Summary: Warning – very dark Marissacentric fic. 'Marissa had often tried to commit suicide…'
Disclaimer: I don't own her, the character belongs to the man we are eternally grateful to – Josh Schwartz
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This is a rather dark story but I hope you…enjoy (?) it! Now I'm not suicidal, don't be scared, in fact usually I'm pretty happy, but I have had some of the thoughts in this and done some almost similar things. I'd never actually do it but it always occurs to me how easily you could kill yourself and how you could be at the point when you just have to tilt the scale one way or the other. OK, sorry if I'm freaking you out…I don't have issues, I promise! I haven't done pills or vodka or razors or hung nooses. I just think about weird things way too much!
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Marissa had often tried to commit suicide, no one knew but TJ was just one attempt in a line of many. Pills that time; handfuls tossed carelessly back into her mouth and washed down with vodka.
Vodka; that was one of her favourites. She had this dream that one day she'd manage to drink enough to make her pass out completely, not just for an hour or two, not just for the night or the whole of the next day, but forever. It hadn't happened yet. Somehow her body just kept going, processing the alcohol in her system and never failing.
Those things were easy to attempt, eat, drink, just like normal, that didn't scare her. She scared herself other times though, times when you actually had to act yourself. She'd never actually managed to tilt over the precipice, teeter on the edge yes, but not let go of life completely.
She'd been on the very edge numerous times. Once in the bath she'd been lying underwater, staring up at the blurry ceiling and it occurred to her that if she didn't move from here she'd eventually drown. The thought was exciting and terrifying at the same time, the power she had over her own life was unbelievable. As it was she lay there for a very long time quite peacefully, she hardly noticed she wasn't breathing, but that couldn't last. It seemed to get harder to keep herself on the bottom of the bath; as though her body was forcing itself up for air. Then her head began to pound, her lungs scream and sharp pains travel up and down her chest. She was beginning to get light-headed when her straining lungs forced her to breathe and water rushed into her nose. Marissa flailed reflexively upwards choking and coughing, her bloodshot eyes wide and her stomach sick. The water had been very cold she excused herself.
Another time she'd caught sight of one of her father's belts on a chair as she passed her parents' room. Before she even knew what she was doing it was round her neck and she had pulled the buckle tight. Tighter, tighter, she could feel her windpipe pushing back against her spine, tighter.
'Marissa?' she paused as her mom's voice floated up the stairs. 'Marissa?' the call came again and then footsteps. Marissa tugged the belt from her throat, tossing it on the chair and hurrying from the room. 'What's that on your neck?' Julie had asked, squinting in the dim light of the landing.
'Uh-nothing,' she lied quickly, 'my new necklace was too tight.' If only her mom had been a little later she wouldn't be listening to the lecture that was now beginning, she would have been free.
She had forgotten the number of times she had tied nooses, hanging them professionally from her curtain rail. Sometimes she got as far as putting her head through and sliding the knot up to her neck, but physically letting herself fall into space was beyond her. The thought of her neck breaking and her face slowly turning black was gruesome and Marissa didn't want to be an ugly corpse.
That was the reason she gave up on razors. Slitting her wrists was just too messy. Plus, the blood dripping on the white tiles when she cut herself made her feel a little woozy. She did it because it gave her a rush, a great feeling of power, of control over something. But as much as she did that; a neat little cut now and then so she could experience the momentary euphoria, she'd decided it wasn't worth it as something final. Dying slowly and painfully amidst a pool of sticky red liquid wasn't exactly appealing.
It often occurred to her, when driving on a sharp bend or the brow of a hill, how easy it would be to slip onto the other lane. She had this fear that one day a manic, suicidal part of her would take over and she would swerve out into the oncoming traffic. Since that thought she was especially vigilant on tight turns; she didn't want to kill anyone else.
The scariest thing she'd done was take a large kitchen knife and hold it to her chest. It was strange to feel her heart beating just below the point of the blade. So close, so easily pierced, so easily stopped. The cold metal had pressed against her skin made her shiver with a sickening thrill. All she had to do was press on the handle, it was laughably simple. Even if she wasn't strong enough she could always fall on it. The idea was rather romantic but also involved excessive amounts of pain and blood and after standing there for a long while Marissa had slid the knife back into the block. It wasn't the nicest way to die
So Marissa hadn't found it yet; the perfect way to die. Razors and knives were too bloody, drowning too difficult, car crashing too dangerous, hanging too disfiguring, alcohol poisoning too slow and overdosing impossible when you had Ryan to save you. But perhaps she needed him, wanted him to. Maybe she'd only done it because she knew he'd come find her. Unlikely she knew but the thought was still there, in the back of her mind. Think about that time with Oliver, the perfect opportunity; a psycho with a gun. All she had to do was get him angry, try to leave, and bang; it would be over. No guilt, no difficulty, she didn't even have to pull the trigger. But no, she'd called Ryan and he'd come to save her. Committing suicide wasn't so easy when you had a white knight.