To Write Love on Her Arms -- 1/1
Title: To Write Love on Her Arms
Author: meetmyheartbeat
Rating: M for self-harm.
Length: 1,862 words
Spoilers: Nadda~
Summary: In all honesty, it's a group of people banding together to fix a girl they watched break.
A/N: Hello! This MIGHT be a twoshot. I haven't decided yet. But as of now, it's just this loner-chapter. Inspired by the lovely movement dubbed TWLOHA. Give their website a glance. It's a worthy cause, I swear. Oh, and also, please do make me aware of any typos/strange sentences. I have yet to find a beta & am far too lazy to do it myself.
There are some decisions in life that people make blindfolded. They're given a feel of what it's like to do something -- to accomplish something. And sometimes, that feeling provides them with the strength and drive to throw themselves into a choice that leads to the beginning of a story.
Two months ago, I, Quinn Fabray, was lifted up from my roots in Lima, Ohio and put onto a small bus. It may sound like a glamourous and slightly rockstar life, but in all honesty, it's a group of people banding together to fix a girl they watched break.
Rachel Barbra Berry was an eighteen year old thunderstorm. She was a ball of light that made us all believe that we had a reason for fighting our ways out of Lima. But none of us let her know we believed. Instead, we tore her down and watched her break. We stole her light and bottled it up, keeping her sunny smiles and bright eyes away from the rest of the world until she was a grey being just like the rest of us.
When our old instructor came after us, telling of her life and what it had become in a desperate attempt to have us bring back what once was bright, none of us knew of the catastrophe we had agreed to look after. But now that all is said and we have 2 months worth of traveling together, as I look at the girl who brought the catastrophe, I wouldn't give what our small thirteen-man group has for the world.
We're driving down an old, sleepy road. The windows on the bus are old and let in leaks of the freezing cold of the country side, rattling with a steady tapping of metal against plastic as the gravel beneath the wheels and the wind work as together to shake our bus. It isn't much, but the light blue bus has become home.
The road is bumpy and winding. The trip is long and tiring, but we need to find a place that will take her in. We need to find a place that will be able to fix her. Every establishment we've been to has called her too much to handle. A force to be reckoned with. But we're determined to find her a safe haven. Until then, we are her caretakers, her family, her brothers and sisters.
The night is clear, but that doesn't save us from the harsh springtime coldness. I have yet to fall asleep, just lying in my seat and staring across the walkway at the girl we're all taking this journey for. She gives out a small yawn, and carries on staring out the window and into the sky where the moon floats -- high and proud.
We're the only ones awake, save Mike, who's up front, driving this old bus.
It's nights like these where I can't help but hate myself for being responsible for Rachel's condition. She's grown cold and pulled away from the rest of us. She does things that I would never think of, taking sharp objects and running them across her skin until it breaks and scarlet drops run down. She hasn't done so since we've taken her in, though. Well, not since Finn and Tina removed all the sharp objects from the bus after her attempt to break a window and use the glass.
But removing the objects don't erase her scars. Even in this dim light, I can see her right hand caressing the bruises and scars on her left arm, so clear and silver against her tan skin. Every scar that marks her skin tells a different story -- a chapter of sadness and grief in her life. Her skin is a story book, tainted with tales of naked drunken men, white powdery drugs, and abuse.
All of us try to understand her pain, but it's difficult and most of the time we can't even begin to comprehend where her problems start. We can't because we were raised in bright neighborhoods by caring families.
Rachel knows we can't, so she distances herself from us as far as she can. Running from the love and warmth that she's denied herself for so long. But as far as she goes to avoid us, she know she can't. We won't let her, because she is one of the most important things to us, as well as our absolute need to gain her trust completely.
Her gorgeous brown eyes hold a sort of chaos, piercing screams and unwanted pain tear through them as if at war with each other as a peaceful part sits in the back. It aches me just know she alone can hold so much pressure. Watching her makes me want to just hold her and take some of that chaos and pain away.
As I look on at her, my thoughts rage on, all surrounding her as I watch her shift slightly. I want to speak to her, but she doesn't know I'm awake, as I'm not supposed to know she's awake.
She sits up straighter, getting up and starts to fumble around for something.
I shut my eyes, in fear she might see me. Where the fear comes from, I'm not sure, but there's this aching voice in the back of my head telling me it's because I'm not completely okay with feeling the way I do about her. And maybe seeing her look so beautiful in such a terrible situation scares me.
Her footsteps move away ever so slowly to my ears. I hear metal and glass clank together lightly, drawing a small echo throughout the bus. This catches my attention. There isn't supposed to be any glass -- not even the windows on the bus are glass.
So I follow her. I get up slowly and nearly trip over Brittany who's asleep on the floor wrapped up in her Barbie blanket and Santana.
The bathroom door shuts not too long after my stumble. It shuts, but there's no telltale click that signals the door is locked.
I decide to wait. I lean agains the wall opposite the bathroom and wait for her to come out. But she doesn't. Seconds pass and turn into minutes, minutes into what feels like hours -- but in truth is only another minute. As I wait, my mind spirals into accusations and theories.
Does she have drugs in there?
Is she drinking?
Is she dead?
With all my fear attacking my thoughts, I push forward and break through the bathroom door to see her against the sink; her arm is bleeding crimson red and a whiskey bottle is grasped firm in her hands.
"Rachel!"
She looks up at me with wide eyes -- crazy, insane, clouded… lost. Her mouth is open and she looks like she's on the verge of tears. I look closer and I can see she's shaking.
"Quinn…" Her sight drifts from me down to her cuts, so fresh and running with still-warm blood, "I couldn't stop…"
I gape for two seconds, unsure what to do. But as I collect my thoughts and meet her sight again, I carefully take her hand and bring her arm to the sink, turning on the water to rinse away the blood. She winces, and I have to look away from her face to stop myself from aching as well.
As the red rinses away, I notice the large, deep cuts that form into "FUCK UP!" inscribed large across her forearm. This time, I have no way to stop the ache and I want to her close, whisper safe words and tell her everything will be alright. But I can't, not now when she's still bleeding and I have to patch her up.
I grab the first aid kit and two towels before sitting her down on a seat outside of the bathroom and cleaning the angry red lines.
"What in the world were you thinking?" I whisper, drying her arm with a towel while staring into those clouded brown eyes.
She merely shrugs, staring, looking into nothing.
I clean her cuts and patch her up in silence. She's not much of a talker, and I'm not sure what I should/would say to her if we were to strike up a conversation. So the quiet becomes our friend as we sit surrounded by it. When I finish, I move and tuck the first aid kit into its rightful place.
"I was 14 when this all started." She states out of nowhere, moving her eyes from the windows to meet my own eyes.
I can't help but look at her in confusion, "14?"
"When I met up with my birth mother… I.. I wanted to start a connection, be her daughter again. She turned me down. All of me. Said something about.. not being good enough."
I'm at a loss for words, so I only sit down next to her and mutter a weak, "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, "It's not like it's your fault."
Oh, but it is. All of us on this bus took some part in hurting her, taking a chisel and chipping off a part of her confidence and keeping it for ourselves. It is my fault. I made her believe she wasn't anything more than a waste of air.
"You didn't mean it." She states, staring at me a small, knowing smile. "There's nothing to be sorry about."
The moonlight hits her in the perfect way right in that moment, illuminating her brown locks and sad smile.
She's only twenty-one, one year younger than myself, but as she shares her life story with me, she does it with the wisdom and sadness of one thousand lifetimes. We talk for hours on end. More than once, I catch myself tearing up while talking to her even though her eyes are dry -- run out of tears long ago. But I can't cry, I won't let myself. There's a part of me that feels like I have to be strong for the both of us. I can't cry, or else I'll be too weak to support her. That's all I want to do. I want to support her… to.. to love her.
Now she's snuggled in my arm, to be what I think is asleep, but because God lives in the thrill of proving me wrong, she opens her mouth and mumbles a sleepy, "Quinn… when you go home, please tell everyone to look up and remember the stars."
Stars… the Rachel Berry trademark. It's only then do I let a small smile dawn my face as I clear my throat softly, "I will."
She finally falls asleep in my protection, silent and sweet, yet secretly exploding with chaos and anguish.
I look at her face as she sleeps, amazed that such small, perfect girl could hold more pain than all the rest of us. I want to save her. But for now, all I can do is protect her, watch her, watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her she's beautiful every night.
For now, the only thing I can do is to write love on her arms.
Author: meetmyheartbeat
Rating: M for self-harm.
Length: 1,862 words
Spoilers: Nadda~
Summary: In all honesty, it's a group of people banding together to fix a girl they watched break.
A/N: Hello! This MIGHT be a twoshot. I haven't decided yet. But as of now, it's just this loner-chapter. Inspired by the lovely movement dubbed TWLOHA. Give their website a glance. It's a worthy cause, I swear. Oh, and also, please do make me aware of any typos/strange sentences. I have yet to find a beta & am far too lazy to do it myself.
There are some decisions in life that people make blindfolded. They're given a feel of what it's like to do something -- to accomplish something. And sometimes, that feeling provides them with the strength and drive to throw themselves into a choice that leads to the beginning of a story.
Two months ago, I, Quinn Fabray, was lifted up from my roots in Lima, Ohio and put onto a small bus. It may sound like a glamourous and slightly rockstar life, but in all honesty, it's a group of people banding together to fix a girl they watched break.
Rachel Barbra Berry was an eighteen year old thunderstorm. She was a ball of light that made us all believe that we had a reason for fighting our ways out of Lima. But none of us let her know we believed. Instead, we tore her down and watched her break. We stole her light and bottled it up, keeping her sunny smiles and bright eyes away from the rest of the world until she was a grey being just like the rest of us.
When our old instructor came after us, telling of her life and what it had become in a desperate attempt to have us bring back what once was bright, none of us knew of the catastrophe we had agreed to look after. But now that all is said and we have 2 months worth of traveling together, as I look at the girl who brought the catastrophe, I wouldn't give what our small thirteen-man group has for the world.
We're driving down an old, sleepy road. The windows on the bus are old and let in leaks of the freezing cold of the country side, rattling with a steady tapping of metal against plastic as the gravel beneath the wheels and the wind work as together to shake our bus. It isn't much, but the light blue bus has become home.
The road is bumpy and winding. The trip is long and tiring, but we need to find a place that will take her in. We need to find a place that will be able to fix her. Every establishment we've been to has called her too much to handle. A force to be reckoned with. But we're determined to find her a safe haven. Until then, we are her caretakers, her family, her brothers and sisters.
The night is clear, but that doesn't save us from the harsh springtime coldness. I have yet to fall asleep, just lying in my seat and staring across the walkway at the girl we're all taking this journey for. She gives out a small yawn, and carries on staring out the window and into the sky where the moon floats -- high and proud.
We're the only ones awake, save Mike, who's up front, driving this old bus.
It's nights like these where I can't help but hate myself for being responsible for Rachel's condition. She's grown cold and pulled away from the rest of us. She does things that I would never think of, taking sharp objects and running them across her skin until it breaks and scarlet drops run down. She hasn't done so since we've taken her in, though. Well, not since Finn and Tina removed all the sharp objects from the bus after her attempt to break a window and use the glass.
But removing the objects don't erase her scars. Even in this dim light, I can see her right hand caressing the bruises and scars on her left arm, so clear and silver against her tan skin. Every scar that marks her skin tells a different story -- a chapter of sadness and grief in her life. Her skin is a story book, tainted with tales of naked drunken men, white powdery drugs, and abuse.
All of us try to understand her pain, but it's difficult and most of the time we can't even begin to comprehend where her problems start. We can't because we were raised in bright neighborhoods by caring families.
Rachel knows we can't, so she distances herself from us as far as she can. Running from the love and warmth that she's denied herself for so long. But as far as she goes to avoid us, she know she can't. We won't let her, because she is one of the most important things to us, as well as our absolute need to gain her trust completely.
Her gorgeous brown eyes hold a sort of chaos, piercing screams and unwanted pain tear through them as if at war with each other as a peaceful part sits in the back. It aches me just know she alone can hold so much pressure. Watching her makes me want to just hold her and take some of that chaos and pain away.
As I look on at her, my thoughts rage on, all surrounding her as I watch her shift slightly. I want to speak to her, but she doesn't know I'm awake, as I'm not supposed to know she's awake.
She sits up straighter, getting up and starts to fumble around for something.
I shut my eyes, in fear she might see me. Where the fear comes from, I'm not sure, but there's this aching voice in the back of my head telling me it's because I'm not completely okay with feeling the way I do about her. And maybe seeing her look so beautiful in such a terrible situation scares me.
Her footsteps move away ever so slowly to my ears. I hear metal and glass clank together lightly, drawing a small echo throughout the bus. This catches my attention. There isn't supposed to be any glass -- not even the windows on the bus are glass.
So I follow her. I get up slowly and nearly trip over Brittany who's asleep on the floor wrapped up in her Barbie blanket and Santana.
The bathroom door shuts not too long after my stumble. It shuts, but there's no telltale click that signals the door is locked.
I decide to wait. I lean agains the wall opposite the bathroom and wait for her to come out. But she doesn't. Seconds pass and turn into minutes, minutes into what feels like hours -- but in truth is only another minute. As I wait, my mind spirals into accusations and theories.
Does she have drugs in there?
Is she drinking?
Is she dead?
With all my fear attacking my thoughts, I push forward and break through the bathroom door to see her against the sink; her arm is bleeding crimson red and a whiskey bottle is grasped firm in her hands.
"Rachel!"
She looks up at me with wide eyes -- crazy, insane, clouded… lost. Her mouth is open and she looks like she's on the verge of tears. I look closer and I can see she's shaking.
"Quinn…" Her sight drifts from me down to her cuts, so fresh and running with still-warm blood, "I couldn't stop…"
I gape for two seconds, unsure what to do. But as I collect my thoughts and meet her sight again, I carefully take her hand and bring her arm to the sink, turning on the water to rinse away the blood. She winces, and I have to look away from her face to stop myself from aching as well.
As the red rinses away, I notice the large, deep cuts that form into "FUCK UP!" inscribed large across her forearm. This time, I have no way to stop the ache and I want to her close, whisper safe words and tell her everything will be alright. But I can't, not now when she's still bleeding and I have to patch her up.
I grab the first aid kit and two towels before sitting her down on a seat outside of the bathroom and cleaning the angry red lines.
"What in the world were you thinking?" I whisper, drying her arm with a towel while staring into those clouded brown eyes.
She merely shrugs, staring, looking into nothing.
I clean her cuts and patch her up in silence. She's not much of a talker, and I'm not sure what I should/would say to her if we were to strike up a conversation. So the quiet becomes our friend as we sit surrounded by it. When I finish, I move and tuck the first aid kit into its rightful place.
"I was 14 when this all started." She states out of nowhere, moving her eyes from the windows to meet my own eyes.
I can't help but look at her in confusion, "14?"
"When I met up with my birth mother… I.. I wanted to start a connection, be her daughter again. She turned me down. All of me. Said something about.. not being good enough."
I'm at a loss for words, so I only sit down next to her and mutter a weak, "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, "It's not like it's your fault."
Oh, but it is. All of us on this bus took some part in hurting her, taking a chisel and chipping off a part of her confidence and keeping it for ourselves. It is my fault. I made her believe she wasn't anything more than a waste of air.
"You didn't mean it." She states, staring at me a small, knowing smile. "There's nothing to be sorry about."
The moonlight hits her in the perfect way right in that moment, illuminating her brown locks and sad smile.
She's only twenty-one, one year younger than myself, but as she shares her life story with me, she does it with the wisdom and sadness of one thousand lifetimes. We talk for hours on end. More than once, I catch myself tearing up while talking to her even though her eyes are dry -- run out of tears long ago. But I can't cry, I won't let myself. There's a part of me that feels like I have to be strong for the both of us. I can't cry, or else I'll be too weak to support her. That's all I want to do. I want to support her… to.. to love her.
Now she's snuggled in my arm, to be what I think is asleep, but because God lives in the thrill of proving me wrong, she opens her mouth and mumbles a sleepy, "Quinn… when you go home, please tell everyone to look up and remember the stars."
Stars… the Rachel Berry trademark. It's only then do I let a small smile dawn my face as I clear my throat softly, "I will."
She finally falls asleep in my protection, silent and sweet, yet secretly exploding with chaos and anguish.
I look at her face as she sleeps, amazed that such small, perfect girl could hold more pain than all the rest of us. I want to save her. But for now, all I can do is protect her, watch her, watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her she's beautiful every night.
For now, the only thing I can do is to write love on her arms.