A "Daria" fanfic by Erin Mills

"Daria" ©2010 MTV Networks

I'm going to kill her.

I'm not being euphemistic here. I am going to go over there, break into her house, and then I am going to kill Daria Morgendorffer.

She deserves it, the fucking bitch. She sat there, she told me she wasn't interested in him, and the very next thing she does, she's making out with MY fucking boyfriend. And then, THEN, she has the unmitigated balls to tell me about it. But what's new about that? She's been bitching about me dating for almost a whole damn year.

God, I wish she'd never come here. I wish I'd never talked to her in that god damn self-esteem class. I was perfectly...well, maybe not HAPPY, but I wasn't in the spotlight all the fucking time. The teachers left me alone, the other idiots at Lawndale High left me alone, Li left me alone.

Then in comes "Shit Stirrer" Morgendorffer and WHAM! Suddenly, I'm in the principal's office more times in two years than I've ever been in my entire school life. Shit after shit, every damn thing that rocked her closed little black-and-white world, and she dragged me into it. And, like an idiot, I went along with it, just because I thought she was my friend. The one person who wouldn't ever stab me in the back. The person who actually made me care.

And here's little Janey, the big fucking dope.

I should have known something like this would happen when I joined the track team. Hell, if I actually had a brain in my god damn head, I should have known back during Brittany's party in sophomore year when she gave me crap about going in the laundry room with what's-his-ass.

She doesn't give a damn about anyone but herself. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. Anytime anyone does something she doesn't like, she actively works to fuck them over. She does it to the teachers, she does it to the other kids, she does it to her family.

And now she's done it to me.

Well, the others may have to take her shit, but I don't. I'm not rolling over to make her feel better about herself. I gave her so much slack when I started dating Tom. I knew she was going to have a hard time without me being around as much. I knew she was going to take it hard. I knew the chances of her finding someone else she'd be as close to were almost zero.

So I forgave her. When she apologized, when she didn't, when she knew she was wrong, and even when she still thought she was right. Whether she asked for it or not, I forgave her.

Because that's what you do for the people you love.

What you DON'T do is jump your best friend's boyfriend who, up until recently, you professed you couldn't stand and really didn't want to be around. And you definitely don't do it less than six hours after you just made up after a fight and reassuring your paranoid best friend that you weren't interested in her boyfriend at all.

You do not do that.

And you do not get off without paying for it.

How many more people is she going to make miserable just because they happen to disagree with her? How many lives is she going to ruin because somebody doesn't meet up to the ridiculously high standards she's set for humanity? How long is it going to be before someone makes her pay for all that smug self-righteousness?

Not very, I can tell you that.

I'm going over there. Right now. I'm putting an end to all this bullshit.

I leave my room and head downstairs. I really don't care if Trent hears me or not. I'll just say I'm going for a walk. Wouldn't be the first time I've gone out at three in the morning, especially after all the shit that's happened over the last couple of days.

I'm out the front door and over to the Morgendorffer house in ten minutes. Huh, Jake's car isn't in the driveway. Wonder where he is?

I couldn't be that lucky, could I? The parents out of town at yet another pointless marriage seminar?

Well, no sense taking chances. I round the house to the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen. Oh, Daria, you should never have shown me how you get in when you forget your keys.

I grab the flathead screwdriver she hides in one of the oversized planters in the flowerbed next to the door and use it to jimmy the latch. I slide the door open quietly. At least Jake keeps the thing well lubed.

I slip inside and crouch down behind the counter, listening for any sounds of movement in the house. Jake's a notoriously light sleeper with a craving for midnight snacks.

After a couple of minutes silence, I'm reasonably certain the household is asleep. I get up from the counter and make my way into the living room, rounding the corner by the front door. I wish I had the time to take off my boots, but if I have to make a hasty exit, I don't want to be caught without them on.

I creep slowly upstairs, freezing every so often when I make one of them creak too loudly. There hasn't been any reaction yet. I'm starting to wonder if anybody's even home.

I almost wish that's true.

I make it to the top of the stairs and figure out where to go from there. Jake and Helen's room is just past the top of the stairs, while Daria and Quinn's rooms are down the hall. I see that the door to Jake and Helen's room is ajar.

I sneak forward and decide to take a quick look inside. Empty. Well, Daria did mention that her mom was working on some big case. Maybe she asked Jake to meet her for an office rendezvous...

I think I just threw up a little.

I swallow the bile and start making my way back down the hall, towards the two-timing bitch's room. I stop at a door in the hallway and open it. Yep, just like I thought: linen closet. Oh, and look, a couple of spare pillows, how convenient.

I take one of the pillows and make my way down to the two bedroom doors that face each other at the end of the hall. I twist the knob of the door on the left slowly and ease the door open a crack.

Quinn is curled up in the bed, thumb in her mouth, sucking quietly. Well, that explains one hell of a lot. It also makes my job a hell of a lot harder. If Daria starts screaming or fighting, that's it. Next on Sick Sad World: "Reform School Stripdown" starring Jane Lane.

I'm going to have to do this quick.

I close the door to Quinn's room and slowly open the door to Daria's. I slip inside with the pillow and close it behind me. Daria hasn't closed her drapes and the moonlight is falling across her bed. She's lying face down on it, fully dressed, glasses askew, one hand on the floor.

You fucking bitch. I'm up all night turning all this shit over in my head, trying to figure out how things could have gotten so impossibly fucked up, and meanwhile, you're over here happily stuck in dreamland? And why the hell are you dressed?

I ponder this. Her clothes are disheveled, she has a serious case of bed hair, and she hasn't even bothered to take off her boots. It's almost as if...

...she'd been somewhere else tonight and got back so tired she just collapsed into bed.

My teeth clench and tears form in my eyes. I begin squeezing the pillow as I imagine my hands closing around her throat and slowly crushing it.

She FUCKED him! She's been with him, and she FUCKED him! That's what happened. She was probably over there after our little chat. The one where I told her I was okay with her dating him. The one where I put her at ease, and gave her the hope that we'd get through this.

Sometimes, she's the dumbest bimbo who ever lived.

Well, I'm going to remedy that. Right now.

I approach the bed and take the pillow in both hands. Just wrap it around her lying, cheating face and hold it there until she suffocates. I'd rather she suffer something more painful, but I want to get this over with and get my life back to where it used to be before this bitch came into it.

Her breathing is shallow, slow, labored. Doesn't seem quite right, but fuck it. She's going to have bigger breathing problems soon enough. I take a step forward, ready to bring the pillow down...

...and nearly hit my head on the ceiling as a rattling sound startles the shit out of me.

I drop the pillow on the floor and freeze, my own breathing now fairly rapid and my heart thinking that now might be a good time to test how well my system could handle a coronary. After a minute, I'm calm again and I look down to see what the hell I kicked when I came over to her.

A plastic bottle. She must have had it in her hand. I kneel down and grab the bottle, noticing a piece of paper underneath her fingertips. There's some scribbles on it that look like Daria's handwriting. Well, let's see what the little bitch has to say for herself.

I stand up, hold the paper in the moonlight and squint to make out the words...


I betrayed my only friend. I told her I wasn't interested in her boyfriend, I reassured her that her suspicions were groundless. That all that was happening is that the two of us were finally starting to get along.

And then I kissed him. And once the shock had worn off...I kissed him again.

Keeping this from her was unthinkable, but the thought of losing her was unbearable. I spent the night and most of the morning worrying about which would be more painful to live with.

As soon as I saw her, I told her. And I swear I heard her heart break. I don't know if it was for her relationship with him, or for her friendship with me. Maybe both.

She came to see me earlier. I told her I wasn't going to see him. She said she didn't mind if I did. That we 'made sense.' I asked if we were still friends.

She tried to give me hope, but she also said that we were the kind of friends who couldn't stand the sight of each other. She left after that. I haven't talked to her since. HE tried calling shortly after that, but I begged off, telling him I wanted to be alone.

I don't know if she'll ever talk to me again. And I don't know if I can handle that.

So, I'm going to let fate decide. Quinn went to bed an hour ago and has to leave early for some idiotic Fashion Club meeting. Mom and Dad are spending the night in Lakeside after meeting with one of dad's clients. There's no one here to interfere with me.

I just did something colossally stupid. Something that will surely be misinterpreted. But this isn't suicide. It's an experiment.

If I wake up tomorrow, I'll take it as a sign that there's still hope. That she may eventually forgive me. Forgive me for something much worse than everything else she's forgiven me for. That I haven't utterly destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.

If not...well, I guess that means I'm getting exactly what I deserve. I let something other than my brain do my thinking for me, and I've paid the price.

I just don't think the price was high enough. Not for this. I don't even think not waking up would be a high enough price. If she showed up with a gun and wanted to shoot me dead, I wouldn't let her.

Not because that wouldn't be fair, but because I don't want my shit tainting her anymore. She's too good for that. She's always been the better of us. The optimist, the social one, the one who tried to show me when I was acting like an idiot and that the world doesn't suck as much as I think.

I don't want to ruin her anymore.

So, here comes the effects. I probably won't be able to write much more soon. Just know that I wasn't depressed outside of what's happened recently, and, if I don't wake up, know that there's no one to blame but myself for being such a self-centered, inflexible brat. I'm sorry to everyone who'll be affected by this. But I'm even sorrier that I let this happen in the first place.

I love you, Jane.



You say you love me and you do something like THIS?! Are you out of your god damn mind? I ought to kick your ass from here to Oakwood! You are not dropping this shit in my lap, Morgendorffer. Jesus Christ, do you really think I want you to die on me?!

Oh God.

I drop the pillow as I realize what I've just thought. I was going to kill her. I was actually going to murder someone. And for what? Just because of some guy.

Forget what's wrong with her. What the fuck is wrong with ME?

Yes, she's a two-faced bitch. Yes, she betrayed my trust. But being an asshole doesn't mean she has to die for it.

I crumple the note in my hand and look at the bottle. Sleepy-Tyme Fall Asleep Aids. I look back at the floor and spot a ring of cellophane, a wad of cotton, and an open box. Okay, so she got a fresh bottle. Let's see how many she took.

The bottle's mostly full. According to the box, there's about 70 pills in here. Looks like...yeah, she downed about ten of them. Could go either way.

I kneel down and shake her shoulder. "Daria...Daria, wake up! Open your eyes, dammit!"

I grab her, pull her upright, and shake her hard enough for her glasses to fall off. After a few seconds her eyes open and she peers at me, blurrily.

"Jane?" she asks. "'s that you?"

"You are a fucking moron, you know that?" I say. She hangs her head.

"I know. Sorry." She moves to lie back down on the bed, but I yank her to her feet. She struggles, but the pills have made her weaker than usual. Not that it matters. If it ever came to an actual fight, I'm faster, stronger, and a lot more prone to fighting dirty than she is.

"Come on." I throw one of her arms around my shoulders and half-drag her out into the hallway towards the bathroom. "How long ago did you take them?"

"Mmmm?" she murmurs. Oh, this is going to be such a LOVELY conversation. I lightly slap her with my free hand.

"The pills. When did you take them?"

"What time izzit?"


"'bout an hour ago..."

Okay, there's still time. Gonna have to get any of the pills that haven't dissolved yet out of her system. I kick open the bathroom door, drag her inside, and dump her on the floor next to the toilet.

"Daria? Daria!"


Oh, Jesus fucking Christ on a rocket powered pogo stick. I'm gonna have to do this the hard way. I sit on the floor next to her, throw a leg across her lap so she can't bolt, and grab the back of her head.

"HEY!" she yelps.

"Shut up." I reply. I take my other hand and shove the first two fingers into her mouth. She bites down reflexively, but I just force them inside deeper. She starts struggling and I bend her over the toilet.

"Don't fucking fight me, Morgendorffer." I snarl. "You brought this on yourself."

She makes a few more grunts of protest. I wrap my arm around the back of her head and pry her jaw open. I shift my other hand around and shove the fingers I have in her mouth past her tongue and down her throat. She tries to bite again, and I thrust my fingers forward when she opens her mouth.

Bingo. She starts coughing and hacking. She tries to grab my hand and pull it out. I change my grip on her hair and pull. HARD.

"Puke, god damn it! PUKE!"

Daria's scream is muffled by my fingers and cut off sharply as I shove my hand deeper into her mouth. The coughing is replaced by gagging and she suddenly bends over the toilet and begins unleashing an admittedly impressive pile of vomit into the bowl.

I really wish I had managed to get my hand out of her mouth quicker.

While Daria pukes her guts into the bowl, I slide over to the tub and wash off my hand. Jesus, it's all over my shirt. God damn it. I look at my former best friend in disgust. She has her head halfway down the bowl, her back arching with each heave. Eventually, she stops and rolls off the bowl and collapses on the floor. There's puke in her hair, and a rivulet running down her face.

I wish I had a camera.

I let her rest for a minute and look into the bowl. There's eight half dissolved green capsules mixed with what looks like remains of the ubiquitous Morgendorffer microwave lasanga. Okay. She'll still be a zombie for the next few hours, but she'll be waking up at least.

I need to get out of here. I get to my feet and head for the door.


I stop at the door. Oh God, please, not this...don't make me...

"...jane...hel' me...pl'z..."

Don't make me care about her.

Don't turn around. Don't look at her. Just leave. Just go. Let her explain what she did to her parents. You don't owe her shit.

"...'m sorry, Jane...so sorry...please...help me..." Her voice is hitching. Fuck fuck fuck. I take a step through the door. And then, she starts crying.


I turn around, close the door to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. I kneel back down on the floor and unlace her boots. She makes a few quizzical noises but I ignore them. Once the boots are off, I reach up, unzip her jacket and pull it off her.

"Jane...wha'z goin' on?"

"Shut up. You want my help, keep your fucking mouth shut."

I unhook her skirt and toss it aside, then work on getting her shirt off. Jesus, it's like trying to skin an epileptic eel. Once she's in her underwear, I grab her under the arms and roll her over the edge of the tub and under the stream.

Instantly her eyes bolt open and she opens her mouth to scream. I slap my hand over her mouth.

"You scream and so help me I will tell your parents EXACTLY how fucking stupid you are." I snarl. I don't bother to see if she understands me. I wash the puke out of her hair and off her face as best I can. She's fighting me the whole time, but at least she's not screaming. The last thing either of us need is Quinn in here.

Once I've got her as clean as I can, I turn the water off and drag her out of the tub. I drop the lid of the toilet and sit her down on it. Her bra and panties are soaked and, of course, she wears boring white ones. I grab a towel and begin drying her off, ignoring her shivering.

"'ank you, Jane." She mutters, looking up at me through stringy soaked hair. Her eyes are sunken, glassy, and hollow. I don't think she even realizes that she's not dreaming.

"Shut up." I repeat, dropping the towel over her head. I rub her head a few times with the towel, then stand her up and wrap another one around her body. I let her sit there and go back out into the hallway, down to Quinn's room. I crack the door and let out a sigh of relief when I hear snoring. Jesus, the girl's a damn buzzsaw.

Back before I hated Daria's guts, I might have told her about it so we could get it on tape.

I go back to the bathroom and find Daria passing out on the toilet. I stand her up and lead her back to her room. I'm tempted to just dump her on the bed and have done with it. But, given what I came over here for, it might be better for me if she thinks it was all a dream...or as much of one as I can convince her.

I look in her dresser and find her oversized Mark Twain T-shirt. I toss it on the bed, pull off her sodden socks, stand her up and unhook her bra.

"Wha?" she murmurs. She crosses her arms over her chest. "No...don' look. Not pretty."

I force her arms down and pull off the bra, then peel off her panties. She tries to fight me on that too, but she's so doped up, there's no real challenge. I turn to the bed and unfold the shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her standing there, arms crossed, shivering and naked.


I turn and pull the shirt over her head. This time, she doesn't fight me. Once the shirt's on, I pull back the covers on her bed and dump her into it. I pull them back over her. Okay, main problem solved. Let her wonder where her underwear went.

I turn to go back to the bathroom and finish the job,but I notice her glasses on the floor by my foot. I am so tempted just to crush the damn things and have done with it.

But, like an idiot, I don't.

I fold them and put them on the nightstand. Then I go back to the bathroom, grab her boots and put them in the hall. I use her clothes to clean up any stray vomit in the room, wrap them in a towel and leave the bathroom.

I go back to Daria's room, and drop her boots next to her bed. I pull the loose change and cash out of her jacket pockets and leave them next to her glasses, along with all the other crap I find in there. Then I, grab the pill bottle, the crumpled note and the box the pills came in. I give the room a quick once over then turn to go.

And, once again, I make to the door and--


I pause in the doorway, turning my head just enough so she knows I'm listening. The room is still dark except for the moonlight, and I hear the bedclothes rustling as she turns to look at me.

"m sorry, Jane. 'm so sorry. 'm a hear'less bitch."

So who's arguing?

"Go to sleep, Daria."

I finally get the hell out of there. I stop just long enough to drop Daria's puke laden clothes in the washer and start it up. I exit back out the sliding glass door, thankful that it has the kind of lock you can set before you close the door.

I walk back home, actutely aware of the drying puke on my own clothes. Once I'm inside the house, I take off my boots and strip. Yeah, I get naked in my own foyer. Big fucking deal.

I through the kitchen, into the laundry room, and dump my clothes in the washer. I double check to make sure Mom hasn't put clay in there again to soften it up, then start it up.

I have a bathrobe hanging on the back of the laundry room door. This isn't the first time I've had to come home and clean my clothes immediately. I put on the robe and go back into the kitchen. I raid the fridge and, miracle of miracles, there's a relatively fresh half block of cheese in there. I take it out and begin gnawing on it, making my way back to the living room.

I flop down on the couch and stare at the pile of mail that's accumulated on the coffee table. I need to get out of here. Away from this house. Away from this town.

Away from that zoned out bitch I just cleaned up.

As I wonder what the hell I'm going to do, I spot what looks like a catalog in the pile of bills, collection notices, and general junk mail. I pull it out. The cover shows a collection of rustic looking cabins and buildings on the shores of a sparkling lake. The leaves are vibrant green, and the mountains in the distance have snow on their caps. God, what a great looking place.

Hmm. "Ashfield Arts Community." Oh, hey! This is that place Mom's friend from college runs. I leaf through the brochure and get more excited with every flip of the page. Cafeteria, lectures by eminent professional artists, "a community of like minded talents," and some great hiking trails that would be fantastic for running.

I have to go here. It's quiet. It's secluded. It's perfect.

I can get some work done, clear my head...

...maybe find a new best friend...

Hrm...they want a portfolio submitted by...okay. This is doable. I can put it together today, send it express on Monday, and I should make the deadline. I wonder if Dad's developing stuff is still in the downstairs bathroom. I need to make some slides.


I spend the weekend getting the portfolio together for Ashfield. Amazing how much I can get done when I don't have to listen to some prolonged sarcasm-laden indignation about something. Luckily, making slides is a breeze for me now. I may not see Dad all that often, but, damn, is he a good teacher.

On my way to school, I stop at the post office and spend the thirty bucks to ship the slides to Ashfield overnight. I really don't care if I'm late. The school year's winding down, and the less questions I have to answer about what's going on between me and Daria the better.

In fact, I don't see Daria for most of the day. We finally meet up in English. I take a seat on the opposite side of the room from her, noting only that she doesn't seem to remember anything that happened in her house the other night.

Either that, or she's too embarassed to want to talk about it. Either way works for me.

As soon as the bell rings, I gather my stuff and head out. I see Daria out of the corner of my eye tryign to get my attention, but she's waylaid by O'Neill. She tries to brush him off, but he won't shut up. I'm just about out the door when he calls me.

"Oh, Jane! I think Daria wants to talk to you."

I stop at the door, and look back at her, my face just as expressionless as hers usually is. She has a nervous look on her face. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. She raises her hand in a kind of cautious wave.

I turn and leave the classroom. I've got things to do.