[Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi: The Next Generation. That is all.]

The tumbling of her fingers against the wooden wall was enough to make a person go mad. She drummed them against it over and over again. The tapping could be heard in the room next to hers and was making the other person in there go insane. All they could hear was a repetitive tapping noise as well as the faint sound of depressing music float through their ears. Unfortunately, she couldn't stop the tapping of her fingers against the hard wall. It was the only thing she could depend on the moment, the sound of her fingers resounding against the wall. She couldn't depend on the fact that her music was going to keep playing. No, it would eventually stop because the batteries in her stereo would eventually become dead.

Dead.

She felt so incredibly dead inside. Well, not exactly dead, more like incredibly empty. Everyday her face would be painted with a vast portrait of nothingness. It was like an artist painted the canvas the color it already was. It looked as though there was nothing on it. It looked as though her face was empty. If she had no nose, eyes, lips, or cheekbones it wouldn't matter. The same expression was worn on her face everyday. It was like she was a china doll, incapable of moving her face to make different facial expressions.

Finally, a knocking that wasn't her own thrashed against the door to her room. She wearily stood up and headed towards the door. Oh, the long days of being alone and bored out of her mind. They called this therapy? It was more like incredible mind-boggling torture that made her take a step farther out on the cliff of insanity with each growing day. They honestly called this therapy? The psychotic people who thought of this concept were more in need of therapy than she did. There was nothing wrong with her. Why did everyone think that?

"Come in," She ordered with a sigh escaping her lips.

The door swung open and a woman dressed in hospital scrubs trotted in. The woman's red hair was smoothed back into a ponytail that flowed from the top of her head. Her piercing blue eyes stood out in the dark of the room and matched the bedding. The blonde in the corner retreated to her bed as the nurse approached it. A plastic smile adorned her face while a scowl was plastered on the blonde's. There was no reason for her to be smiling. Those…people she used to trust thought she had a problem. She didn't have a problem. She knew she didn't have a problem. What would possess them to think she did? She was perfectly normal.

"You didn't come to your group therapy session today," The nurse told her while fishing out a stack of small papers from her pocket. "It's your birthday today, you knew that right?"

The blonde rolled her eyes while snorting, "Yeah. What a way this is to spend my birthday."

"Would you rather be dead," the nurse questioned in her same cheerful manner.

"Anything would be better than being here," the blonde scoffed. "I can't believe they thought I have problem! They don't know anything! I don't have a problem! They have a problem if they think that I have a problem. I mean, why did they even think that? They're the ones out there being all wrapped up in their…stuff! I'm always right!"

The nurse sighed as she handed her the stack of papers from her jacket pocket, "They made cards for you during the session. Fiona reminded everyone that it was your birthday and your anniversary."

"Fiona can go pound salt," the blonde offered bitterly. "And what's my anniversary? What are you talking about?"

"It's been a month, Emma," the nurse informed her with a slight smile. "We're really proud of you. Everyone knows what their first month was like. It wasn't exactly the best month of their life, to put it softly. But we think it'd be more helpful if you'd come to your sessions. It really does help, whether you want it to or not. It's just that sitting in your room all day while sitting in the corner and zoning out to depressing music is all you do. It's not very productive."

Emma was rather offended by the nurse's suggestions. Who was she to say whether or not Emma was being productive? She didn't even have a problem. There was no way in hell that Emma Nelson had to be sent to drug rehab. Yet, she was here. Her so-called "friends" felt the need to ruin her life and send her into a clinic full of former druggies. Emma didn't belong here with all of these people who had made the moronic decision to intoxicate themselves with various illicit drugs.

"Who are you to tell me if I'm being what your definition of 'productive' is? I don't even belong here. I am not some scum of society that should be sheltered from everyone else," She screamed angrily. "Damn it, I'm not supposed to be here! I'm supposed to graduating high school right now…at this very moment!"

The nurse was quite shocked by Emma's aggressive behavior and blinked, "Calm down, Ms. Nelson. Just please, calm down. It's okay that you have a problem. That's why you're here, so it can be fixed."

"I don't have a problem," She screeched angrily while tears gathered in her eyes. She plopped her head on to the pillow and buried her face into it. Maybe if she kept it there long enough, this would all go away. Maybe she could magically float away to a place where everyone wasn't accusing her of having a problem. Then they would all be groveling on their knees for forgiveness because their deluded minds told them that she had a problem. She was right. She was always right.

A soft closing of the door passed through her ears. Why? Why was she here? She didn't have a problem. They were all wrong and idiotic for not believing her. This wasn't where she belonged. Right now she should be at Manny's graduation party bragging about her college majors and grades. But why would she have gone to Manny's moronic party? There was no point. Everyone would be there for Manny and not care about her. It was always like that. She would go unnoticed for her keen observations while everyone else ogled at Manny.

It was the most idiotic concept known to mankind.  It was almost as idiotic as being forced to spend a rather lengthy period of time in this hellhole. Well, it was idiotic to Emma, anyway. The world just appeared to be against her. No one appreciated her or cared. She wanted them to, as much as it didn't show, she did. This harsh reality of the world wasn't a pretty picture to paint. And Emma needed to manipulate the picture for it to appear beautiful. Unfortunately, she lacked that ability. So she instead stopped looking at the painting and drifted off into her own painting. The colors and shapes of it helped her escape the repulsiveness of the other painting of reality.

It all added up to the fact of her being here. Somehow the paintings collided into each and the colors mixed together and dripped off the canvas and formed a puddle of disaster. Those two years of focusing on her own painting brought Emma to where she was today. Her need to have her own picture was the cause of her undoing. Reality was altered and her own parallel universe was formed.

Two years of living in that universe wouldn't really do another person any good. Disruption was caused and everything had been completely changed for the absolute worse. And Emma saw that there was no problem. There was no reason for her to be locked up in a rehab center with a bunch of supposed lowlifes. This wasn't the way that things were supposed to be for an eighteen year old girl.

Yet they were.