There's a Hole in Her Heart
Title: There's a Hole in Her Heart
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn (past)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1010
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Summary: 'Rachel Berry doesn’t panic at the sound of screeching tires.'
Author's Note: Haven't written Faberry in a while and this is way more depressing than what I did write a while back (which is why I'm going to the place in my head where I'm developing this into a multi-chaptered fic that actually has a happy ending.) Feedback is appreciated. :)
There’s a Hole in Her Heart
Rachel Berry doesn’t panic at the sound of screeching tires.
Car horns don’t even faze her, not after seven years in New York.
She doesn't even flinch when the entire window on her side of the cab gets lit up.
It’s when she feels that first brush of impact, that first second heavy with impending doom that she panics. By the time she has the sense to move, it’s too late, and the grating sound of grinding metal and the high pitched whine of breaking glass assaults her ears. The sounds are so unpleasant; Rachel can’t even fathom working them into song, tweaking the pitch until it’s something beautiful, because there are some sounds even she can’t work with.
A strange sense of awareness kicks in, because Rachel can feel metal wrapping one side of her body, like a hungry, metal boa constrictor and she swears she can count the glass shards embedding themselves into her skin.
Through the shock, she’s not thinking about how the inevitable scarring, if she survives, is going to adversely affect her career. No, Rachel Berry is thinking about her purse, or the contents of her purse to be more precise.
The cab stops moving and the ache on her right side is dizzying, and everywhere else, really, because it’s all rather indiscernible at this point, but she’s struggling and cursing her short arms, fumbling for the purse that had been thrown to the other end of the cab.
Sounds are cutting out, like an abruptly turned off radio, but she’s not sure if it’s from the pain, the blood loss, or something else. All it really means for her is that she’s running out of time.
Aggravating her injuries further, Rachel stretches across the passenger seat, ready to cry with relief if she hadn’t already unknowingly started doing so, when her mostly uninjured left hand catches on the handle. Dragging it close enough to rifle through proofs more difficult, sapping at her already waning strength and bringing forth waves of darkness.
Shuffling desperately past tubes of lipstick and her wallet and all the other things a star has to have to keep up appearances, her heart nearly beats out of her chest when her fingers finally find it, and she tugs it free with renewed vigor. Pushing the pain away, even if she can’t push away the blood sliding down over on of her eyes, she focuses on the photo, the worn edges beneath her fingertips.
Headlights from other cars illuminate most of the inside of the cab, but it doesn’t do a thing for her blurring vision. Then again, the picture’s already unusually damaged from being folded into pockets and thrown into purses that it really doesn’t matter if she can’t see it, she just needs to feel it. Rachel can picture the day it was taken like yesterday.
A gorgeous, hazel eyed blonde smiling in a way she never had even before the baby and a smaller blonde in her arms with a mostly toothless smile. The wind blowing about their hair and dresses, as they laughed. They were all so happy then. She can remember folding into their arms afterwards, pressing her mouth chastely against Quinn’s and running her fingers through Beth’s short, wavy locks.
Rachel wonders if they’re still that happy without her, because she knows, finally admits that she’s not that happy anymore. She remembers the warmth in her chest as she took the photo of them, even if she’s never been so cold. There’s a chill setting into her limbs, causing shivers to wreak havoc on her battered frame, but she hasn’t been that warm since she left.
As the pain starts fading in time with the pressure rising in her head, blanketing over her sense of awareness like a fog, the initial panic disappears.
Regret takes its place, because it just figures that now is the time to admit that after all these years, she’s made a mistake. That she would’ve rather been the gold star in their lives, two of the most important people to have ever wormed their way into her heart, than the gold star to a bunch of people who never really mattered.
Well, people who never really knew her, because Rachel loves her fans. They’re thoughtful and flattering and Tinkerbell is still the Disney character she can relate to most, but none of her fans are around to fill her empty apartment. She’s thankful, even though they’re not the ones on her mind. Rachel doubts any performer thinks of their fans when the world’s going black.
Even though, she’s got to rely on memory, using every last bit of that Rachel Berry will power, she’s going to spend her last moments right where she was always supposed to be, with Quinn and Beth. Quinn’s tinkling laughter and Beth’s childish giggle replace the sirens and beeping horns outside. Frayed photo edges and metal give way to long blonde hair and a tiny hand in hers. She can almost feel them with her.
Unfortunately, the memory’s tainted by the taste of copper in her mouth, because she can’t even remember what Quinn tastes like anymore. She blames the head injury and the fact that she didn’t stay.
If she’d stayed then she wouldn’t be dying in the middle of New York traffic. She wouldn’t be dying in a cab that smelled oddly like bacon. She wouldn’t be dying alone and unhappy.
But, she didn’t, so she is.
Rachel Berry’s star is burning out and there’s no one within a hundred mile radius that will cry for the loss of her as a person. There might not even be anyone around to cry for the loss of talent. Rachel’s lived for fanfare all her life and she guesses there’s a cruel sense of irony in the fact that she really only wants two people to miss her, and they probably won’t.
Her eyelids flutter shut, she can still see blonde hair fluttering in the breeze, and she smiles bitterly.
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn (past)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1010
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Summary: 'Rachel Berry doesn’t panic at the sound of screeching tires.'
Author's Note: Haven't written Faberry in a while and this is way more depressing than what I did write a while back (which is why I'm going to the place in my head where I'm developing this into a multi-chaptered fic that actually has a happy ending.) Feedback is appreciated. :)
There’s a Hole in Her Heart
Rachel Berry doesn’t panic at the sound of screeching tires.
Car horns don’t even faze her, not after seven years in New York.
She doesn't even flinch when the entire window on her side of the cab gets lit up.
It’s when she feels that first brush of impact, that first second heavy with impending doom that she panics. By the time she has the sense to move, it’s too late, and the grating sound of grinding metal and the high pitched whine of breaking glass assaults her ears. The sounds are so unpleasant; Rachel can’t even fathom working them into song, tweaking the pitch until it’s something beautiful, because there are some sounds even she can’t work with.
A strange sense of awareness kicks in, because Rachel can feel metal wrapping one side of her body, like a hungry, metal boa constrictor and she swears she can count the glass shards embedding themselves into her skin.
Through the shock, she’s not thinking about how the inevitable scarring, if she survives, is going to adversely affect her career. No, Rachel Berry is thinking about her purse, or the contents of her purse to be more precise.
The cab stops moving and the ache on her right side is dizzying, and everywhere else, really, because it’s all rather indiscernible at this point, but she’s struggling and cursing her short arms, fumbling for the purse that had been thrown to the other end of the cab.
Sounds are cutting out, like an abruptly turned off radio, but she’s not sure if it’s from the pain, the blood loss, or something else. All it really means for her is that she’s running out of time.
Aggravating her injuries further, Rachel stretches across the passenger seat, ready to cry with relief if she hadn’t already unknowingly started doing so, when her mostly uninjured left hand catches on the handle. Dragging it close enough to rifle through proofs more difficult, sapping at her already waning strength and bringing forth waves of darkness.
Shuffling desperately past tubes of lipstick and her wallet and all the other things a star has to have to keep up appearances, her heart nearly beats out of her chest when her fingers finally find it, and she tugs it free with renewed vigor. Pushing the pain away, even if she can’t push away the blood sliding down over on of her eyes, she focuses on the photo, the worn edges beneath her fingertips.
Headlights from other cars illuminate most of the inside of the cab, but it doesn’t do a thing for her blurring vision. Then again, the picture’s already unusually damaged from being folded into pockets and thrown into purses that it really doesn’t matter if she can’t see it, she just needs to feel it. Rachel can picture the day it was taken like yesterday.
A gorgeous, hazel eyed blonde smiling in a way she never had even before the baby and a smaller blonde in her arms with a mostly toothless smile. The wind blowing about their hair and dresses, as they laughed. They were all so happy then. She can remember folding into their arms afterwards, pressing her mouth chastely against Quinn’s and running her fingers through Beth’s short, wavy locks.
Rachel wonders if they’re still that happy without her, because she knows, finally admits that she’s not that happy anymore. She remembers the warmth in her chest as she took the photo of them, even if she’s never been so cold. There’s a chill setting into her limbs, causing shivers to wreak havoc on her battered frame, but she hasn’t been that warm since she left.
As the pain starts fading in time with the pressure rising in her head, blanketing over her sense of awareness like a fog, the initial panic disappears.
Regret takes its place, because it just figures that now is the time to admit that after all these years, she’s made a mistake. That she would’ve rather been the gold star in their lives, two of the most important people to have ever wormed their way into her heart, than the gold star to a bunch of people who never really mattered.
Well, people who never really knew her, because Rachel loves her fans. They’re thoughtful and flattering and Tinkerbell is still the Disney character she can relate to most, but none of her fans are around to fill her empty apartment. She’s thankful, even though they’re not the ones on her mind. Rachel doubts any performer thinks of their fans when the world’s going black.
Even though, she’s got to rely on memory, using every last bit of that Rachel Berry will power, she’s going to spend her last moments right where she was always supposed to be, with Quinn and Beth. Quinn’s tinkling laughter and Beth’s childish giggle replace the sirens and beeping horns outside. Frayed photo edges and metal give way to long blonde hair and a tiny hand in hers. She can almost feel them with her.
Unfortunately, the memory’s tainted by the taste of copper in her mouth, because she can’t even remember what Quinn tastes like anymore. She blames the head injury and the fact that she didn’t stay.
If she’d stayed then she wouldn’t be dying in the middle of New York traffic. She wouldn’t be dying in a cab that smelled oddly like bacon. She wouldn’t be dying alone and unhappy.
But, she didn’t, so she is.
Rachel Berry’s star is burning out and there’s no one within a hundred mile radius that will cry for the loss of her as a person. There might not even be anyone around to cry for the loss of talent. Rachel’s lived for fanfare all her life and she guesses there’s a cruel sense of irony in the fact that she really only wants two people to miss her, and they probably won’t.
Her eyelids flutter shut, she can still see blonde hair fluttering in the breeze, and she smiles bitterly.