Logan walked through the doors of the church and he wanted to be anywhere but here. His suite felt too tight, the air felt too thin, and he wanted to rip off his skin, which felt way too tight.

He's rather be in bed at home, at the pool, or with Camille, but he can't be with Camille. He'd rather be in hell, but he's pretty sure that he's already there.

The bench is stiff and it makes his butt hurt, a lot. The church is beautiful; the church is beautiful, but it's being used for an ugly occasion. Logan can feel the pressure behind his and he knows he's going to start crying. He doesn't wan to start crying. He spent last Wednesday crying. He cried so much that Ms. Knight had to take him to the hospital for a serve panic attack.

"It gets better." Kendall says, then squeezes Logan's hand. Kendall knows that Logan's going to cry again and it reminds him of the night they got the news. It was one of the scariest nights he'd ever experienced. Wednesday they got the news and then everyone in 2J had to witness Logan's server panic attack. It was defiantly a night that Kendall wished he could erase.

Logan wants to tell Kendall to shut-up, because he can't know that things will get better. Sure he lost someone he loved to another country, but not to death. The girl he loved-loves-is gone and doesn't feel like things will be okay. Or at least not for while.

/xxx/

Wednesday

The alarm clock woke Camille out of her dreams. She didn't want to wake up, she just wanted to stay in bed and never leave. She wanted to stay in her bed, with her pillow, her warm bed, and with her tears.

Camille rolls over, trying to block out the sunlight, and finds that her pillow's still wet from last night, which is more like early this morning. Her limbs feel heavy and she's just so damn tired. It takes all her energy to get out of bed and step into the cold morning air.

She slips on her UGG's and a sweatshirt to hopefully block out some of the bitter air. Camille got no sleep last night.

It seems like no matter how tired she is at 12:00 her mind starts to race and won't shut off. At night is when the really uglyugly thoughts came out to play. The thoughts have her face down in her pillow and crying like it's the end of the world. The sobs make her body shake and sometimes she can feel the emotion in her thought, crawling up like vomit, and leaving her no choice but to scream. Screaming, crying, and biting her pillow until it hurts.

It feels like there's too much energy in her body and she needs to move, so she screams and hits the mattress. When things get really bad she'll bit her hand, pull her hair, and worst of all scratch her face. (it doesn't matter, her face is ugly to her anyway).

She moves to the bathroom and looks in the mirror. She knows she's going to need more make-up and cover-up. There's bag under her eyes, there's bit marks on her hand, her lip is cut from where she bit too hard, and there's scratch marks on her face.

Last night was one of those nights.

She can see where four of her fingers scratched her face on each side. The scratches are blotchy and looked like fire. They look angry and unattractive. There's dried blood on someone of them and she knows there's probably some on her pillow.

She gets in the shower and scrubs hard. There's no need to give people something else to pick, like the way she smells. She makes sure her hair is clean and smells like strawberries.

In front of the mirror she washes her face with a cleaner, which hurts so much, and blow dries her hair. A messy bun on the top of her head with a bang and diamond blue (she loves blue) will do. Then comes the hard part, make-up.

Cover-up

Foundation

Eye Shadow

Eye liner

Lip Gloss

Extra Volume Mascara

Under Eye Concealer

Anti-Frizz Hair Spray

All so she can look pretty and not like she spent all night crying and having a mental break down. The cover-up doesn't completely hide the scratches, but it makes them less noticeable.

She's so tired and just wants to stay in bed and not face the ugly world. She knows she can do that. It would be saying that they've won. She slips on a pair of black yoga pants and a blue sweatshirt and gray short UGG boots. How is she going to make it through the day.

Camille sit on her blue bed and looks at her blue wall for as long as she can. She doesn't want her parents to see her and the marks on her face. It's 7:52 and school starts at 8. It's time to leave.

"Camille, Baby, I made you toast, with butter, and beacon. Since it's late, you can take it with you." She heard her mom call. There's no way Camille is eating that. It's all cards and fat; her thighs are beginning to touch, so she doesn't need it. Instead she grabs an apple and grape juice.

When she walks past her mom to get to the refrigerator, she knows that her mom knows. Camille can see the way her eyes water and her face drops. Her mom knows. She's seen the scratches.

"I love you." It's said quietly and simple, and accompanied with a hug.

"I love you too mom."

Camille grabs her stuff for Lacrosse. She plays that and a variety of other sport to stay in shape and to keep busy, when she's not acting.

By the times she's picked up her backpack, put her Lacrosse gear in the car, and made it to class, it's 7:58. Good. She won't have to hear the comments before class.

20 minutes into class Camille can hear the whispers around her. She can feel the venom in the words stinging her skin and leaving ugly marks, which will soon turn into red scratches.

For the rest of class she tires to black everyone else, but the teacher, out, but she still catches some of the word.

"Ugly"

"She need a tan."

"What the fuck is up with her hair!"

"She's gaining so much weight."

"I hate her so damn much."

Her eyes burn and she wants to cry. She wants to cry so damn bad, but not here. Just 4 more minutes until school ends, then she can go into her car a cry. She can cry until it hurt and can't breathe.

The bell rings and she rushes out the classroom. Before she can get to her car a voice stops her.

"Camille over here. We're going to the beach!" James yells across the room.

"WANNA COME!" Carlos yells, louder, across the room. It amazes her how loud he can be. She turns around to politely decline. She immediately regrets it. She fake smile fall and she doesn't just want to cry anymore; she wants to fucking scream.

Logan is sitting in a chair, with a girl on his lap. It's not just any girl, it's Kacey, his girlfriend. With long blond hair that almost reaches her butt, vibrant green eyes, never ending legs, a figure where you can see hipbones, vivid white teeth, and sun kissed skin, she's everything Camille's not. Kacey is beauty and Camille wishes she was.

If she speaks she know she'll start crying, so she just nods her head 'no' and walks to her car.

When she makes it there Camille doesn't even get in the front and drives away. She goes straight to the back seat, pushes her Lacrosse, Soccer, Swim, and other sports stuff that's piled up over the last year, on the floor. She lays on the seat and cries. She just cries, no screaming, not biting, no hair pulling, no scratching, just crying, because she's too tired to do anything else. She lays there crying, until her eyes burn, face hurts, and she can't breathe.

Before she knows it, it's 3:30 and she need to get to practice. Her face is swollen and right red, her eyes the color of tomatoes, and the make-up's everywhere. She doesn't care. She can't bring herself to care about anything anymore.

Practices flies by; a blur of bright green balls, a blue stick, and drills. At the end Camille is numb, emotionally and physically.

She has an audition planed, but she can't go. The thought of being rejected sounds painful and she doesn't think she can take it. Scratch that, she knows she can't take it. Screw the fact that she's worked on the script for the last two weeks, because is she get's rejected Camille knows she'll do something bad. Something Camille's been sent to therapy for. Something that would have her mom crying in the middle of the night.

At home she wishes she still felt numb, but instead she can feel everything,. Every comment, every failure, every heartbreak, every hate filled glare, everything she has ever hated about herself, and every rejection. She can feel everything and she hates it.

Camille knows she going to feel like this for awhile. Even if she does get help, there will always be a constant hate filled voice in the back of her head, the one that's with her every minute of everyday.

She. Will. Not. Live. Like. This.

Not for 70 more years. She's going to do something about it. Something that's way worse then what she had planned if she was rejected.

Camille changes into a clean pair of jean shorts, a simple white t-shirt, a blue sweat shirt, and her fuzzy sock, and head to the roof.

Sitting on the ledge and watching the beautiful City of Angles is peaceful. It doesn't make her peaceful, because that would imply that there isn't emotions stirring inside of her that no teenager should feel. It makes her feel frozen, maybe, the emotions are still there but she feels calm. Like seeing a terrible car crash that leaves you standing there frozen, but somehow you feel everything that you're not suppose to, because you don't know the people, but somehow feeling calm. Maybe numb? She doesn't know.

She lifts salt watered eyes and smiles at the moon. Not because she's happy, because it's breath taking. She wants to be that beautiful.

"Just close you're eyes,

The suns going down,

You'll be alright

No one can hurt you.

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and sound"

She wants those lyrics to be true, she really does. She wants to feel safe, from herself and the people around her.

Camille looks down and she starts to fidget; she wants to jump. Her legs feel itchy, no everything feels itchy and she wants to jump. She can't breath, so she moves away from the edge, cause if she doesn't she'll make herself fall.

Camille doesn't want her mom to see that. Doesn't want her last memory of her daughter to be skin and blood and body parts on the asphalt.

She goes back to her apartment and grabs a bottle of pain killers, but she doesn't go back to the roof. She goes to the beach, if she's going to end everything it should at least be in the place she loves. Not her room, where there's so many bad memories or the roof, where she had sex with the man that doesn't love her anymore.

The beach is perfect, it has the water, sand, and the night sky-a mosaic of everything she loves most (almost everything).

Camille lays down in the sand and looks at the night sky, she's always loved space, and then swallows one, two, five, six, seven, ten pills.

She smiles, because she's falling asleep and it reminds her of when she and Jo spent the night on the beach together. Blond hair, curls, and happiness.

When they find her two hours later, it's too late. She's barely hanging on, but she can still hear the way her mom yells and screams for her to wake-up, snot and tear mixing. It's the wish her mom wants so desperately to come true, but it wants.

Camille knows how broken wishes feel; she feels sorry for her mom. She's kind of glad she's dead before Logan can see her, because she has a feeling he's not going to take it well and she doesn't want to witness it.

She thinks maybe God will punish her, because you can't taint clear water with blood and not get fined.

/xxx/

Carlos is freely crying and it hurts James to see him this upset. James see's how Kendall's trying to be strong for Logan, even though the way he's breathing hints that he wants to cry. James knows Kendall will let it out when he's alone tonight and everyone's asleep.

James wonders where Jo is, but then remembers that she fled to the bathroom 10 minutes into the service. He can't even bring himself to look at Camille's mother; it's a site that no one wants to see. Maybe his mom was right when she said losing a child is the hardest thing a parent will ever have to experience.

Everything's falling apart and James wants to get a sewing kit and fix it, but he can't or doesn't know how or…..this is why he isn't too fond of thinking about things that really matter. It makes him feel confused. This is confusing and frustrating and just plain sad.

Carlos just thinks that this reminds him of a sad Hollywood movie, one that Camille could have starred in. Thinking about the last part makes him cry more.

A/N: Please review and tell me how I'm doing with writing.