I don't own anything to do with the L Word. Basically, this is a crappy one-shot. Marina is one of my favorite characters, because her past is obviously such a fucked up mystery. I always thought the reports of her suicide attempt seemed fishy. People don't usually scream when they're all alone, and I'm pretty sure suicide by overdose does not induce yelling or any sort of raucous that would alert concerned hotel guests or bell boys. It boils down to the fact that I watch too many crime dramas. Please review, dear ones, tell me what you think of my theory.
No one wants me. That's been true my whole life. My parents sent me to boarding school when I was six and I haven't laid eyes on my mother and father since. My entire existence has been spent being discarded and separated from the people who were supposed to love me. Why did it only hurt me now? I've never been so angry - it's crossed through rage and turned calm, dangerous, a beautiful river of blood-red water. All I've ever done was love, and what does it get me? Used. Discarded. Lied to. I am worthless, unwanted aristocratic garbage. Even when I find someone who really loves me, I suddenly fall short, disappoint, break the most precious hearts. No wonder no one wants me.
I thought about writing to you, but then what would I write... after what I have done, all the petty games I've played, how foolish I've been? I opened up your world like Francesca opened mine. But then I look at Francesca and realize how you must look at me. What can I say to soothe that growing hatred? There is no place for me any more, and there shouldn't be. I never wanted to hurt you.
I checked into the hotel room where Francesca and I spent our first night together in Los Angeles. I did that just to be mean. I knew she'd remember it. The bellhop kept staring at me in the elevator, but I'm used to it. I'm just a piece of meat and have no other purpose.
"You didn't bring any luggage." He said, snapping me from my thoughts.
"I have everything I need." I took out my phone and checked it. You hadn't called.
"Are you meeting someone here?" He asked.
"No."
That seemed to satisfy him and I thought he was finally going to be quiet. I really didn't know why he was following me up to my suite when, as he pointed out, I didn't bring any luggage. Then again, I knew exactly why. He was a little off kilter, not enough to pinpoint a disorder or drug, just enough to make me begin to shut down inside.
"So you're only in town for one night then?" He said as the elevator doors opened. We both stepped out.
"I don't see how that's your business." I said it flat and quick, hoping it would shut him up.
"Wow. Don't sugar-coat it or anything, honey." He said, as though he deserved some sort of consideration.
I didn't answer him, just walked away towards my room. He followed.
"Woah woah where's the fire?" He reached for my wrist but I snatched it away before he could close his fingers around it. The skin was stubbornly sensitive on that wrist from where Tim had grabbed me, otherwise I would have reacted too late.
"Listen to me very closely." I was saying to the bellhop. "Walk away right now and I won't tell your manager. Bother me again and I call the police."
He called me some very distasteful names and then walked away, muttering, "You're probably a fucking lesbian, too."
I was feeling bold so close to my death. I hung in the doorway and said, "How did you guess?" Then waited for him to turn around, then shut and locked the door.
I stood at the window for a few minutes, gathering my courage. Then I called you. I had hoped you would pick up, but you were probably still at the party. I said what I needed to say to your answering machine. When I hung up, I was immediately sorry I did it. I hoped you would call me back, even though I knew you wouldn't. I ordered champagne, but it wasn't for me. It was for Francesca when she found me. I took the pills, then, one at a time, still hoping you would call.
I'd swallowed over half the bottle when there was a knock at my door. I stumbled over to it and it took all my strength to pull it open.
"Listen, you --" It was the bellhop, bottle of champagne in hand. He stopped mid-insult and took in my lack of muscle control, and his eyes glazed over. I knew that look. God help me, I knew that look. He came into the room and tossed the bottle of champagne onto the bed.
I stumbled backward and tried to yell, but got backhanded instead. He was saying something about teaching me as he unzipped his pants and hit me again. This time I did yell, but I couldn't hear it. I fell backwards and managed to pull myself up before he got to me. I was losing feeling too fast and I couldn't fight him. He grabbed me around the neck and held me against the wall. I think I was screaming. I wasn't losing feeling fast enough -- I felt him tear through me twice. Then, finally, my suicide was a success. I tried to smile as my heart exploded.
It was dark. Death was dark. And cold. And I still couldn't reach you.