, you're a spoiled little brat."

The more that sentence was repeated, the deeper the knife kept sinking into my heart. I'd royally screwed up, yes, but couldn't she see that my decisions were made out of love?

"You're not my sister."

No, she wouldn't, she never would, because I knew for sure that Callie officially hated me with every fibre of her being. Forget sisters, I was nothing but a stranger who ruined her wish of getting adopted into her dream family, a family that loved her unconditionally and vice-versa. I ripped apart the abandonment papers and tore her away from her brother.

Our blood relation meant nothing anymore.

Or maybe it never had any meaning from the beginning.

I have always been a screwup and today proved that I would forever remain a screwup. My entire existence was a screwup in its own. My mother was never satisfied no matter the number straight A's I got or how many trophies I brought.

Maybe I should just go ahead and do the deed, take myself away from this merciless world. There was a razor just inches from my reach. The bottle of pills weren't too far away either.

That would probably be the first thing I ever did right.

And also the last.

Well, at least I'd have peace of mind knowing I made a good choice.

But can I really go through with it? Can I really pierce and mutilate my skin into oblivion until I drain myself of blood? Can I really swallow eighty pills at once?

Do I have the guts to do it?

"You're not my sister."

The words hit me again for the millionth time, but the pain never dulled.

"You're not my sister."

I made a decision. Reached for the small blade.

"You're not my sister."

Each time I thought about it more, the cold blade sank deeper and deeper, as if wanting to cut right through my very soul.

I no longer thought straight, I didn't want to think anymore. I wanted everything to be over with, I wanted out of this world.

I grabbed the razor and cut right across my palm. I felt nothing but a cold, cutting, painless numbness. I cut my other arm, and was about to make another cut when I realized that everyone deserved an explanation.

God, can't I do anything right? I'm still acting like a total screwup.

Well, at least I thought about it before it was too late.

So I shut and opened cupboards, frantically looking for something to express what I'm feeling right now, what I had always been feeling. I found an old biro pen and a piece of plain white paper. I held the pen as steady as I could, my hand bloodied and the pen trying to escape from my grip, and I wrote down anything that came to mind, drops of bright red dripping on the fresh paper.

And so I continued to slice at my flesh until I blacked out from the blood loss, hoping that this is the final time I would be going to sleep.

Forever.