A/N: So this has been sitting on my desktop for awhile now, and I'd just thought I'd post it. I know I have two other ongoing stories, so this isn't my first priority. But it was practically begging me. I don't think it's very good, but I guess I'll continue this if I get enough requests. If enough people like the idea, but not the writing, I could definitely rework it as well. So just let me know what you think...

1. Words that Scar

Mike was the first to find out.

It happened in the school library, in the mathematics part of the nonfiction section, to be exact. Tina was being ignorant, stupid really. She just wasn't thinking, and now she'd have to pay the price.

You see, Tina Cohen had a dirty little secret, actually many dirty little secrets, and the problem with her dirty little secrets was that they were written all over her body. Yes, Tina Cohen, cut herself. And after years of secrecy, she had no intention of letting anyone else know about her little problem with the razor blade. Unfortunately, her wish would not be granted.

Mike and Tina had been in a relationship for over a year, and she'd always been very careful up to that point to keep Mike at a distance to avoid the inevitable discovery. They moved slowly, painfully so, actually. It helped that the two were somewhat forced to keep the relationship at PG due to the neutral fear of their strict parents, Mike's own moral compass, and his "goody two shoes" rep. Besides, they were both busy. Mike had his perfect 4.0, football, popularity and Glee to worry about. And, Tina had, well, Tina had glee. Yes, they were both very busy, too busy to do some of the normal relationship stuff that other couples their age participated in, or at least that's what Mike would say. And that was exactly what Tina wanted.

Anyways, thanks to the anonymity of this section of the dewey decimal system, Mike and Tina were getting a little too passionate in their make out session for any couple in a public place, and Mike may or may not have started to move to second base. That was fine with Tina. In fact, she enjoyed it. But she forgot about the scabs and scars under her shirt, as his hands slowly moved to her bra strap.

That's when it happened, when his face pulled away from hers ever so slightly, nose crinkled up in disgust and eyes quickly calculating his next move. Tina was stunned, unsure what to say, as Mike wildly pulled her shirt up, exposing the bounty of scars she had been so careful to hide. "Shit," he choked out as his hands pulled away, and Tina mentally followed suit, her mind searching for some excuse.

"Tina?" he said, beckoning for some explanation. But what was there to say?

She stood up wildly, feeling as if she were about to faint, unable to believe that her beloved Mike, sweet, perfect Mike had seen all the ugliness that was her. She'd lost him, she was sure of it.

"Tina, why?"

She didn't know, and yet she did. But she couldn't tell him. She really couldn't. All she could do was run as far away from the situation as possible, and so she did.

Finally she found herself in a stall in the girl's bathroom, holding a blade to her skin, ready to do the deed. But it wasn't the same. She couldn't do it. Not with Mike's beautiful, concerned voice ringing in her ears. Tina, why?

Tina's never been the star. She's never been amazing. She's never been special. She's never been enough.

Even, when Mr. Schue used to give her the occasional solo, there'd be Rachel in the back, scowling because Tina didn't deserve them. Even, when she got her A in AP Chemistry, there was that A- in AP English. Even, when she was ranked number eight in the class, her parents wanted to know why she wasn't ranked higher.

"Only eight?" They'd always drop their mouths in disgrace. "You can't get into Harvard with that, Tina!" No duh. Tina was never Harvard material; she'd never even considered it despite her parents' stereotypical obsession with the institution. Harvard was for special people, and Tina wasn't special. So they gave up on her, disowned her, practically. Because there daughter wasn't number one. And it hurt, more than she'd let you know.

Maybe that's why it started. At midterms when she got her transcripts and her dad spat in her face, he told her he was ashamed of her, that she disgusted him. He apologized later, of course, but by then the damage was already done. Tina Cohen had done the unthinkable.

She'd said it was alright. He told her to try harder. Get some friends. Get better grades. Get rid of the stutter. Get a new look. Get the lead solo in Glee. There was still time to become something great, to stand out. They could fix this. They could fix her. "Nothing's written in stone," he'd said to her.

No dad, she thought after he'd left her bedroom, but it's written on my leg. She choked back the sobs that night, as the blood slowly scabbed over on the carefully carved "8" on her thigh. It had been a stupid idea, she'd easily attest to that as her head whirled with the risks and statistics she'd learnt in health class. The next morning, after thoroughly cleaning the inevitable scar, she swore to herself she'd never do it again.

She had just been frustrated, overcome with emotion, and curious. Yes, curious. She'd heard of other kids at school doing it. They'd said it made them feel better or something.

But really, it just happened. She wasn't thinking. She just did it, just mutilated (she flinched at the thought of the word) herself on the spot. And it did feel good, in a weird way. Yes, it was painful, but it was a good sort of pain. The rush and the comfort of the blade seemed to drown out everything else, make it a little more bearable. She couldn't explain, and she wouldn't try to understand because she wouldn't do it again. No, this was the first and last time.

If anything this was rock bottom. She could only go up from here. It was symbolic. The eight branded on her skin would be a constant reminder of her need to improve. Right now she was eight, measly eight, but one day she'd be number one. Or, at least, she could try.

But as weeks passed after the event, she came to the conclusion that no, she wasn't and wouldn't ever be amazing at anything. Never at the top, and never the best. She was good. She was okay. She was enough. But she wasn't special, and even glee club couldn't change that. In fact, glee club just shoved it in her face every day that Tina was quite the opposite.

In a club that spouted the importance of acceptance and making every individual feel special, it only hurt more when she was tossed aside. She was just a figure in the background, nothing but a useless stage prop that they needed to meet their membership quota to compete.

And maybe if Rachel hadn't made such a big deal when Tina got the Maria solo, maybe if there wasn't so much pressure on her to hit the note, maybe if she wasn't doomed to fail, and maybe if Rachel didn't treat her as an inferior, maybe if she had a little more confidence, maybe if she didn't cause complete and utter turmoil for the club with the solo, and maybe if she hadn't failed at her one opportunity to shine, a new word would have never appeared on her skin- "Failure."

This was the last time, Tina, told herself the next day as she washed the blood that had seeped through her pajama pants out of her sheets to avoid parental detection. She couldn't deal with something like this. It would make her life too difficult.

Throughout the day, the two scabs met her pants with frictions as she walked down the halls of McKinley High. They were nothing but constant reminders of the pain she'd endured. "Only number 8" they whispered to her whenever she got less than 100% for a test or assignment. "Failure," they'd yell when she messed up a dance move or missed a note.

But, strangely enough, the discomfort of the wounds was a nice commodity when she was being doused with the slushies. They were useful tools to cope. She'd just press her hands against her thigh, and take in that pain, trying to avoid the feel of the icy, sticky shock that sent a horrible sensation throughout her body. They could hurt her all they wanted, but she could hurt herself more. It was insane. Yes, she knew the logic made no sense, but it really did help.

So when the scabs morphed into little pink scars that were nothing but sensationless words on her skin, her tool to deal with the constant harassment of her peers became obsolete. And after one, particularly brutal slushy from Karofsky she found herself in the bathroom scrawling the word that accompanied his attack- "freak"- into her skin. The next day it was "loser". And the day after was "chink". She immediately regretted that last word, the racism forever embedded in her legs.

She wouldn't do it again, she promised herself. But by this time, she'd known the drill, tasted the sound of the lie as soon as it formed in her head. After only five words, five blissfull sessions witht he blade, she was hooked to the sense of control and comfort she'd come to associate with cutting. Besides, she hadn't cut that deep. The words would fade. They'd have to. And she'd stop, eventually, when she felt like it.

Of course, that was all a lie, because now she knew, that she really couldn't stop on her own. It had become an addiction that she had no control over and the scars were avid proof of her ill-planning. She never should have started because now that Mike knew, Tina was forced to face the horrible fact that she might made to stop. And that, she knew, would certainly be impossible.