((AN: Okay, so. I'd just like to start out by saying that I realize that the way this one's written is a little weird. I just thought that the almost omniscient style and the disjointedness worked with what I was trying to get across in this story. Anywho, as goes with any of the stories on this website, I do not own anything but the idea for this story in particular. Which, I guess I don't own all of that. I mean, I didn't create the scenario that allowed this story, I just wrote what I thought the character would be thinking (boy, can I get any more vague to protect details of my precious little plot bunny until you get to the actual reading portion?). If I were Tom Kitt and Bryan Yorkey and owned anything from Next to Normal, I would be polishing my Tony, not writing fan fiction about it. That being said, enjoy the story!))
Who am I? All I can do as I look in the cracked, grimy mirror is wonder, who is this girl looking back at me? This girl with her wild looking, blood shot eyes, who is she? This restless creature who can't sit still, who blacks out in bathroom stalls at three in the morning, this person living in a constant haze… How did she get here, and what did she do to Natalie Goodman?
It had only been a month, right? Only a month had passed since my mother's suicide attempt… Only a month had passed since the ECT… That's when it started, the night dad told me. When I realized that mom never was going to get better, that our only chance to fix her was to let a doctor fry her brains out… That was when things got really bad. Sure, I'd considered trying drugs to fix it all before. Henry had offered me pot in the past, but that was when things got real. That was the moment when Mozart stopped being enough, when escaping to Yale in May wasn't a quick enough solution.
Now, staring in the mirror, not even recognizing myself, it's clear how far I've really fallen. Now I'm just as bad as mom, aren't I? Dependant on the drugs, barely hanging on, trying to escape the demons in my mind…
I reach into my purse at this thought, grabbing the first bottle my fingers find, and I pull it out. Hands shaking, I manage to open them, to pour a few into my palm. I don't bother reading the label. I quit trying to keep track of what I was taking ages ago, and either way, I can identify the pills based on their color. Valium. Mom had made a few jokes about the color of Valium before. It wasn't a bad color…
Tearing my eyes away from the pills in my hand, I glance around myself. I know I brought a Red Bull in here… There it is, on the counter… I pick it up, use the last bits to swallow the pills. I can't help it, my eyes wander back to the mirror, to that stupid mirror, to the pathetic looking girl staring back at me from the glass. I drop the empty Red Bull can, not registering the fact that I'm balling my fist, that I'm striking the mirror. I can feel a sting in my knuckles, I'm bleeding, but I don't care. I'm looking at the already existing cracks have spread, altering the stupid reflection yet again, making it harder to recognize. But hey, I'm satisfied. I don't see those pathetic eyes.
