A/N: So, this is what happens when I write for an hour and I'm feeling very, very angsty. It's not long, but I hope I got the message across. For some inexplicable reason I felt like making Beck an asshole. Enjoy. Or maybe don't. I don't know.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognisable.

She burst into her apartment, the pain in her chest feeling like a gunshot.

She let out a scream, tugging and pulling her hair until bloody clumps of black, green, blue came out.

It hurt.

It motherfucking hurt, for goddamn's sake.

She needed something, anything to stop it.

She couldn't see straight. She vaguely heard the door slam behind her shaking frame but when she spun to look the world tilted and she saw these black dots and she just couldn't hold on any more.

Her body hit the floor, a dull thud echoing around the spacious living room.

She had to get something. She couldn't take the pain.

She, she was strong, but not that strong. She never knew something could physically hurt like this.

She crawled towards the kitchen, hearing her expensive dress snag and rip on a corner somewhere. She pulled herself up using the counter, scrabbling almost blindly in the cupboards until she reached the liquor section.

She pulled out the vodka, broke several of her nails getting the top off, and swallowed a whole mouthful of the bitter, burning alcohol.

That's for seeing him with her.

She took another gulp, wiping her mouth on the back of her arm.

That's for not being enough.

And another.

That's for not being her.

She slid down the wall, cradling the bottle.

Not being pretty, skinny, talented, nice enough.

She noticed her dark red lipstick around the mouth of the bottle.

Not being Tori fucking Vega.

Someone would care about that when they went to pour some next.

She wished she was currently the one pressed up against a wall.

Shame she was planning on finishing it, wasn't it?

With Beck's mouth, his hands, his everything on her, filling her, completing her.

The room was becoming blurry, object blending into one another.

But no, it's not her. It was never her. She isn't enough. She'll never be enough.

She lets out a harsh laugh, and digs her remaining nails into her thighs. The pain stops the room spinning and takes away from that of the wound in her chest.

She thinks it's where her heart is meant to be.

She can't get that image of his hands all over her out of her mind by herself, so she takes another swig of the vodka to help.

The pain in her throat's gone, but not the pain in her chest.

She releases an anguished scream, ragged nails scratching against the bottle, her dress, her skin, the floor, anything. Something else needs to feel the pain.

She gave him everything, he gave nothing.

The world was spinning more than usual so she put the bottle clumsily on the floor and put her head on her knees, scrunching her eyes up tight.

She was exhausted. She couldn't do this any more.

She took one last swig of the bottle, finding it alarmingly light. Where did the damn stuff go, for fucks sake? She was enjoying that.

Did he not understand that she trusted him with her heart?

She violently hits the floor, cursing at the shooting flare of pain.

Stupid girl. Daddy told her not to trust anyone, didn't he?

Her eyes are shutting now, her body adjusting to the sudden intake of the strong alcohol.

She should've listened rather than rebelled.

She realised that it is all her fault, as she takes a final swig, looking at the bottle like it's offended her when she realises that it's empty.

All her fault, for being so... Her. She should've been like Tori.

She doesn't know where she is, what she's doing, why she's crying.

But she does know one thing.

Beck Oliver just completely broke her.