Trigger warning: mentions of depression, self harming and suicidal thoughts.

Beca was drowning.

Drowning, drowning, drowning.

Deeper and deeper.

Drowning deep into the depth of depression.

She had made a grave mistake - not that all her other mistakes in life hadn't been grave. Yes, Beca was a downright idiot. A downright idiot who was drowning down deep into the depth of depression. She discovered a new meaning of depression every time she made this same mistake over and over again.

However, this mistake was particularly grave as, not only had she not taken her anti-depressants, she had poured them down the drain. As per, she'd read online that someone had done this and realised they didn't need their pills anymore, and, ever the foolish one, Beca had truly believed that she could do the same. And she could stop living life on forced happiness - she could just be happy.

Now Beca doubted happiness was in her radar of emotions.

Sadness was there. Loneliness. Emptiness. Longing. Hatred. Self-Loathing. They were all clearly on her radar. But happiness? She wouldn't know where to find it if someone gave her clear directions.

So here she was. Unable to will herself to get up out of her bed. Unable to do anything more than stare at the ceiling as she spiralled into the sounds and shouts of the voices in her head. The voices. They had started off as tiny whispers, telling her she had fucked up, telling her she wasn't worth any attention for her stupidity. Then they got louder - telling her she wasn't worth anything at all. And louder - she was never going to make it in the music industry and should give up embarrassing herself. And louder - nobody loves her. Nobody could ever love her. Not even her own father. And louder - if she was worth nothing, if her music was crap, if nobody loved her, then she had nothing to live for. And louder - maybe she should just put herself out of her misery forever.

And that small voice of hope telling her everything was going to get better was slowly diminishing to a barely audible whisper, drowned out by the loudness of the voices.

Beca knew. She knew she needed to get up and fix this. She knew she needed to go and get another bottle, she knew she needed to get back on the medication, she knew it was prescribed to her for a reason.

But she also knew that she had a lighter in her drawer, and a sharp needle in her bathroom.

She had been clean for six months.

Six. Months.

She deserved a reward for her efforts, surely? If only she could will herself to move. But she couldn't. She was weak. She deserved a punishment. Maybe this was her punishment. Being paralysed with mental illness - that way she couldn't eat, she couldn't go to class, call anyone, get help, and most importantly; she couldn't cut.

Well, fuck.

Another day passed. She was in the same spot as the past four days.

And then she got the call.

And that was when she made up her mind.

She was going to drown.

A/N: this was just an introduction. Hope you liked it!