A/N: Hey everyone! I usually only write for House and Buffy, and I've only recently become a Gleek. Originally I wanted to do an AU Brittana story, but my idea flopped, so here's Brittany and an OC. It starts out really angsty, but it gets happier as it progresses. And I understand that suicide and depression are pretty big things to take on in writing if you haven't really experienced them, so I'm apologizing in advanced if any of this offends anyone. Now, enjoy and REVIEW!
I stood on the chair I stole from my Spanish class and tightened the knot suspending my scarf from a pipe on the ceiling, all before working the other end of the scarf into a noose. Studying the piece of fabric carefully, I thought of how, in the winter, my neck was inseparable from its black, skull patterned warmth. Then, I almost cried. But I knew I had to do it. I knew that my life was worth nothing; my stepfather told me daily. In that moment, all I wanted to do was end it, to wipe Sarah MacTavish from the face of the earth.
Some people think that teenage depression is all fabrication, but truthfully, it existed as my only reality from the moment I began high school. Students can express extreme cruelty when they want to. They never liked my accent. I had heard of Americans who found Scottish accents beautiful, even charming, but here, it just made me different. Everything about me became a target: my ginger locks, my freckles, my androgynous style, and of course, my lesbianism. After a while, it seemed that when people looked at me, they only saw a gaudy neon sign reading GAY in big, bright letters.
I readied myself to become proof that a person can very well be bullied to death.
The average observer would think that I had it all. My mom and I moved to the States so she could marry my stepfather, David Foster. As vice president of the largest independent insurance company in Ohio, he made good money. Sometimes I think that's why mom married him: the money. She loved my dad so much, and then he died in a car crash that left she and I unscathed. I missed him more than words could describe and often thought that maybe, just maybe, if he was still alive, I wouldn't be miserable. The man was kind and gentle and every word he spoke was heartfelt and encouraging. He loved me, his daughter, and I adored him. And then, just after celebrating my eighth birthday at my favorite restaurant, the world took him from me.
David, on the other hand, loathed me like a sunny summer day loathes the rain. He was the one who told my mother to toss me out when I came out of the closet. He said that homosexuality was un-American. He, the religious nut he was, said I was Satan's very spawn, and that he knew it from the first time he saw me. My mom said that God made me that way, and that he must have a plan for me. I asked "What God?"
Eventually and begrudgingly, the argument was settled. No one in our house would ever speak of my orientation and the responsibility to keep it that way would be heaved onto my shoulders. Out of sight, out of mind was good enough for David, so it had to be good enough for me.
And then, of course, were the kids from school. Some people got slushied, some were thrown into dumpsters, but I, oh I was special. What they did to me was worse than what they did to that fat girl in the AV Club and boy with the flatulence problem. No, they didn't taunt me or tease me. They all simply ignored my very being. No one even bothered to slam me into a locker I was so invisible. I think I would have enjoyed it, all because it would mean that someone acknowledged me.
I wanted to write a note, explaining that my death would not be a suicide, but a murder. David and Noah Puckerman and that cheerleader Quinn Fabray and the creepy kid with the Jewfro that asks me for underwear and everyone else on this goddamn planet except for my mom would be held accountable for my demise. I would be Sarah MacTavish, victim of life. But I didn't write the note. I just stood on that chair and looped the scarf around my neck methodically and then savored the sensation of existing for one last time. A shiver arced down the back of my spine as I took in a final breath. Closing my eyes, I began to count down from ten, and as soon as I did, the bathroom door opened.
The first thing I noticed about the girl was her Cheerios uniform. She was tall, and blonde and cute, and someone I had often seen in the presence of Quinn Fabray. I felt even more incentive to end it at the sight of her, the epitome of teenage popularity, and therefore teenage cruelty. When she saw me, she didn't move from where her feet were planted about a yard or two away. The expression on her face was not of shock or worry as I might have expected, but of sheer dimwitted brainlessness. She wasn't just a Cheerio, she was a dumb Cheerio, and the only emotion that shone through her blue eyes was confusion, as if it perpetually belonged there. She didn't understand what I planned to do. I internally laughed. I could take someone's obviously fragile sanity with me.
I jumped from the chair and felt the scarf tighten about my neck, constricting my airways with a deliciously satisfying pain as my body struggled to breath and my mind struggled to hinder the efforts of my body. My eyesight began to blur, but as it did, I noticed a flash of white and red as the girl, her empty eyes now frantic, rushed to my side, scrambling up on the chair and untying the scarf from the pipe. I hit the floor with a thud and the moment I reach the ground she began work on removing the scarf from my neck. I struggled, but in my dazed state she overpowered me. I rubbed my sore trachea and let out a small cough.
The girl knelt down by my side and gave me a curious glance. I could tell what thoughts ran through her mind. She was naive. She couldn't comprehend why someone would want to take their own life. It was in that moment when I glimpsed the innocence radiating from her very skin, not unlike a halo. And then, I noticed the tears streaming down her face like rain drops moving slowly down a windowpane.
"I don't get it," she muttered, her voice cracking a little. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do!"
All I managed in reply was a glance at the floor and the urge join her in her sobbing. Not for myself, not for what I almost did, but for her and for what I made her witness and do.
Suddenly my mouth opened and singing erupted from my vocal cords, the soft notes and gentle words meaning to soothe her. "Hey Jude / Don't make it bad / Take a sad song and make it better / Remember to let her into your heart / Then you can start to make it better." My voice quivered and as my song continued, she picked me up off the floor and placed me on my feet.
"You have a pretty voice," she whispered in a timid kind of monotone that I assumed more mirrored her usual manner of speech. And then it hit me. I paused and wanted to thank her, but I couldn't form the words with my mouth. I tried and tried and tried, but my brain wouldn't let me. So I just kept on singing, and by the sad smile that graced her features for but a split second, I could tell that she understood.
"I know," She continued. "I'll take you to Mr. Schue. He'll know what to do." As she walked me down the hall, her hand in mine, guiding me, it dawned on me that my voice wouldn't want to speak in the normal way for a long time. I'd have song and writing and that was it.
"My name's Brittany S. Pierce by the way," she offered, slurring her middle initial and last name together so it sounded like she introduced herself as Britney Spears. She tried to smile, seemingly for my sake, encouraging me to tell her my name.
I tried. I tried so hard to mumble, even whisper the words Sarah MacTavish, but I couldn't. And then, I began to cry a real type of crying as if all the despair of the planet emptied itself in my tears. We stopped and she hugged me and shushed me and told me that everything would be alright. For a moment, I actually wanted to believe her.
A/N: Sooooo? Love it? Hate it? Review please! I'm DESPERATE for approval. Or disapproval. Whichever floats your boat.
A/N2: Yes, I understand that Santana may seem like the bad guy now, but once Sarah starts recovering, she warms up to her. Right now, she's just being possessive of her Brittany.