I may or may not continue this, depending upon reader response. It's a bit out of my usual line (no apocalyptic crises, aliens, superpowers, etc.), but I decided to stretch myself, for two reasons: first, as an homage to one of my favorite (sadly unfinished) fanfics, iWill Always Love You by StoryTeller125, which also deals with mental illness; and second, as a tribute to Daniella Monet. She's easily the best actress among the Victorious girls, yet the character of Trina is virtually ignored by the show's writers, except for when they need a convenient butt-monkey. This is just my attempt to envision the result if Trina were given a storyline worthy of Daniella's talents.

Disclaimer: don't own.

It was on a beautiful spring day that Trina Vega decided to kill herself. The unseasonable warmth had produced a flurry of short shorts, sandals, and laughing picnic lunches on the grass outside Hollywood Arts. André leaned against a wall, strumming his guitar, while Tori rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and sighed with contentment; Cat had dusted off her Jupiter Boots, and was currently in serious danger of reaching orbit; even Jade, wonder of wonders, was smiling, however much she tried to hide it when anyone looked her way.

If anyone noticed Trina, sitting by herself on the sidewalk, it was only to wonder why she apparently refused to take her hand out of her purse. No one knew that her fingers were crumpling, over and over again, the letter she had just received from a low-level executive at Bluebonnet Records, the recipient of her latest demo tape. It was brief and to the point:

"Word of advice, kiddo. Give up singing and find a career more suited to your talents. Like dishwashing, say, or janitorial work."

She didn't mind rejection in and of itself – not by this point. Her ego might be dangerously fragile, but it had been toughened by a seemingly endless string of failures. No – it was the casual cruelty of the letter's wording that broke her. She couldn't sing? So be it. But to dismiss her as a person…

The sheet of paper was now little more than pulp, and her fingers were beginning to ache from the repetitive motion, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. Her mind was racing madly, swinging between the extremes of thought and emotion like an out-of-control metronome:

Talk to your friends, they'll help you through this. You have no friends – everyone hates you. You can make them love you. You should force them to suffer. You're going to be a star. You're nothing but garbage.

"Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" she cried aloud. A few puzzled heads swung her way, and she winced with embarrassment.

Control, control, have to get control. Have to play the part. She forced herself to stand and wandered over to the little clump of people around her sister.

"Hey, Tori. Tori's friends. Check out my new Fezzini boots! Got 'em on sale for…"

"Reality check, Vega. Nobody cares," snapped Jade.

"Hey, lay off her," Tori cut in.

Now the still bouncing Cat spoke: "You should be nicer, Jade! It's not Trina's fault she's so shallow and materialistic!"

There was a moment of stunned silence. As so often, it was broken by Rex: "I didn't even know Miss Ditzy there could pronounce 'materialistic'!"

"That's it, mister. Into the backpack for you," and Robbie zipped his profanely protesting puppet away.

Jade studied Trina for a moment. "On second thought, I think you made a really smart purchase there."

"You do?" A momentary warmth tingled in Trina's veins.

"Yep. Those boots will draw everyone's attention away from your face." She snickered.

Beck's face darkened. "Jade. You're going too far."

"No," Trina whispered. "No. She's right."

And at that moment, the metronome stopped its swinging. One thought lodged itself in Trina's consciousness, drowning out the voices of her squabbling friends, drowning out all her own attempts to quiet her mind down, to talk herself back from the edge.

Die.

Die now.

You ugly, stupid cow. They'll only love you when you're gone – nobody speaks ill of the dead.

Give them what they want.

She turned and wandered away in the approximate direction of the student parking lot, dazed, unseeing. Tori detached herself from André and hurried after her, past Jade and Beck, who were now exchanging screams.

Trina barely felt her sister's hand on her shoulder, but stopped anyway. "What? What do you want?"

"Look, Trin, I've known you all my life. I can tell when something's really wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Just…go back to your friends."

"Not until I'm sure you're okay."

For the first time, Trina turned to look her sister in the eye. "I'll be okay. By the end of the day, everything will be okay."

The words should have been reassuring. But there was a strange quality to Trina's voice – a mixture of emptiness and bitter anger – that set off alarm bells in Tori's mind.

The elder Vega slid behind the wheel of her Pontiac and drove away. Tori stared after her, thought a moment, then came to a quick decision.

"Hey, 'Dré," she said when she had returned, "could you give me a lift home?"

"You're going to skip the rest of the day?" said André, his brow furrowed. "That isn't like you, muchacha."

"I know, but…please. Just this once." She laid a hand on his arm; her eyes pleaded silently. And André Harris, touched by Tori's obvious anxiety, spoke the words that, though neither of them yet knew it, would save Trina Vega's life that day:

"Sure, babe. I'll take you home."