Trigger: Blood, Suicide Attempt

A sharp growl burst out of Bindhi’s throat. Slamming her fist angrily into the bathroom wall, she fought against the urge to pound that fist into the mirror. Everything she saw made her unreasonably angry. She was too pale, too thin. Her hair lacked it’s usual sassy as s**t bounce. And her eyes. That was what made her shudder in aversion. Hollow, haunted and red-rimmed. They were the kind of eyes that were only supposed to show up in horror movies and war zones.

And you think you’re not in the middle of one?

Shut it, self. Closing her eyes to the sight of herself, Bindhi splayed her hands against the mirror and leaned forward until her forehead rested against the cool glass. What had happened to her? Well, other than the breakup, purifying and drinking like a goddamned fish. But… she hadn’t been drinking that much had she?

Just keep tellin’ yourself that, Princess.

Groaning, Bindhi forced her eyes open, forced herself to study every line of her face. Was this what Faust had seen that day? What Cordy and Angus saw every time she’d gone to the club? Jesus ********, no wonder they’d all looked shocked. As she made herself keep those deadened sunset eyes open, she wondered if this is what Avacyn had seen. Maybe this was what the real her was like. Just a stupid drunk, incapable of coping with change. Oh, she still knew that purifying had been the right choice, but maybe all she’d really done was let loose this awful, poisonous monster she saw in her mirror. This then, was why she’d been instinctively avoiding Hver and Orah. No use in letting them know what a waste she was.

She wasn’t sure when the tears and hysterical laughter had started. Or how she’d gotten out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She was vaguely aware of gently hugging Sanskrit to herself before shutting him up in her room with a full bowl of food and water. More than enough to keep him going until someone came to check on her. Then they would find him.

Sanskrit deserved a better human than her. Just like Hver and Orah. And Faust. They all deserved a better friend and ally than her. After all, she was just a dumb drunk who couldn’t even make her girlfriend happy. Still laugh-crying, she felt an almost sense of serenity deep inside. She was going to fix this. She’d make everything better. Everyone would be better off, after all.

Doing her best to shut out the soft, whimpering howls coming from her bedroom, she wandered blindly through the house, absently touching things before she wound up back in the kitchen. Quick. She had to make it quick. The perils of being well-educated, she thought wryly. Mixing the leftover painkillers from when she’d woken up in the hospital the last time with her impressive supply of vodka wasn’t quick. And she really didn’t relish the idea of choking to death on her own puke. Moving automatically, she pulled out the sharpest kitchen knife she could find.

Bit melodramatic, a tiny, cold part of her mind thought. But it would certainly do the job.

“Remember, kids,” she muttered, voice thick and hiccupy, “Down the road, not across the street.”

Through her haze of exhaustion and residual drunkeness, she turned the knife clumsily and slashed at the inside of her arm, flinching at the sharp, tearing pain. See, not so bad. Quick. Not clean, but quick. With a tiny sigh, she slid to the floor and sat watching bright red staining everything around.