Summary: Short oneshot. She had never hated music. But this time it hit a little too close to home.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own One Tree Hill. I don't know why you keep asking me if I do. And I have no affiliation with the Blood Brothers, either. Bummer, isn't it?

A/N: This idea has been annoying me, so I had to write it. Drop me a review and let me know what you think.

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You're so fucked up; you're a fucking mess

She didn't like the radio. She never had. The radio was a haven for people who wanted to be just like everyone else; people who wanted to know who the latest, hottest bands were and what color was in that season. She wasn't one of those people. She never really was.

She could pretend to be when it was necessary.

But that really wasn't the point.

The point was that she wanted substance. She wanted to listen to music with lyrics that went deeper than pining for an ex-boyfriend or laughing about riding in cars with boys. She wanted something she could relate to; something that would make her stop and think and really listen to the artist's point.

It was funny how she finally got her wish and almost snapped the CD in half.

You're so fucked up; you're a fucking mess

And the harsh, unforgiving screams reverberated through her mind: convulsing, twisting, popping, bleeding into her senses and making her want to scream. The sick contrast of screaming against a background of electric guitar was deafening. It pulled her in, encompassed her in a web of unavoidable flaws and inconsistencies.

Peyton Sawyer, thrown by the chorus of a song: she had been waiting for that to happen.

She had never hated music. But this time it hit a little too close to home. And for that, she hated it. She hated that she had to reconsider the words, taste them on her tongue and try them out loud before she realized how true they were.

She was so far gone. She was doing drugs and pining for a boy she was never really with; taking on the characteristics of a cheesy pop song. She was more fucked up than she ever wanted to be, ever dreamed of being.

And she hated herself.

That CD made such a satisfying cracking noise when it smashed into the wall that she could do nothing but laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh until she was crying so hard she couldn't breathe.

When the tears finally stopped flowing she lay on her bed and screamed until her throat felt like it was bleeding. She thought that maybe it was; she wondered if she was capable of such a feat. Part of her considered the possibility and part of her laughed at the ridiculous idea. She didn't feel pain anymore. Not enough to bleed, at least.

You're so fucked up; you're a fucking mess

The words didn't stop flowing through her mind. They pushed and pushed and pushed until she wanted to crawl into a corner and fade into the wallpaper just to escape the harsh, bitter truth of them.

So she screamed again.

And when she pulled away from her pillow there was a mess of black mascara and blood smeared across it. She figured being fucked up was okay. Just as long as she could still feel the pain from it all.

--End--