WARNING: Potentially triggering. Mentions of hospital/ER stays. Mentions of anorexia. Mentions of past/recurring abuse. Mentions of twincest and lesbian/gay relationships. You have been warned.

KEY:

POV = Marguerite/Margret = FemCanada.

Arthur = England.

Emily = FemAmerica.

Anya = FemRussia.

Francis = France.

When she felt what she knew as the sensation of the bottom of her mouth dropping out, the violet-eyed girl knew what was going to happen. She knew it with such certainty that it was almost laughable. But, she had gone through this so many times – food poisoning, bulimia, stomach flu – that she couldn't not know what was coming. And yet still, a whimper, "Oh, Dieu, non," passed her lips all the same.

Then she curled forward, and threw up.

The feeling, she decided between gagging and heaving up the black, watery sludge all over herself and her sheets, was more bearable with her fingers down her throat, or when she knew she was just sick and that it would pass. At this point, however, she was beginning to wish that she had succeeded. Then, as the heaving stopped, and she was left a gasping, sobbing, vomit-y and charcoal-y mess, she berated herself for such thoughts. This had not been intentional, no matter what her mother and the doctors thought; this was not what she had wanted to happen. She didn't care what anyone believed or didn't; that was her story, not to mention the truth, and she would stick with it.

Of course, as she knew from the first time she had thrown up, she would be here for a good while – plenty of time for her mind to go where it shouldn't…

It had all started with the Panda Express; that much she was certain of. She hadn't wanted to eat it, she had been doing well with not eating this week, but well… with Mama giving her a look that promised swift retribution if she didn't, and the fact that Emily and Anya were beginning to get concerned… Her desire to please in every way possible had won out. Not to mention, Papa was already worried about her eating habits – rather, her lack of them. In the end, she had bought her own food, and inhaled it far too quickly to be healthy. The four of them had been at the mall, with Arthur there strictly as chaperone. They had gone to get cookies some time after she had finished, and she had begun feeling inordinately ill rather quickly.

She and Arthur had left less than a half hour after that, as she was all but throwing up, and she had a horrible headache that was making it hard for her to see. She was also feeling incredibly cold, but was apparently very warm to the touch. While her American twin sister/lover and Russian best friend had been well assured that she would be fine and that she was alright, the Brit hadn't bought it; the violet-eyed girl had put it down to his mothering instincts. That said, he hadn't allowed her to drive herself home, and so had called Francis to come and get their rental car. He had made her dinner, but she had been feeling too sick to eat it. Having spiked a concerning but not-yet-hospital-grade fever, she had taken some medication (four tablets rather than two) and a nap, leaving an increasingly worried Englishman to watch over her, or to leave as he wished.

Waking less than an hour later, with no sense of time and more than a bit delirious, she had staggered her way to the bathroom. She didn't count the pills this time, just shook the bottle out into her hand twice. Arthur, having come upstairs to read while he sat with her, caught her taking the second dose, and was immediately demanding to know how much she had taken. A few moments of silence had passed, as she had tried to sort out her mind, and to remember how much she had just ingested. She was quite sure her math was off somewhere…

"Seventeen," she answered, though she was unsure. She didn't know whether to laugh at the comical mix of horror and outrage on his face or not. She giggled hysterically anyway, feeling light-headed and dizzy and tried and was that the green rabbit her Mama was always going on about…?

"Seventeen?!" He repeated her assessment, scandalized and furious and worried beyond words. She could see that it took a rather supreme effort for him not to backhand her right then and there. She supposed, shrugging, that he would have, had the situation been different.

Two hours later, after both Francis – her Papa had sounded very worried when he talked with Mama – and poison control had demanded she be taken to the hospital, she was on her way to the ER.

It was 1AM before she was seen, and since Arthur hadn't been able to prove that he was related to her, much less her mother, she had been taken back alone. She remembered reaching out for him, begging for her Mommy not to leave her, something she hadn't done since she was very, very young. In any event, though she had been half out of her mind at the time, she remembered things clearly enough. Each and every doctor and nurse had assumed that she had tried to kill herself, no matter what she said, so she had stopped trying. She had then been checked in, had her blood drawn, and stripped of everything save for the hair ties for her pigtails, and her glasses; she was only allowed to keep them because it was believed she couldn't use then to harm herself. Her clothing had ended up in a bag, but thankfully her gold crucifix (she herself was still quite Catholic, despite the religious diversity) and locket, both of which her Papa had given to her in 1535, had been given to her Mama upon her request. Then she had been taken to a room in the ER, hooked up to a monitor and an IV, and then settled into bed. She was told the doctor would be in soon, and then the nurse left.

And she was completely alone again, quietly sobbing, feeling as if she had completely lost her family because of her stupid mistake.

Roughly an hour and half of crying (and slipping in and out of hallucinations of her lover/twin and parents) later, the doctor arrived, a Swiss woman with pretty blue eyes and brunette hair. She proceeded to inform the young blonde of what was going to happen over the next few hours. Apparently, she would be given three doses of charcoal, along with the medication/saline solution in her IV (the saline was to keep her hydrated and at least get her some nutrients) and then they would go from there. Things didn't work out that way, however, though she wouldn't notice it until later.

She sucked down the first dose of charcoal like a champ – no less than what Emily would have done, her mind, sounding remarkably like her mother, told her – and threw half of it up less than an hour later. Needless to say, after spending half an hour covered in her own sick, not to mention sobbing and begging to be allowed to have someone there with her (even if they couldn't be proven to be her family), a change of sheets and blankets was orchestrated. Her teal hospital gown, which designated her as a psyche patient and thus a suicide risk, however, remained unchanged, even if it were stained as well. It felt like she was in Hell, and she begged God to have any kind of mercy on her. She was ignored.

Of course, despite the change of sheets and blankets, her hospital gown wasn't the only thing that remained unchanged. The liquefied sludge that the charcoal had become, along with the vomit, remained in her hair. What was once a pretty, pale nearly white blond, was now dyed dark and stringy and grey with charcoal and vomit and sweat. She knew she was pale and sweating and shaking; oh, how sad Papa would have been to see her now… He called her "mon ange," "my angel;" she doubted that she looked anything like an angel right now. Time continued to pass – half an hour? An hour? A longer amount of time? She didn't know. When she threw up again, where all of her thoughts had begun to spiral, she didn't know how much time had passed. Another half hour passed, and she was cleaned up marginally again.

She had been in the ER roughly four hours, and things were far from over.

…Anyone who actually knows me, will know how this came to be. The title is "Overdose" in French. That's all I'm going to say.