Summary: Mitchie Torres, cutter stationed at Lakeview Crisis Center. Shane Gray, bad boy of Connect 3 who is sent to help Mitchie to get good PR. What happens when his mental case starts cutting her way into his heart? Dark Smitchie.

Cookie-Cutter

By: Chibi Neko-Chan2

Beta- Reader: sandy2x400

"Talking"

Emphasis

Writing

XXXXX- Scene Change

(Mitchie)

The people around here call me "Cookie-Cutter". I personally think it is just a bit demented and twisted that I like the given nickname. It did, however, make sense that the name sends an excited chill down my spine. I am one psychotic individual, after all.

Riding the lines of "desperate for attention" and "insane" is the reason why I'm trapped here in this crisis center in the first place. I live here. I breathe here, which was pretty unfortunate since I rather drop dead than be stuck in this stoic place for one more second. I hated this center ever since my so-called 'parents' dropped me off. Their reason for abandoning me here was so I could get better. I knew it was a load of bull as soon as left my mother's painted lips. Those two just wanted me off their hands in order to keep me from destroying their good reputation.

So here I am.

Mitchie Torres aka Cookie-Cutter Extraordinaire.

Cookie-cutter. The sweet word tingles on the end of my tongue, but I do not spit it out. You see, I do not speak much anymore. I place my cold hand on my cheek, trying to recall the last time I talked. It was the day my parents dropped me off, now a month and a half ago, and it was right after mom told me that I really was not going to pay a surprise visit to my grandmother in Michigan – that was the lie they used to explain the packed luggage in the back of the car – but that I would be "seeking help" from professionals instead. I stared in disbelief at my mother, betrayal and hurt coursing through my veins.

The last thing I said to my parents was not an 'I love you' or an 'okay.' It was not even a statement. It was a question. I remember my voice being breathless and the hot tears that threatened to spill from my eye sockets as the question left my mouth.

"How could you do this to me?"

That was the last thing I said to my parents, and it was the last thing I have said to anyone. You know, maybe I am truly insane. I've had more conversations with myself in this past month and a half than with anyone else.

Cookie-Cutter Torres.

No, I was not given the nickname because I enjoyed cutting cookie dough into endearing shapes like stars or balloons. I'm sixteen, not five. The nickname refers to my wrists. I was never much of a baker, but I am an artist with the razor. Cutting is my art.

I stare at the white walls that imprison me. I don't hate white, but I am not a fan of it. I prefer the color black. I also like red. I bit down on my lip when I felt the urge to glance down at the crimson cuts on my pale wrist.

It was a tendency of mine to accept things that are rejected by everyone else; an example of this being the love for my razor. Everyone else hates that I answers the razor's bitter call, but I love wielding the small silver object in my hands. It is almost impossible to describe the relief it brought when it makes contact with my skin. It was like taking a drug or quenching a thirst for ice-cold water after a hot day.

Cutting was my drug; it is what I craved for.

This might come off as a surprise, but I haven't always been a cutter. The old Mitchie Torres would have never resorted to self-mutilation. Cheery, bright smile Mitchie would have talked to her two closest friends (her only friends) about her problems. Mary and Sierra would have helped her through it. Things changed, however, when high school approached.

I was fourteen and naïve. Mary, who had a dream to dance, moved to Manhattan with her family. She planned to fulfill her dream of attending Manhattan School of Performing Arts when her senior year rolled around. Then, Sierra left me stranded to be part of the school's academic team. Although she asked me to join the scholarly team with her in the beginning, I knew already that I wasn't as smart as Sierra and that I wouldn't fit in. As soon as Sierra made her presence noticed with the academic team, she forgot about her old best friend. I was just as invisible to her as I was with the rest of the student body.

I didn't make other friends. I was shy and wanted my classmates to approach me. They never did. So I sat alone in all my classes and I skipped lunch - to avoid eating alone - and went to the music room instead. Although, being lonely did have its perks. My grades improved and even though my classmates didn't bother talking to me, my teachers did. My music teacher, my favorite teacher, thought I had talent and made me practice piano when I visited her during my lunch hour. Mrs. Gonzalez soon had me playing in front of the other students during class as they simply stood up and sang.

My star treatment didn't sit well with the other students; especially one named Tess Tyler. Ms. Popularity herself had to be number one at everything. She used her mother's fame, TJ Tyler, to persuade teachers to favor her. Mrs. Gonzalez was one of the only teachers who didn't buy into Tess manipulation game, which was probably another reason why I like Mrs. Gonzalez so much. Tess, however, would complain to the school board and Mrs. Gonzalez was often forced to give Tess most of the solo parts in our competitions.

Tess's hatred for me grew when Mrs. Gonzalez offered me the main solo in one of her competitions. Although I had a passion for music, I declined the offer. I was too shy and wanted to avoid conflict. Although being invisible wasn't exactly fun, it was better than being hated.

That didn't stop Tess. She confronted me after school one day. I had gotten a Sprite out of one of the school's cola machines and turned to see her and half the student body. Tess had the fakest smile on her face when she greeted me.

"Hello Mitchie."

"Hi Tess," I responded meekly, holding the Sprite close to me as if were a shield instead of just a can. Tess giggled as she looked behind her shoulder to make sure her audience was still with her.

"I have something to give you."

I didn't respond when Tess pulled out what appeared to be a stapled packet of pink papers. The packet was extremely thick – fifty-seven pages to be precise. Tess waved the packet in front of my face before holding it out for me to grab. When I reached out to take hold of the packet, Tess accidentally dropped it on the floor. I bent down to pick the packet up, placing my unopened Sprite down next to me.

"We Hate Mitchie Torres Petition" was scribbled on top of the paper in Tess's handwriting. A tight knot started to form at the back of my throat and my hands started to shake nervously. Tess continued to stand in front of me, the student body and her laughing, as my eyes landed on the first signature. To my surprise, the first signature was not Tess's.

It was Sierra's.

The familiar penmanship of my former best friend confirmed this. The page became blurry as I continued to read the names of my classmates and people that I didn't even know. Tess was second, Ella was third. I started to stand up when I flipped to the next page to see only more signatures.

Then a cold liquid hit the top of my head. I gasped and glanced up to see Tess with my now open Sprite can tilted towards me. She continued to pour the soda on me as the students doubled in laughter. She shook the last bit of drops on the top of my head before throwing the soda can on the floor with an echoing thud.

"Let's go girls. We have a Connect 3 concert to attend," Tess scoffed as she flicked her short blonde hair over her shoulder, "Mitchie, you might want to clean your mess up. I know you can't do much about your face, but at least get the soda off the floor."

Tess's harsh words continued to repeat in my mind as she walked away. A strong self-hatred developed. My heart felt like it had been torn into a million pieces and that a special part of me was taken away because of her malice.

Although Tess left, some students remained to laugh or simply stare at me. I didn't stay much longer after Ms. Popularity was gone. I booked it out of the school, sobbing intensely as I ran home. My knees were weak as my body racked with sobs. I remember tripping over the pitcher's mound as I ran through the school's baseball field. I was a complete wreck.

My mother unfortunately was home when I opened the front door to my house. She stared at me in horror as she took in her tear-streaked face, bloody-kneed daughter who smelled like soda. "What happened to you?" My mother, Connie, managed to spit out as she walked towards me. As soon as she placed her hand on my shoulder, I shook it off.

"It's nothing, mom. I tripped on the soccer field and they were watering the field at the time. That's why I'm all wet," I lied, already making my way up the stairs, "I don't feel like talking much right now."

I didn't feel like living right then either, but I didn't have much of a choice.

"Sweetie, please come here," Connie insisted, but I ignored her. I made my way into the bathroom to clean myself off. That's all I wanted to do. To just wash away the pain and try to forget the day's drama.

Slicing my wrists wasn't my intention.

I locked the bathroom door behind me and placed my wobbly hands on top of the bathroom counter, trying to catch my breath. I tilted my head up to look at myself in the mirror. My long bangs were glued to my sweaty forehead. Black mascara ran down my cheeks and my eyes were blotchy. My hair was frizzy and my shirt was drenched. I looked disgusting. I was revolted with myself and I could feel a headache coming on.

I opened the mirror cabinet to take some Advil. As soon as I opened the cabinet, a poorly-stored red razor immediately fell and landed on top of my hand. I gritted my teeth together as the razor landed and cut the top of my hand. I took the razor off my hand and threw it across the bathroom, far away from me. I was already suffering from emotional turmoil; I didn't need physical pain added to the list.

Stupid cut, I thought angrily. I grabbed a bandage from the cabinet and placed the plain brown bandage on top of my hand to cover the cut. I concentrated on the small pain in my hand instead of Tess and her cruel mockery. The drama at school was pushed to the back of my mind as I continued to stare at the bandage that was now spotted with blood.

It took a few minutes for me to realize what twisted pleasure the cut actually brought. The emotional pain and Tess's bitter words were lost during the three minutes that passed while I tended my hand. The physical pain didn't add to the emotional pain

It subtracted it.

I shut the mirror to look at my reflection once again. I didn't know who I was staring at anymore. All I knew was that it was not the bright smiling girl I used to know and be. I felt warm tears start to build up as I studied my disoriented face. It was a mess that could not be cleaned up – just as Tess said.

I let out a pathetic cry as I twisted my pale hand in my sticky brown hair. I needed someone to be here and I felt like I had nobody. I couldn't talk to my mom about what an embarrassment I was to the family. I was supposed to be their perfect child. My mother wouldn't understand if she found out that I was friendless and in need of emotional support. Mary was in Manhattan and Sierra hated me.

I glanced at the bathtub when something shiny caught the corner of my eye. I turned my head to glance at the red razor. The razor promised love to help with my emotional heartbreak. I stumbled towards the bathtub and took a seat on the edge of it.

That's when my habit started. A habit that I didn't have any intentions to break; a habit that is now an addiction.

The number of cuts grew as the days passed by. When a month passed, I was cutting at least four times a day. I hid my cuts by wearing long sleeves, bracelets, or jackets although summer time was approaching. Sometimes I covered my cuts with my foundation. My disguises hid my obsession. Although my cuts weren't seen by others, they were always there for me. In a twisted way, it was like having a new friend.

My cuts went a month and a week unnoticed. My mother was the first one to see them. Unbeknownst to me, she had come home early from work one Saturday and I was not wearing my bracelets off since I was doing the dishes. I was wearing a long-sleeve black t-shirt but four deep gashes could still be seen on my left wrist. My mom immediately asked how the cuts appeared on my wrist.

I lied and told her they were from the gummy bracelets I had been wearing. She believed me and didn't mention the cuts again. Two weeks went by and then she saw my cuts again. The four deep gashes had doubled and I stupidly tried to convince her with the same gummy bracelet story. This time though, she didn't believe me. I remember fighting against her as she rolled my sleeve up. My mother's eyes started to tear up as she called out for my father.

"Steve! Get in here and come look at your daughter!" Connie screamed. I put more effort into getting out of my mother's hold then, but she was stronger than I was. My dad ran into the room and his eyes grew wide as he stared down at my wrist.

"M-Mitchie?!" My father choked out, his eyes wide in shock. The look of disappointment and hurt on my father's face made me desperate to get away and just disappear.

"We need to get her help, Steven!"

And so, here I am at this monotonous crisis center. My parents first tried to take me to low-key therapy, but I usually refused to go. I did not want help, and I did not want to listen to someone who didn't have a clue what I was going through. If my parents managed to get me to the therapy session, I would simply sit there in silence the whole time. After two weeks of complete silence, the therapist told my parents that I might need even more help.

So my parents lied and told me I would be visiting my grandmother because they thought I needed to have a small vacation. School ended three days before and I didn't mind paying the visit to my grandmother. My parents were irritating me and I wanted to break away. I realized my parents were not only bothersome, but that they were also traitors – especially as they drove up to Lakeview Crisis Center.

The rest is history. My days here are boring – despite the fun-filled activities the counselors try to set up for us. Although I am not allowed to have my lucky razor here with me, I still find ways to cut. The counselors are to the point where they almost have everything out of my small room, but I have kept certain objects hidden. Even though the counselors were stupid when it came to me hiding things, they were smart enough to notice that I wasn't getting better.

That's why they continued to keep me here, a month and a half later.

I let out a sigh and watch as my bangs levitated in the air for a moment before landing back on my forehead. The door opens and a pretty blonde counselor comes in. She smiles as she walks over towards me and sits across me, "Hello Mitchie. How are you today?" she asks nicely, begging me with her eyes to talk.

I blink at her before turning my head away from her.

"Mitchie, come on. You don't have to be like that."

Yes, I do.

XXXXX

(Shane)

A pretty woman in her mid-twenties sat in a black office chair as she typed away on her Apple computer. Her thick brown hair was held back with a huge red hair clip and her sapphire blues popped out with the black mascara layered on her eyelashes. She wore a black jacket, a shiny red camisole, and black pants that covered her long legs with black flats. Her eyes glanced down at the clock to see that it was almost two in the afternoon. Connect Three would be in her office any minute.

"Will you let me go?" The secretary looked up to see an agitated Shane Gray fighting his way out of band mates' arms. Nate rolled his eyes as he let the frustrated pop-star go, while Jason waved at the seated secretary.

"Hello Audrey," Jason greeted, taking the seat towards the left. Nate already occupied the right one and Shane stood behind the middle one with his arms crossed over his chest. His lips were set into a stubborn pout as he glanced away from the trio. Nate sighed.

"Will you sit down?" Nate asked, exasperated. Shane sighed after a moment and sprawled himself in the center chair.

Audrey smiled at Shane's behavior, "Hello Shane."

"Can we just cut to business already?" Shane asked rudely, not wanting to be in the office at all. Audrey, who was used to Shane's behavior, didn't falter.

"Your record company suggested a few things to clear your bad boy reputation, Shane," The secretary started to explain as she opened a file cabinet and sorted through the numerous amounts of folders. It only took her a couple of seconds to find the one she was looking for. Audrey set the beige folder on top of her cherry wood desk, "but I found this one to be the best."

Shane snatched the folder off the desk and flipped it open. Nate and Jason peered over the dark, shaggy-haired boy's shoulder to see a picture of a teenage girl. She had long, chestnut colored hair with bangs and dark brown eyes. Her facial expression was a blank one – a smile unfound. There was a small biography section under the photo that informed the boy band that her name was Mitchie Torres.

"What's the point of showing me this?" Shane asked, who couldn't help but give the mesmerizing girl one more glance before closing the folder and throwing it back on the desk. He didn't feel like taking the time to get to know a complete stranger.

"You might want to keep that, Shane. She's your new project, so to speak," Audrey said as she started signing paperwork for the record company and Shane Gray, "Her name is Mitchie Torres and she's stationed at Lakeview Crisis Center."

"You're giving me a mental case?" Shane asked dryly. Jason smacked Shane upside the head and Shane turned to glare at the oldest member of the boy band.

"Be nice," Jason nearly growled. Shane turned away from his sensitive band mate.

"Shane, you are to help Mitchie out. You are both in desperate need for a friend," When Shane pointed to his two band mates, Audrey shook her head, "besides the two guys who are basically your brothers. You are to befriend Mitchie, and you will not have any special treatment or privileges until you do so."

"No special treatment?" Shane asked in disbelief. He took in a deep breath as he held up his hand, "You're basically saying that Connect 3 is a Connect 2 until that mental case- OW!" Shane felt two hands smack the back of his hand that time, "is my friend?"

Audrey grinned at the pop star, "Basically. Clean your act up Gray and make a friend. It shouldn't be too hard."

Shane glanced away from his secretary to look at Jason and then at Nate, "You two are actually letting the record company go through with this?"

"Yep!" Jason said happily, standing up and making his way towards the office door. Nate placed a hand on Shane's shoulder as he also stood up.

"It's good PR. So do your time and get to know her. You never know, she might like our music," Nate said, taking his hand off Shane's shoulder and waving goodbye towards Audrey. She returned the wave before setting her eyes back on Shane.

"That's not a selling point," Shane argued to Nate, standing up to follow his two friends out. He was a foot out of the door when he heard Audrey sing-song his name. Shane turned, an aggravation expression on his face.

"What?"

Audrey didn't answer the pop star as she held the beige folder out towards him. Shane muttered a colorful word under his breath as he walked back into the office and took the folder out of the young woman's hands.

"Have fun," Audrey teased as Shane made his way back out of her office.

Fun with a mental case? Yeah right.

---

END OF CHAPTER 1

So, there's the first chapter. I told you it was pretty dark. What will happen? You guys are gonna have to wait and see! I hope you enjoyed it… somehow. Haha.

Questions you might have (and I'll answer the ones you guys have in reviews in PM if it is needed at the time):

Q: Is Mary based off Selena's character in Another Cinderella Story?

A: Yep! I wanted Selena in the fic so I decided to use that story. She may make an appearance later on, so watch out!

Q: Some lines seem familiar, what's the explanation?

A: I sorta pulled lines from Camp Rock and Selena's/Demi's videos to capture the character right. I just twisted the lines around to fit the story. Some examples were Demi's explanation for liking the color red and Nate's "It's good PR. So do your time…" line.

Q: How will Shane and Mitchie develop a relationship if she doesn't speak?

A: We'll you're going to have to wait and see!

REVIEW and tell me what you are thinking, please?