One wrong slip of the blade and she would be dead. But maybe that would be a good thing. Breana Davenport was already dying; not to mentioned used. Her body was already littered with scars, what was a few more?
The sticky red dripped from the cuts that traveled up her arms in neat little rows and columns. It was almost artistic, however the sight reminded her of something else and almost made her sick. Not all of her scars were visible. Some were inside her body. She remembered the blood rushing out of her so many times, ending a life not her own that was not put there on accident.
When she knocked over the bottle of amber liquid, she picked it up and took a swig, relishing the burn. She haphazardly wiped up the spill. This wasn't the first time she forgot her troubles this way, however it might be her last.
The knife was still bloody, but she used it again anyways. It was only her own blood. She ran it straight up from the side of her knee to her thigh. She started to feel the dizziness, but all she did was sit down. The pills were right there, in all their glory. She took enough of them, and her blood pressure would become nothing. She was already close to passing out. She washed them down with more whiskey.
It wasn't glory, but it wasn't shame either. It was better than being killed by Marcus when he came back. He never stayed dead. Sure he seemed like he was good at first, but people like him don't change.
She climbed in the tub as she continued to bleed out, not wanting to leave as much as a mess for her aunt to clean up.
Farkle knew something was wrong, but not as bad as to find her passed out in a pool of her own blood and vomit.
*Marcus is Lab Rats Marcus but that's not entirely relevant.