Disclaimer: 'Daria' is owned by a hellova lotta people, none of em me, and if you sue all you'll get out of it is a linty green penny and a worn out pair of chucks. Leave me to my poverty.
Winter Hearts: She Tries To Breathe
A Daria Fanfic
When Kevin meandered into Brittany's room she was perched on the window seat, one leg propped up, writing in her diary. Her face was, to him, unusually serious and she seemed to be adrift in the sea of deep thought. As Kevin moved closer, Brittany stopped writing and brought her left hand up to idly twirl her hair in an absent manner. Along her forearm were what appeared to be a series of long scratches, some of which dripped with fresh blood. The Quarter Back's simple face creased in a frown as he closed the door behind him.
"Hey babe. What happened to your arm?"
Brittany's head snapped around at the squeaky voice, eyes unusually sharp and void of the emptiness which usually glazed the rich blue orbs. When she registered Kevin's presence she pulled down the sleeve of the maroon turtleneck she wore and unconsciously rubbed her sweaty palms against the legs of her faded blue jeans. She shrugged and smiled with as much vacant cheer as she could muster.
"You know how Miss Kitty is, she gets cranky when I try to hold her too long." And you'll just believe it, won't you? Kevvie? Her expression darkened slightly, but naturally, Kevin didn't notice.
Kevin's large calloused hand stole out and gently grasped Brittany's wrist as his other hand carefully peeled the sleeve back. The soft fabric yielded easily and Kevin's face was pulled tight in a frown as he studied the angry red slashes along his girlfriend's creamy skin.
"Wow, your cat really must've been ticked off. These look nasty, babe. Maybe you should go to the doctor and get them looked at?"
Brittany's expression softened at the genuine concern in his boyish voice. She extracted her arm gently and once again covered the disturbing sight.
"It's okay, Kevvie. I'll be fine." That's right, blondie. You just keep telling yourself that, and maybe one of these days it'll be true.
That thought immediately brought the disconsolate teen back to that night at the club, when, in search of herself and something to cling too besides the empty comforts of everyday routine, Brittany had dyed her hair black and draped herself in clothes that more closely matched her state of mind. Maybe she hadn't made the best choice of companions that night, but the end result –spending time with Jane and her friends with no threat of social alienation– had been well worth the trouble... and the vomit. She found herself suddenly yearning for such a drastic change, and wondered when she would next get a chance to run down to Drugs and Stuff.
"Hey, where's your cat, anyway? It's never around when I'm here." Kevin glanced around the room as if expecting it to reveal itself at any moment. Brittany fought the urge to grab one of the heavy boots from the floor beside her and beat the oblivious football player over the head with it until he lost consciousness. She managed to restrain herself and toyed with her pen, a fur-topped pink monstrosity, in an effort to retain her bubbly blond facade.
"Kevvie, you know Miss Kitty doesn't like boys."
One good thing about Kevin was that he took any explanation at face value, no matter how absurd, and never argued. The dim bulb of Lawndale High grinned his empty grin and scratched his head. As usual, he thumped himself rather loudly and, also as usual, Brittany listened for the rattle of his pea-sized brain within the vast cavern of his skull. Again, she heard nothing, thus confirming that his head was, indeed, empty.
"Oh, yeah! Hey, d'you think your cat's one of those, you know, thespians?" The beleaguered cheerleader felt her cheek twitch and, face carefully blank, she turned back to the refuge of her diary. She barely noticed Kevin sit down on her bed and pick up one of her stuffed animals, a pink bunny with blue button eyes.
"Yes, Kevin." she muttered darkly through clenched teeth. "My non-existent cat is an actress who avoids all men because when they're around, she gets pissed and scratches the shit out of me. Because that's believable, isn't it?"
For a long moment, silence reigned in the Taylor household. The only sound within that silence was the furious scratch of Brittany's pen against paper and finally, the long, relieved sigh as said pen was placed tenderly between the pages of the diary and put aside. Timidly, almost guiltily Brittany's sapphire gaze was drawn past her bed to the small night stand which stood beside it. Within those drawers sat vials and vials of medication; uppers, downers, mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, painkillers and sleeping pills. An impressive arsenal, all provided for her by her very own father, through connections better left unnamed. The army that helped her fight the losing battle against her empty life, a little less effective each day. But...
Brittany looked down at her diary and smiled softly, reached a perfectly manicured hand down to caress the pink cover tenderly. This was her real protection. Within the hard covers of that little pink book stood the only thing keeping her from filling the void with twelve vials of colorful emptiness, all at once. Her stories. Her poetry. Her creations.
Unbidden, a face framed by a pair of thick black glasses smirked at the lost girl from within her mind. Large blue eyes blinked, then lowered sadly. Daria. How ironic that the most alienated girl in town was the one --one of the only ones-- who could truly understand how she felt? They shared a passion, those two girls from opposite ends of society's tightrope, and if she had the chance, the courage, Brittany would reach out across the abyss and take Daria's hand in friendship. Daria Morgendorfer was, perhaps, the only girl alive who might not only understand the verses which filled that absurd little book, but might actually appreciate them. And then...
A girl with an angular, feline face and short black hair appeared beside Daria, an identical smirk on her red lips. And then there was Jane. An artist, someone who thought in whorls of colors and shapes, in tones of emotion and a spectrum of raw material rather than words and phrases. They'd been going to school together for their entire lives. If anyone saw the change in Brittany, saw the pain reflected in her glazed eyes during the agonizing, near-insufferable hours she spent at school and football games, pep rallies and all other manner of inane school functions, it would be Jane Lane. She saw the world in a different light. Artists breathed pain; they could recognize it anywhere.
Movement out of the corner of her eye drew Brittany's attention to the window. On the street below, she watched with an ache of longing as a group of perhaps six girls and boys dressed almost entirely in black walked down the street, joking and laughing loudly. They knew who they were, didn't care what anyone thought and apologized for nothing. How she envied them. One of the girls happened to glance up as they passed the house. Black eyes met blue and locked in place. Andrea was struck by the pain and longing in Brittany Taylor's gaze and couldn't help but be drawn to it; without really realizing what she was doing, Andrea smiled sadly and waved. Surprised and touched, Brittany waved back.
A touch on her arm brought the girl back to her bedroom and she glanced up into a pair of childishly cheerful eyes. Kevin. How long had he been here?
"Hey Britt, you wanna head to Pizza King and grab a slice?" The genuine affection in those eyes made Brittany sad and guilty. He didn't know the life he was living wasn't his own. But what other choice did he have? What other choice did she? "I'll even order that cheeseless veggie pizza you like, my treat."
With a small sigh, Brittany nodded. Who knew? Maybe a slice of hot pizza would help to warm the winter cold that had taken residence in her heart. Still... She glanced longingly back at the window seat, the book which lay upon it and the street beyond the clear glass where a empathetic Goth girl had unknowingly given a lost cheerleader the hope she needed.
She wouldn't get her hopes up.
A gust of errant wind blew through Brittany Taylor's bedroom as the door swung shut behind her. Left unattended on the cushioned seat, a small pink book blew open and the pages fluttered until a passage, marked with a repellant animal-print pen lay open to the stuffed bunny sitting beside it.
She tries to breathe.
The water is pounding against her, weakening her with every blow. There is nothing to hold on to, and perhaps that is for the best. The water pulls at her legs, and at the same time pushes her upward. She feels as though she is being stretched, but her body has been pulled as far as it will go. How long can she hold out before she is rent in two?
And still, she tries to breathe.
There is a hand extended to her, just within reach. But she does not reach out for it. She watches its owner's shocked and dismayed expression as she is swept further downstream, and she smiles a bit. Is it an apologetic smile, or perhaps a rueful smile at the Owner's presumption that assistance was needed? The smile fades as she is pulled under momentarily, and gags as her head once again breaks the surface. Her eyes are blinded by brutally cold water, her face bruised from the savage onslaught. Her mouth is half-filled with mud and liquid, and she fights to remain conscious. Her chin drops lower and lower until it rests in the water, mouth mere inches from the surface. This struggle can last no more than the time it takes to blink, yet her eyes cannot be seen. Are they open? No, perhaps they are closed. Alas, it cannot be seen, as she is lost in the current.
And somehow this river has become an ocean.
Yet, she tries to breathe.
End
A/N: First things first. Cutting is bad, as is drug abuse of any kind. If you're depressed or know someone who is, take the steps to get help.
This was my first Daria fic. If it sucked, who cares? I did it cuz I felt like it. Review if you like, tell me what you thought and if you think I should expand this story into a series or leave it as is. NO FLAMES. Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated.
The passage "Lost In The Current" is copyright Josette Henriquez 2005
As always, all flames will be used to roast the marshmallows.
Later days.