A/N: That last chapter, "Dirty Little Secret," was kind of dark... and strangely, I enjoyed writing it, although I must say I expected it to be a lot longer. (Revised 8.22.2007.)

Gabriella was glad to obey Cara's order. Chills ran up her spine as she ran towards home, ignoring the pain whenever something touched her elbow or chin. She ran down the street and up the hill, frantically scrambling for her house key to let herself in. Who knew that Cara--a supposedly perfect girl who had now obtained the affections of many shy admirers at East High--had such a secret? Gabriella shuddered again at the thought. She felt confused--one could die from having a high percentage of alcohol in her blood system--and she didn't want Cara to die, by any means. But what if she told and Cara actually "got rid" of her? If she were in any other situation, the solution would be easy--avoid all contact with Cara Vergara...forever--except for the fact that Principal Matsui himself request that Gabriella assist Cara for her first week at East High. If Gabriella were to back out now, she couldn't possibly do so without a valid explanation or reason... and she couldn't and wouldn't lie. Even though it was only five o'clock, Gabriella wearily fell asleep, and didn't hear the phone ring when Troy called her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Troy looked at the phone, confused. Where could Gabriella be at a time like this... and why couldn't she take her phone with her? He sighed and gave up. Maybe she was still mad...?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Cara wearily sank down onto the floor of her bedroom, shaking. Where's...Gabriella? Then she remembered. She had revealed herself--the true, hideous, horribly ugly monster that she was--and now Gabriella wouldn't talk to her ever again. Uh-oh. Here comes the hangover. She ran to the bathroom and threw up until she felt that all that was left inside her were her vital organs. She heard her parents down the hall, even though the door was closed and likely locked. Tears welled up in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks silently as she took out her tin of mints and removed a cleverly concealed razor from the bottom of the inside. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently, and the razor clattered to the tiled floor as she broke down in tears. She pushed her sleeve up, revealing a series of scars. Each one of these scars told a story--the first one, the one closest to healing, was when she had first started cutting in sixth grade. From then on she refused to show her arms--and whenever she went to the pool, she'd always have an excuse to wear a long-sleeved tee over it--"I'm fat" was this summer's.

A strange, deranged comfort came from these scars--as if it took the pain from the cut to take away the pain that she was forced to endure her every waking moment. Both of her "parents"--poor excuses for them, anyway, went about their normal lives as if the other didn't exist--and to them, neither did Cara. They left her alone to fend for herself, often going out to parties and getting drunk. Cara knew fully well that she was an "accident," although neither one of her parents were sober long enough to tell her so. As a child she spent most of her time at the house of her "grandparents"--her kind, elderly neighbors--the only ones who knew her pain. And then they had died from old age when she was in sixth grade--before she had taken up cutting, and her world came crashing down. She had no reason to live.

At her old school, the one she had attended until this year, Cara knew what the other kids thought of her. They always seemed to form a pathway for her--every student not coming within three feet of her--whenever she entered a room. Once she caught her "best friend" gossiping about her in the girls' bathroom. Boys disrespected her. She held all of this inside until she couldn't take it anymore--she was at home after school--alone, of course--when she took one of her mother's razors and expertly made a slit on the underside of her arm, careful not to cut any important veins or arteries. Cara had always found it intriguing how some "emotionally disturbed" people would cut to take away their troubles, and had done some research on it. After she made the cut, she felt a sick feeling of relief wash over her and she instinctively pressed a wad of toilet paper against her skin...

...ah, the memories. If only she could relive that day...

She bit her lip decidedly, picking the razor up from the floor, composing herself and wiping her tear-stained face. She found the scar from her first cut and sliced through her skin again, blankly watching the blood trickle down her arm and onto her bare leg. Snapping back to attention, she wiped up her blood and threw it away, pressing a wad of toilet paper against the new wound. It brought her strange comfort, just like it always had. Cara smiled, washed her face, and returned to going about her life as if everything were okay.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Cara felt blood pulsing through the arm she had just cut, and looked at it, feeling a strange, sick feeling of relief washing over her. She quickly pulled her sleeve down and opened her backpack to get out her textbooks for homework. Suddenly, her cell phone rang, and she withdrew her breath sharply.

Hello. The unwelcoming male voice sent chills up her spine, and she turned as white as a sheet.

"I don't want to talk to you," Cara whispered, trying to sound as firm as she could while she was inwardly shaking, and her knees almost buckled in fear. "Please, leave me alone."

You can't turn me down. I know your secret. He sounded angry. You promised me. I am going to come for what I wanted.

"Please, no," she pleaded weakly, sobbing into the cell phone. She wished that she just had the courage to hang up on him, but then her stalker just might find her, rape her, and kill her. She didn't know who he was, where he was from--how he knew her, and had managed to find her after she had moved states away.

You're going to give me what I want, he cursed angrily at her. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you want, I'll bring something that'll knock out your senses. How many tequilas? He laughed hatefully.

Cara couldn't respond, and she dropped the phone as she fainted.