❝In which a celebrity dials a random number in hope of finding one last thing to make him smile before he commits suicide at the end of the month.❞
"I'm going to commit suicide in one months time."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"It can't be t...
A/N: Slight trigger warning for the content ahead, some quite graphic description of suicidal tendencies, so read with caution my lovelies <3
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Audrey Clark did not consider herself to be a nice person.
She considered herself to be a proud redhead who looked good in heels, short skirts and smug smiles as she crumbled the people around her to dust particles no bigger than the dirt her stilettos stepped on.
It wasn't that she enjoyed insulting people.
It wasn't that she had low self-esteem.
It was simply that she was continuously drowning herself in competition and her lungs had given up attempting to gasp for air. Audrey counted her flaws like wishes thrown into the sea at the romantic hour of midnight, adding another inadequacy to herself for everything adequate she saw in someone else.
She felt for sure that, if it were not for the make-up plastered on her face, people would see her petrified expression as she degraded those around her. It made sense, in her opinion. She did not like people to be better than her. She feared it. She feared it like a child feared the monster slowly turning the handle of their wardrobe.
Her family had only ever taught her to succeed.
And she did succeed.
She did succeed.
As they wished her to.
And yet, somehow, she never felt victorious.
It wasn't that she didn't like the people around her.
It wasn't that she despised them for having gifts and talents that she simply did not believe herself to possess.
It was simply that she admired them.
For every pretty face came an insult to transform it into a frown. For every top grade came a mocking glance to send it back down to the bottom.
Audrey Clark was not impulsive.
Audrey Clark did not consider herself to be an impulsive person.
One thing, however, that she could not handle were mirrors. Especially when that mirror spoke the same words she repeated to herself every Friday evening as she slashed the blade across her wrists, letting blood the colour of her lipstick spill onto the pristine tiles of her bathroom floor.
And that, she reasoned, was why she slapped the confidence right off of Cleopatra Quinn's face.
