Disclaimer for all chapters:

Daria and all affiliated characters and whatever else belong to MTV, do, and whoever else created the series. Wristcutters; a love story and Kneller's happy campers (Short story movie was based on) belong to Goron Dukic, and Etgar Keret.

I write for my pure enjoyment and make no money writing Daria fanfiction, and have no intention of doing so.

Notes:

One; I know Daria is not suicidal, never has been, never will be.

Two; Daria always wanted out of Lawndale, not this way, but hey, I was bored.

Three; I mean no offence to anyone.

Four; I don't condone, or glorify suicide. There really is no good enough reason for it, although I'm the last person who should be talking.

And lastly; the characters are obviously out of character, but I still hope you will enjoy the story. Thanks, and I greatly appreciate your reviews of any sort.

Chapter one

The ground was hot and hard. The air was dry and the sun was bright.

Daria knew that she was outside and that it was hotter then she was use to. She didn't know how long she had been lying here, but by how sore her body felt, it was a long time. She was feeling exhausted as well. She was unsure why though.

Daria hadn't open her eyes yet, because she knew that she was not in Lawndale and a part of her was afraid to find out where she was.

She heard the gravel crunching under someone's shoes as they walked over to her.

"Hey," said a gruff male voice loudly.

Daria ignored him and kept her eyes closed. She just wanted him to leave her alone and hoped by ignoring him he'd go away.

"Hey, get up. You can not sleep here," said the gruff voice, accent heavy, possibly Armenian.

Daria still didn't move, wishing he'd leave her alone. She felt very tired and the heat wasn't helping.

The man nudged her boot, "Get up," he insisted.

Daria groaned and opened her eyes. After a moment, she sat up. She straightened her glasses and looked around at her surroundings. She was right; she wasn't in Lawndale, but had no idea of where she was.

It appeared to be a desert: sand, dead weeds, dead bushes everywhere and a deserted highway that seemed to go on forever to the left and right. Then she looked at the man. He looked only to be in his fifties. He was big and tough looking, but didn't seem mean. He wore all white and an apron. He appeared to be a cook of some sort.

The man held his hand out to her, "I help you," he said.

Daria didn't take his hand; she stood up. "Where am I?" she asked, surprised at how calm she felt considering the circumstances.

He looked around, extended his arms and spun in a small circle, gesturing to the surroundings. "You are here," he said, a bit of amusement in his voice.

Daria looked at him dryly, "Well, I guess I can conclude I'm not at the mall," she said.

"Mall?" the man asked.

Daria shook her head and grimaced when she felt the beginnings of a headache.

"I don't know how I got here?" Daria explained, brushing dirt off herself.

The man scrutinized her. Daria felt slightly uncomfortable, but wanted answers and he was the only one around.

He then grabbed her arms. Daria jumped, startled.

"Hey!?" she said irritated.

"This is how you get here," he stated, his hands sliding down her arms and resting on her wrists.

Daria looked at him confused, "Huh?"

"Under sleeves of jacket; it's how you come here," he said, letting her go and then put his hand to his chin thoughtfully. "I'm guessing, unless it was another way, but I see you as a bleeder," he said casually.

Daria just looked at the man as if he was a lunatic, but she raised her left sleeve and gasped.

"There, I knew it," he said, but not proudly or gloating, somewhat sadly.

Daria looked at her left arm. There were two gashes, one across an artery and one down the middle of her arm. She looked at her right arm and saw that it held the same two gashes.

"I don't get it," Daria said softly, fear taking over and tears welling up in her eyes.

The man sighed. "You were unhappy before here, so you take life, but you can only take life; you still be unhappy," he said simply. "Um, I'm Mordy, by the way," he said extending his hand.

Daria only looked at him. She was trying to remember what she had been doing before now.

He let his hand drop and examined her.

"You such a little thing," Mordy said. "How old you?" he asked.

Daria wiped quickly at her eyes, "um, seventeen," she said.

Mordy nodded, "So young," he said sadly.

"I don't get it. Why am I here? I don't remember much, or anything, really," she said.

Mordy shrugged. "I don't know either, but you will remember; it take time," he said firmly. "And believe me you'll have time," he said.

Daria was still trying to comprehend what was going on. Only fleeting pictures came to mind. Herself in her room, alone in the house, she was upset, or something. Then only one thought resonated.

"Jane," she breathed, but was a bit foggy on how she factored into this whole mess.

Mordy looked at her. "You gonna be all right?" he asked.

Daria looked at him somberly. "I'm dead?" she asked straightforwardly.

"Yeah," he answered.

Daria sighed. "I guess I'm gonna be okay," she said and looked around the area.

She was in a dirt parking lot in front of a restaurant in what seemed to be a very small town. Only a few people were out now; none looked her way.

She looked at Mordy again. "What do I do now?" she asked and hated how much like a child she sounded.

Mordy sighed. "I help you. Come with me," he said, touching her shoulder and leading her to his restaurant.

Daria followed him, wondering how to state this moment. Was she beginning her new life or entering her afterlife? None of this made sense, but Daria reckoned, as Mordy had said, that she would have time to figure all this out; lots of time.