A/N: I Do Not Own Victorious

All I can remember that night was that I was riding my bike across town.

By the time I reached MidCity Park, it's like my body went into auto gear. I couldn't control myself. I kept riding. Riding like my life depended on it. I reached the beginning of the boardwalk and 100 feet in front of me was the edge of the pier. There was no one around, it was already 2 AM and the drunks had gone home to sleep. It was Sunday night. No one would be that wasted enough to show up at work tomorrow with a total hangover. No one but me.

Here I was, 21 years old, with a bottle of Jack in one hand and holding the rail with another. I set my bike on the concrete, picked myself up off the ground, and stood shakily on the rails. I let the cool ocean breeze slap my heated skin from the bottle of alcohol I had been drinking all night. I took one last sip of my whiskey and dropped it. I let the bottle freefall all the way to the bottom of the pier. The broken glass spread across the shore, thousands of tiny twinkling pieces from the reflection of the moonlight. Even if it was the shore below, it was about a 65-foot drop, 30 feet higher than your average pier. That's because the tide was stronger on this side of the beach, so the boardwalk had to be elevated higher. Needless to say, if I jump, my body would end up just like the broken glass of whiskey down there.

I didn't think that earlier today I'd be in this position. I didn't think it would come down to this. But then again, what else was there to live for? Nothing. So why not jump? I've been dreaming about this same predicament lately, and during this time usually my alarm clock would go off, or I'd wake up in a cold sweat. But pinch me right now and I wasn't dreaming. This was all real. Nothing was going to wake me up.

Except myself.

~.~.~.~.~

"I don't know how it all happened. The past half hour was just a blur."

"You can't remember anything?"

"Well, I do remember crying. Just lying in a ball and crying. Then I came here."

"Well I'm glad you came here."

"But I want to kill myself."

"I know you do, but you didn't."

"I need help."

"That's what I'm here for."

"No, I don't need more therapy. I need serious help. Can't you give me more medicine or something?"

"I don't think medicine is the issue here."

"Well then help me."

"Okay. How about you come here every day for 3 hour sessions for a while, then when you feel better, we can go back to once a w-"

"No. Therapy won't work."

"You're not suicidal."

"YES I AM! I was about to jump off the pier!"

"But you didn't. There's a difference. You're depressed."

"What difference does it make?! Whether I'm depressed or suicidal, I just want to kill myself."

I got up from my seat and started pulling roughly on my hair. I paced the room back and forth and my therapist just sat there. She let me do this, she knew me so well. She knew I'd never jump.

"Look, Doc. Just because I won't jump doesn't mean I don't want to. Maybe not today, but one of these days we won't have another session like this because I'll have jumped and died."

"Yes, see but you've been making so much progress. This is the first time you've actually physically tried to harm yourself but you didn't. I don't know why you're waiting, but there must be a reason why. And I can help you figure that out."

"But I don't want to just sit here and talk for hours. How is that helping me?"

"Well then what do you want?"

"I want help. Can't you check me in to a psychiatric ward or something?"

"You're not in that condition to be checked in."

"How do you know that?!"

"Because I work at a ward and you've got so much progress just going to these sessions with me than you will there."

"But Doc, what if I need to be with people around me that I can relate to?"

"You are around people you can relate to. Your friends. You've got a lot of them."

"They don't understand me."

"Because you won't open up."

"Because I just know they won't understand."

"How will you know that if you don't talk to them?"

"I don't know. I just do…"

I sulked my head and buried my face in my hands. I felt sorry for my doctor. And my parents too for paying so much for me to go to therapy. But mostly for my doctor. She has to sit around for two hours listening to me piss and moan about the cruelty of life. And she's right though, I don't have it crazy bad, I'm just not a happy person.

I guess I should tell you a little more about myself. My name's Robbie Shapiro. I'm I guess what you call average. Yeah. That's basically the word that sums up my life. Average isn't bad, but at the same time it's not the best thing to describe your life.

When you've got a dad that puts you in a pedestal and expects you to fill his shoes in when it's time to step down, it's tough. Typical. I know. He wants me to be a successful salesman and take over his Audi dealership in the Valley but I just don't want to kiss people's asses for the rest of my life. He told me to take a few business courses just to dip my feet in the field. And if I didn't want to do it after college, then so be it. But that compromise turned into declaring my major in business. And that led to him already preparing a year in advance my position as junior sales manager at his dealership. Not once did he ever ask me what I wanted or if I even wanted to work with him. To my dad, life was all about compromise, but mostly to his favor. So what was the deal about compromise if it didn't benefit you?

Then you have my mother. She's not as strict as my father, but sometimes I wish she had a backbone. She's so in check with her feelings it's ridiculous. She treats me like a baby. Cares for me way too much and throws a fit whenever I get something as little as a paper cut. She seems nice right? So why am I complaining? I'm guessing you think I'm an asshole for not appreciating her, but I don't know really. It's difficult to explain.

I've got friends, my doctor was right about that. But I guess I compare myself too much to them that I don't feel like I fit in. I guess it's just the stage you get to when you're in your younger years. I mean I know I'm already 21, but after next year I need to have my life sorted out. Otherwise college would have been a waste. I just don't know.

"I'll tell you what," My doctor said. "I won't admit you to the hospital just yet, but I want you to check out the place."

"I can?"

"Yes. But there's more."

"Okay…"

"I want you to volunteer for a whole week; five days with me. Meet some patients. Help the staff. Feel the environment. And by Friday, if you still think you're suicidal, I'll admit you."

"This isn't one of your weird psychological things is it?" I questioned.

"So what if it is, and what if it isn't?" she retorted.

"I'm telling you doc, I'm not going to change my mind. I'll still want to be admitted."

"So do we have a deal?" She held out her hand awaiting my reply.

There was nothing to lose, really.

So I extended my hand and shook on it.

"Deal."

Bet you didn't expect to hear from me again, did you? Lol well 'tis the season. It's been a long year and I will explain everything in the end. For now, this is my Holiday gift to you all. Brace yourselves. This short story will be filled with lots of depression. I'm warning you now. But like I said, my a/n's will explain it all. If I have time tonight I'll even upload the next chapter!