"Are you really going to go through with this Rachel?" she asked herself aloud, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she was going to, had thought about almost nothing besides this for what felt like an eternity now, the planning taking over her entire brain the past few weeks. She was still trying to be the same Rachel Berry at school-demanding, loud, opinionated, the 'future star' of McKinley. But she knew in her head and her heart that it wasn't who she was.
That she wasn't going to make it that far.
That she wasn't supposed to even make it out of high school.
She nodded now, feeling more confident and more like the Rachel Berry she used to be as she looked at the assortment of pills in front of her. She had taken an assortment of her own pills, pills her fathers took, a couple she knicked out of Quinn's bag a week ago during a late Glee rehearsal. She smiled fondly, almost at ease as she picked up a handful, swallowing them one by one and taking large gulps of the vodka she had in a glass next to her. It took her a few minutes to get them all down, and when she did she could feel some of them hitting her-she was getting dizzy, lightheaded, like she needed to lay down. Perfect, she thought, closing her eyes and resting her head against the cold glass of the mirror for a minute, waiting for the pills to settle before moving onto the next part of her plan.
She didn't want to risk that it wouldn't work, after all. If she was going to do this-this suicide, it wasn't going to be an attempt.
It was going to be an accomplishment.
She turned slowly, feeling a little more sluggish than normal as she flipped the tap on for the bathtub, the water so hot she knew it was scald her skin. Still, that pain was nothing to what she was going to feel once she got in, and she settled in fully dressed while it filled around her, giggling slightly as she poured shampoo into the tub to make bubbles. It's pretty, she thought, watching them rise higher and higher as her fingers grazed the knife she had grabbed from the butchers block in their kitchen on her way upstairs.
The knife she had started grabbing on her way upstairs more often the past few months.
The first time it had happened was an accident-it slipped through her hands and cut her leg, and she was surprised at how it felt. The pain was obvious-you cut yourself open, you're going to be in pain. But the weird satisfaction she felt at it, the weird feeling of ease and contentment she had felt with it-well, that wasn't something she had ever expected to feel. Cutting was for people with serious problems, for those who didn't feel anything else throughout their days. Cutting was not something Rachel Berry needed to resort too-not these days, with her perfect boyfriend and her talented voice and her intelligence carrying her to the world beyond Lima, Ohio.
But she was always up for trying anything once.
Originally she had only meant for it to be once. But then she had a horrible day-Finn and her got into a fight, she was denied another solo for the underclassmen in Glee, she got a C- on a test, and she vaguely knew that these were trivial things, that these were surface pains, but they hurt nonetheless. And emotional pain was not something Rachel had ever learned to deal with, her fathers sending her to a therapist anytime anything seemed remotely distressing, glossing over almost any situation in their house. So when she walked through her kitchen and saw the knives sitting there, it was almost instinct to grab one and run into the bathroom.
She didn't want to do it where anyone would see it, didn't want anyone panicking and worrying about her-there wasn't anything really wrong, this was just to take away from the emotional pain a little, the physical pain outweighing it as she sliced a line on her side, just above her hip. She grimaced, the knife clattering to the floor as she squeezed the spot tightly, the pain almost too much as she leaned against the counter. But underneath the pain, despite the blood that was now staining one of her favorite skirts as it dripped down her body slowly, there was a sense of accomplishment, a sense of comfort. The pain was certainly first and foremost, but it distracted her from getting too lost in her own thoughts-which was it's original intent.
It was painful, but in the best way.
It wasn't too long before it became almost a reflex. Emotional pain bottled up, the knife against her skin took it away, distracted her and got her out of her head. She'd watch her skin scab and heal over and then cut it again, almost in awe every time she did it again. She was vaguely aware she was falling into a pit she wasn't sure she could climb out of. Aware that when the blood was cleaned up, wincing anytime fabric touched new cuts, the emotions that drove her to do this would rise again, making her feel even worse than before.
She played with the knife now, looking at it as if it was an old familiar friend. In a way it was, it was the worst kind of friend. The kind that hurt you over and over, the kind you just couldn't let go of. She only had so much time before she could put the next part into action, and this part she had been sure to research properly. This was the part that she couldn't mess up, because this was what was really going to do her in. The pills, the alcohol, that was a side show, an appetizer. She was going to finish this the only way she really trusted, the only way she felt she really knew how.
The tub was full now, and she absent mindedly turned the tap off with her toes, not bothering to lean over and shut it off. Her sweater and skirt were heavy anyways, she wasn't entirely sure she could move more than her arms. Her eyes fluttered, trying to close and give in to the various effects of the pills-she was starting to feel nauseous now, but she commanded her body to stop, reminding it that it would all be over soon.
She pointed the edge of the knife at the center of her left wrist, staring at the blue vein pulsing blood underneath her skin. With a sad smile, she pushed it deeper, wincing deeply as she dragged it down her arm, tears starting to crash into the bathroom as the blood-a bright, startling red-started to pulse out, almost in rhythem of her heartbeat. She quickly did the same to her other wrist before she lost complete use of her hands, the knife clattering to the floor beside the tub, sobbing as the pain washed over her. Her arms sank into the tub, the water now turning just as red as the blood that was leaving her body, and she panicked. It was only natural to decide after you go through with your plan that it wasn't what you wanted, and for a second she glimpsed the future she used to see-her on a stage in a beautiful Valentino gown, accepting her Tony Award, Finn and Kurt in the audience cheering her on. It was something she hadn't seen in months, lost beneath layers of stress and pain that she had let pile up on top of her. As her eyes closed, the painkillers and sleeping pills and anti-depressants warring in her system, in what was left of her blood stream, she felt the dry heaves that wracked her body now.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thought, trying to ignore the fact that her body was starting to feel weightless, out of her control. She realized she was actually dying now, and it was terrifying in a way she hadn't accounted for. Cutting, planning a suicide-she wasn't stupid, she knew what it was for, but the actual act seemed so much greater and far more emotionally shattering than she had previously thought. The act of dying, in her bathtub bleeding out while various substances irreversibly damaged her insides, it was so simple and so overwhelming at the same time.
She tried moving her arms, tried seeing if she could move, the notion of maybe getting out and crawling to a phone, calling for help washing over her and escaping before she realized that she couldn't go anywhere, didn't really want to go anywhere. This is how it's supposed to be, she reminded herself. You're not made for the real world. You can't even handle high school.
Her friends faces flashed across her mind, slowly, flickering in and out like they were bad reception on a cell phone. Finn, Kurt, Mercedes, Puck-even Mike and Santana. She wondered if they would be upset, hoping that those she had left a letter to would find them, sure that if Quinn was allowed in her room she would snoop them out for the group. She knew her dads would find theirs, left on their pillow. Guilt took over as she realized this is what they'd come home to, this is what they'd see when they came looking for their daughter. But emotions and thoughts were fading just as much as physical feeling was, even the throbbing from the cuts was dulling now. So close, she thought, her body sinking slightly into the water, her breathing becoming more and more labored. There was more time spent not breathing before her chest seemed to heave, trying to remember it was something she was supposed to be doing. She mentally told it to relax, to stop, that it was all over now.
The last thing she was able to think before the blackness swept over, the pills and the alcohol and the knife finally succeeding in their job was I'll never get to be a star.