Pieces of Nothing--

By: KT the Shimmer Skank

Rating: R for language, drug use, strong sexuality, and blood.

Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi. Nor do I own "Breathe" by Michelle Branch or any of the songs used in subsequent chapters (once the story is complete I shall list them all and their artists in the last chapter). I make no profit, don't sue me.

Author's Notes: Set in Manny's 11th grade year. This story won't be overly long, only three or four chapters, unless I get giddy and decide to write a few more. Every chapter will probably be a songfic. Please take notice of the above notes on rating, and be aware that this is an intense story that delves into matters of madness and depression. Also, I just want to say that I do NOT mean to imply that everyone classified as clinically depressed is a raving lunatic; this just happens to be this girl's story. I credit inspiration to my many disturbed friends, my own Pepsi-induced insanity, the film "Thirteen," and of course the naïve and fucked-up Degrassi character that this is about. I also must thank Lane, who is my savior like always and helped me brainstorm title ideas.

Update: Yeah so, bullshit policy about no songfics has caused me to go back and take out the lyrics. Eh, the chapters were too long anyway. And, by the way, this is extremely AU; the first chapter was written even before I'd seen Accidents Will Happen.

o o o o o

I was on the verge of madness. It couldn't be stopped. I sat cross-legged, back pressed against the side of my bed, chewing on my fingers. I had started with my nails, but when I had bitten off as much of them as I could stand, I resigned myself to softly gnawing on my fingers. I was dying, going insane. I hugged my knees close to my body, just to keep me still. But that was useless. My feet kept tapping, my teeth kept chewing. I wanted to get up and find something to eat. Anything to keep my teeth busy. There were crumbs all over me, all over my bed and my floor. Crumbs of crackers, mini-muffins, Skittles, Corn Flakes. Little things, to nibble on, to grind my teeth against to fight the yearning. Empty crumpled soda cans littered the floor as well. There was a bottle of water I kept nearby. I would gnaw on the malleable plastic red tip and drink from it periodically like a helpless infant to a tit. Slurrrp. Slurrrp. Munch, munch, munch. I wanted more, but I gave up trying to feed the hunger that would not stop.

I knew that I was dying. There was no specific sign, I suppose. I simply knew in my mind, with total clarity, that death was certain. There was an emptiness, a restlessness within me that refused to be satisfied. Oh, it burned. It burned from within, from depths of myself unknown. It was an aching. A burning desire. I was thirsty. I was hungry. For what I did not know, but I felt the need screaming inside of me. I gnawed and twitched and tapped and clicked, aching for a release from my restless cravings. I cranked my music up loud, suffocating myself in it, but it made no difference. My appetite was insatiable.

I picked up an empty can of Dr. Pepper and stood up. I squeezed it rapidly, rhythmically in my hand as I paced around the room. Michelle Branch poured over me so loudly. Not loud enough, of course. Nothing was ever enough anymore. I liked her music. It served to ease some of the anxiety when I started losing myself like this. She sang of love, but it was so wonderfully indifferent. The songs lacked any conviction. There was no longing or burning, such as what one would find with real love. The words she wrote were beautiful but simple enough to fit into predictable rhymes and hooks. The emotions were strong and yet so meaningless. It wore the mask of hurt and joy and all that went with such emotion, but it gave none of the commitment. It was pretend passion, riding on harmless waves of saccharine acoustic guitar riffs. It was happiness dressed as sorrow.

I twisted the thin aluminum of the can and split it in two. I tore the two halves into little slivers of burgundy and silver metal, sprinkling them to the ground like snow. I was going mad. I was dying. I left my bedroom and walked, loudly, through the halls of my house. I rubbed my fingers together involuntarily. I was a prisoner. My parents had hidden my car keys again. It was my punishment for lying to them. I said I was at Emma's, but I was really at a party. But so what if I lied? Crazy people lie. It can't be helped. I wasn't allowed to go anywhere for three weeks. Oh, if they only knew. If they only knew how cruel it was to trap me here. Didn't they know I'd simply scratch and chew myself away if I couldn't get out?

They didn't understand. They never had. Oh, sure, they knew I was broken. I mean, anyone could see that there was something not quite right here. They tried to fix me with doctors and pills, but they never saw what the flaws really were. They didn't know that I was a fire, with nothing left but embers. I kept feeding the flame, but it did not want to burn. I was left with constant and overpowering need. It was emotional as much as it was physical, and there was no hurt nor pleasure great enough to please it.

I began to dig, over-turning couch cushions and knocking adorable knick-knacks off the mantel. This house was only so big. There were only so many crevices in which to hide a set of car keys. I absolutely would not let them keep me here. I couldn't stand to deal with aching while being forced to look at nothing but the walls that I hated. The walls of a place full of hate and raised voices. The place where they told me what to wear and what to do and who I was allowed to be with. I wasn't allowed to think or speak or want anything. I was afraid to even dream, afraid they could see inside my head and want to control everything in there as well. It didn't matter in the end, though. They couldn't make me who they wanted me to be, and they couldn't keep me here.

I found my freedom when I was on my stomach, my arm shoved completely beneath the entertainment system. I felt my fingers curl around familiar shapes and I pulled back my arm, ecstatic to see my fuzzy pink kitty key ring in my hand. I brushed the dust off my clothes and ran outside, where the rain was pounding down in big fat drops. I slid quickly into my car and started it, tossing my damp black hair over my shoulder carelessly as I adjusted my mirrors. I was gone before I could even register my glee. I watched the house get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror, getting swallowed up by the rain, and I was glad. I cannot be caged, I thought. I'll go crazy if I'm caged.

I drove faster than I should have. But I didn't care. The rain came down and I could hear each droplet that slammed against my car. The water on metal sounded like thousands and thousands of shrill screams echoing on top of one another. I cried. I couldn't help it. I wasn't sad, but my feelings still erupted from me without my permission. The glowing needle on my speedometer swung past 60 and the streets flew by so, so fast. Not fast enough, of course, but just enough so that it gave me the fleeting feeling that maybe, maybe I could feel alive again.

My body painfully jerked forward as I pulled up next to the curb and slammed on the brakes. I cut off the ignition and climbed out of the car. The rain had gotten wilder, heavier, and it engulfed the neighborhood in a ghost-like beauty. I felt like if I stood in one place too long, I would forget where I was and just be lost in rain forever. I ran quickly to the front door of the house.

Beads of cold rain dripped from me onto Craig's porch. A white cloud of breath hovered around my mouth as I rapped loudly on the door. I waited, listening. I heard his footsteps. When he opened the door I watched his face, shifting from its original cool and relaxed expression into one of shock and concern. But then he registered my presence completely, and I saw a familiar look in his eyes of exasperation. He wasn't happy to see me, it seemed.

"Manny," he said unenthusiastically. It sounded so good when he said it. He made it sound so simple, so complete. Everything I wasn't. "What are you doing here?"

I didn't have an answer. I only knew that I was lost, and the only way to find myself was to be with Craig. I was just Manny to him. Braindead and beautiful and kissable and annoying. I always knew where I stood with him. Regardless of what he said or did, I always knew what he was really thinking.

I smiled, for God knows why. "I was just thinking about you," I said playfully. I looked into his eyes and saw my dripping reflection.

"I thought you were grounded." There was an obvious exhaustion in his voice; I tired him. I wore him down. I ached inside him like a sickness.

"Yeah, but... Who cares, right? I felt like seeing you." I touched his arm. He pulled away. I started feeling sufficiently embarrassed. Warm tears began to glaze over my eyes.

He looked at me for a long time, a hundred years, it seemed. I listened to the rain as it ground on the earth. I started chewing on tendrils of my wet hair, gradually moving to my fingers again. They tasted like fresh rain.

"You look... terrible. You're soaking wet." He sighed heavily. "I guess you'd better come inside." He reluctantly moved aside and I stepped into his house, immediately feeling warmer all over.

I followed him in a maddening daze to the living room, where he placed me on the couch and wrapped an afghan around me. It itched against my wet skin. I pulled it off and started scratching, scratching, but I couldn't make the itching go away. I started crying again even though I really didn't want to. I just wanted to sit with Craig and kiss and be happy. But I itched so badly and my head was spinning so fast.

Craig stared at me with his eyes open wide. There was an unusual sort of quality to that look in his eyes. Like his emotion was undecided, stuck somewhere between worried and mad as hell. He didn't want me to be there. But he didn't want me to cry, either.

"Shh, shh, Manny," he said, his voice cracking slightly. He pet my soaking hair and gently grabbed my hand. He gasped and let go of it again. "Manny, your fingers are bleeding! What the hell happened?" He gazed at me again in confusion, and the familiar struggle of whether to embrace me or be disgusted by me was easy to spot in his eyes.

"Kiss me, Craig."

He groaned impatiently. "Manny..."

"You have to! You have to kiss me!" I laughed through my tears. I was breathing spastically, still tearing at my flesh with my fingertips. "I'm dying. I'm going to die tonight." I buried my face in his shoulder because, oh, he felt so warm.

Reluctantly, he accepted my presence on his body and continued to stroke my hair softly. "It's going to be okay. You're not going to die. Just... it'll be okay."

When he held me, it made the bad feelings go away. He wasn't enough, of course. The unsettling feeling of death still made me shake all over, but the strength of his arms served to calm some of the rattling in my head. I began to kiss his neck, to suck softly at it in hopes of getting the nourishment I so desperately needed.

And then he dropped me, let me fall, and I was cold again. He got off the couch and left me there with nothing but myself and an itchy orange afghan.

"Can I get you something?" he said, trying so hard to be supportive but inevitably his irritation was showing through. "Would you like a glass of water?"

I tilted my head back and rested it against the back of the couch. I looked at the ceiling and started counting spots on the tiles. "I'm not thirsty," I replied, even though that was such a lie. I was all dried-up inside, but I didn't want Craig's water to revive me. It wouldn't be enough, I knew. Nothing was enough and I was more than ready to give up.

Craig went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with the glass of water I hadn't asked for. I took the glass in my hand and stared at it in confusion. I held it front of me and watched the water refract the light, and I sniffled. "This glass of water is just like my life."

Craig stood there uncomfortably and looked at me. "What do you mean?"

"The glass is full, but totally transparent. It's just like me." I closed my eyes and carelessly tossed the glass across the room. I heard it shatter, and I proceeded to rub my throbbing temples.

Craig was livid. "Manny, what are you doing! Just what is the matter with you? I can't have you over here going all psycho on me, okay? I just can't..." I opened my eyes again. He nervously ran his fingers through his hair as he thought for a moment, shaking his head all the while. He then moved to clean up the mess I'd made.

"I told you I was dying," was my only explanation.

He swept up the glass and tossed it into the trash can, then sopped up the water with a rag. As he cleaned I continued to stare at the ceiling, desperate for something to put my focus on. Otherwise I'd go mad again.

When he was finished he marched back over to me and started pacing. He opened his mouth several times to speak but didn't quite capture the words he wanted. Finally he sat down on the coffee table directly across from me and looked me in the eye. His gaze made me anxious and I started itching again.

"When was the last time you took your pill, Manny?" he said, trying to stay as calm as he could.

I stared at him blankly and shrugged.

He laughed tiredly and shook his head. "It's kind of important that you keep track of these things, you know? No wonder you're so out of your mind tonight. You have to take your pills, Manny."

I took hold of his hand and squeezed it, desperate to make him see that I was DYING, and that it didn't matter whether or not I took some stupid pill because I was going to DIE anyway. "Listen to me, I'm dying. I don't have time to worry about the last time I took my pills." Hot tears ran down my already tear-exhausted face. "I mean, look at me!"

"I am looking at you! You're a total mess! They call them anti-depressants for a reason, you know. So you don't get depressed and go fucking crazy."

"No. Craig. Jesus. You're not listening to me." I stared at him impatiently as I scratched furiously at my left wrist. I was lost. I was screaming. But Craig couldn't hear me. He could kiss me and hate me and fuck me and care about me and worry about me, but never through any of it could he ever hear me. This friendship we pretended to have was just a game, because even when we were together, we were in two different worlds.

He shook his head dismissively. "Do you have any of your pills with you?"

I reach out and placed his head between my hands, forcing him to look into my scorched-red eyes. "Listen to me! I don't need my pills, I need you to help me. Help me, please. I'm dying. I'm dying."

He pulled away and sighed with great exhaustion. "Are there any in your car?"

I didn't answer him, but he walked away anyway. I heard him pick up my keys off the floor where I'd dropped them. The front door opened and shut again, and I was left alone.

I buried my face in my hands, suffocating myself and not caring. I could taste the blood on my fingers. I began to shake uncontrollably as my mind lost its bearings yet again. I needed to scream, or run, or explode. The world was spinning. I couldn't breathe. I was bubbling with desire inside, desire for relief that would never come, but instead of going crazy I just kept head planted firmly in my hands. I erupted into tears and screams until my voice went hoarse.

The front door swung open again.

"Craig?" said the sleepy voice of a little girl from the stairs. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Angela," Craig's voice replied. "Just go back to bed. Everything's fine."

"Who's that?"

"No one, just go to bed."

I do not know whether or not Angela went to bed, but a few moments later Craig was at my side with a bottle of pills in one hand and another glass of water in the other. "Manny, here. Let's take on of these, okay?"

I sobbed weakly in response.

He moved onto the couch and sat beside me. He pet my hair softly and tried to calm me down. His attempt was so naive; he had no idea of the madness that raged within me. He continued to stroke the wet skin of my face, cooing meaningless phrases to coax me into taking the pill. He didn't hear me. No pill could save me. Nothing could save me. I was too far gone.

"You'll feel so much better once you take it."

That was a lie. I knew, even in that state of mind when I was so far from reality, that better was something I could never feel again. I kept crying and shoving him away.

At last I gave in. My voice was all but gone, my heart was racing, and I no longer had the strength to fight him off. I exhaled, slowly, and opened my mouth. He reached inside and placed a little blue pill on my tongue. He brought the glass of water to my lips and I swallowed, in between sobs, and felt it travel down my throat.

"Shh," he said softly, holding me and petting me. I wondered if this was the same way he dealt with Angela when she was upset or sick with a cold. I nuzzled my face against his chest, because he let me, and even though I knew that it didn't change anything and that everything was a lie, I still felt some semblance of a calm set over me.

In a daze, I felt him pull me off the couch and help me walk out to his car. I road with him the entire way with my face pressed up against the window, watching the rain go on and on and on and it seemed like forever, but we finally reached my house. He walked me all the way inside and to my bedroom. He stuck me underneath my covers like dust that you just sweep under the couch because you don't want to look at it, and you don't know what else to do with it.

I heard him leave, and for the longest time I just stared at the walls in the darkness of my room. The rain only grew stronger as time passed, and I wondered how long it could possibly keep up its pace. I watched the red numbers on my alarm clock, to keep track of the rain. But the rain lasted longer than I could. I eventually fell asleep, forgetting all about the fact that I was supposed to die tonight.