Disclaimer: I do not own nothing
A/N: Okay, I don't really write this sort of stuff, but I figured I'd have a go at trying to write a sort of dark fic. I know Tawni Hart probably doesn't feel any of these things, but that's not the point, I feel like it's an okay idea (I'm sorry if other people find it rubbish), and I'm kind of proud of it.
Summary: 'She knew deep down, this day had to come. The day when being pretty just wasn't good enough.' Tawni centric fic, slight mentions of Channy, semi-dark Rated T for cutting, swearing and depression.
'You are pretty'
Nothing.
'You ARE pretty,'
She tries again,
Still nothing.
Tawni Hart stares blankly at herself in the mirror,
Feeling a mixture of emotions seep through her veins and burn the edges of her nerves.
She feels angst,
Pain,
Fear (she feels lots of fear),
Despair,
Depression,
Disappointment.
But she doesn't feel surprised.
Tawni Hart's too smart to feel surprised.
She knew deep down,
This day had to come.
The day when being pretty just wasn't good enough.
The day when some all-round goddess would swoop in and steal everything she had.
The day when Tawni Hart would become second best.
It wasn't so bad when it was just her and Portlyn.
Portlyn was pretty, but she was too dumb to use it to her best advantage.
She did have nice legs though…
Tawni remembers her mother saying that when she came round to visit the studio.
Tawni Hart sighed.
Ms Hart – recent divorcee and full-fledged debutante.
How disappointed she'd be in Tawni,
After everything she'd sacrificed,
Everyone she'd bribed,
Every single deed she'd done in an attempt to make her daughter successful.
To make her daughter pretty.
Ms Hart would be very disappointed.
But she wouldn't be surprised.
She knew Tawni Hart would never be good enough.
That she'd never make it to the top.
That she'd never be well and truly perfect.
Because perfection required more than being just pretty:
It required being kind,
Being nice,
Being sociable,
Being honest,
Being trustworthy.
Tawni Hart was not perfect by anyone's standards.
She feels her lips purse into a thin line at that statement.
It's Not Fair.
It's not fair that Tawni's wasted her life away by trying,
Trying and Trying and Trying.
And Failing.
It's not fair that every time she falls,
Every single stinkin' time she falls,
She has to be the one to pick herself up and glue herself back together.
In the hopes that someday, she'll do it.
Someday, she'll be perfect.
And no one bothers to tell her that day will never come.
Because no one cares enough to help her.
To try and stop the pain she has to endure every single day.
To tell her that she's perfect.
After all, her life's wrapped up around lies – so what's one more going to hurt?
It's not fair how Sonny's perfect.
How Sonny's got everything that you need to be perfect.
How Sonny just sits there and wastes it.
It's not fair how Sonny's the best.
How she's better than Tawni in every way, shape and form.
How she's good enough for Chad Dylan Cooper.
It's not fair.
God, Tawni feels like curling up into a ball now.
Clamping herself together so tight that she just disappears of the radar.
Tawni wishes she could disappear.
She feels like crying,
Like screaming,
Tearing herself into pieces.
Just so people know that she's there,
That she knows that she's there.
She wakes up screaming in the middle of the night,
Silently, of course.
So that the press don't start any weird rumours.
Because that's all Tawni is:
A product.
A global stir in the media.
Destined to liven things up and eventually fade away.
You see, it's never really about Tawni Hart;
She's just a crowd pleaser,
A dunce,
An opening act.
The forgotten verse in a song.
And all Tawni wants,
All she actually wants is for someone to look at her.
To ask her how she is,
To care.
Sometimes, when she walks down the corridor – she passes the Mackenzie Falls' studio.
Sometimes she passes him in the hallways.
Him in all his egoistical, blonde haired, blue eyed glory.
And, just for a split second,
He looks at her.
He really looks at her,
And, just for a split second, she thinks he can see her.
See her cries for help,
The teardrops on her lashes,
The bags under her eyes;
The red marks on her wrists.
But then he blinks, shakes his head, and walks off.
And she's left alone.
Tawni Hart's lonely.
She's actually crying by now,
She can't help herself,
She's a failure as an actress.
The tears keep rolling down her cheeks,
Scarring her soul;
She feels like yelling: 'HELP ME I'M LONELY'
But what's the point?
No one cares.
No one's ever cared.
She stares at the red marks on the palm of her right hand,
She wonders:
'How can people not know?'
How can people not know what's going on?
How can they just ignore the blood stains on her sweaters?
The pocket knife in her make-up drawer?
The lines that slice through her veins?
How can people not know?
She's reaching for the naked blade now,
Hidden under her MAC blusher.
Cut, Cut, Cut.
The blood pours freely down her wrist.
Oh shit! She's wearing a white top.
But it doesn't matter,
No one'll notice.
No one ever notices.
Screw you, screw you, screw you…
She thinks to herself, watching the blood drip onto her faded black jeans.
Tawni Hart's decided she likes blood.
No matter who you are, it always looks the same.
There's no such thing as perfect blood.
It's comforting to know that,
If she can't be the best on the outside,
At least she's even by blood.
I bet Sonny doesn't cut herself,
A voice shrieks at the back of Tawni's brain.
It's her supposed conscience.
Tawni's given up on listening to her conscience.
Her conscience told her that she was fine,
That she was good enough.
Tawni Hart's conscience tells lies.
Tawni Hart tells lies.
She lies to everyone that she's fine,
That she's happy,
That everything's perfect.
It's never perfect.
Nothing about Tawni Hart is perfect, remember?
Her legs are trembling now,
She's tired,
She wants to give up.
Too bad she can't.
Tawni Hart sold her soul the minute she walked into Condor Studios.
She wants to leave.
She needs to leave.
Because, she has nothing left to offer Hollywood and Hollywood has nothing left to offer her.
It's the end of the road for Tawni Hart.
And she's sick of clutching onto the spare straws that make up the Hollywood dream.
Tawni Hart hates the Hollywood dream.
Because she'll never be good enough to live it.
'Could the cast of So Random! Please report to set.'
Tawni Hart hides the blade,
Washes her wrist under the sink,
Puts on a cardigan,
Reapplies her make up
And picks up the shattered pieces that make up her life.
Plastering on a pretty smile,
She follows Zora calmly to set.
In the end, that smile's all that Tawni Hart is and ever will be:
Pretty, but not good enough.