The End is the Beginning is the End
This form is not mine, I just tweaked it a bit for practice.
Title from the Smashing Pumpkins song.
For SKM, whose pain I know I cannot even begin to fathom.
The End is the Beginning is the End
One year later, I find myself standing once again in the old McKinley choir room. It's six in the afternoon on a chilly Tuesday, three hours after my plane ride from New York. I've been standing in this room for an hour and a half. Nothing has happened yet. I am waiting.
My eyes sweep over the chairs that have replaced the ones we always used to use, half-hoping to discover at least one chair that hasn't been thrown out. I have been doing this for the past half hour, trying to find similarities with this day and last year, with this room and the one that used to feel like home. I know that it will only hurt, but I cannot help it. Somewhere deep inside I think it will make my waiting a little bit more bearable.
I turn to the dusty old piano and allow my fingers to linger over unused keys. My mind wanders back to the first week of senior year, and I rapidly remember the incredibly brief Purple Piano Project. If I find one of the purple pianos today…, I begin to think, but then I stop myself.
Brittany is gone, they all told me. But I would not listen. For an entire week, I ignored their pleading declarations. I was confident that one of those days would bring you to me, with heavy casts and intense bandaging, but alive, nonetheless. This was Brittany S. Pierce, the most graceful person I'd ever had the privilege to meet, and there was no chance a single car accident would be the one thing that would keep you away from me.
(If I find music sheet from one of our old set lists, Brittany is alive.)
That morning began just like any other. I lay facedown on your pillows, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent I'd come to associate with your skin. The duck-shaped clock on your bedside table said 7:25. You had woken me up with the sound of your showering, but I had not stirred from the position except to peek at you as you exited your bathroom. When you began to change into clothes, I rolled in the bed to face you.
"Babe, what are you doing? It's Saturday." I yawned. "We just graduated, and we have weeks before we travel to New York. Come back to bed."
You grinned at me in that easygoing manner I love so much. "I volunteered to teach a dance class."
I blinked. "What?"
"For kids." You clarified, reaching across me to grab your bracelet. The one identical to mine. "I'm teaching dance to kids."
I wrapped my arms around your torso and held you to me. "What time?" I murmured sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to your jaw.
You glanced at your clock. "In fifteen minutes. I'm going to have to run." You smiled at me and pressed a light kiss to my cheek. "Walk me to the door?"
I groaned, closing my eyes.
"Come on, sleepyhead."
"Alright, alright." I rasped. "I need to find my bra."
You mock gasped. "Santana Lopez, are you flirting with me?"
I snorted. "Brittany Susan Pierce, who ever told you I was interested?"
I found my bra under the covers, and I slipped it on. Before I could seal the clasp, you pulled me up from the bed and kissed me. I pushed you away playfully, saying, "You're going to be late."
You grinned cockily back. "I'll tell them it's your fault."
"Goodbye, Britt. Have fun with the little monsters."
"Oh I will." You winked. Then the teasing expression left your face and you stared at me for a long moment.
"What?" I asked, self-conscious. You shook your head once, before stepping closer and cupping my cheeks in your hands.
"I love you." You whispered, your sweet breath fanning my face.
I smiled. "I love you, too."
I never heard you say it again.
(If I find her bracelet, Brittany is alive.)
For the whole week, my senses were consumed with an intense craving to be basked in all the things uniquely you: your smile, your laugh, your smell, your touch, your kiss. I saw you in everything around me, remembered you in the tiniest day-to-day interactions. Each thought brought an avalanche of memories, of your million expressions. I didn't know it then, but this would go on for the next several months. I never admitted to anyone, but I saw bits of you everywhere I looked, no matter how hard I tried to stop looking. I wanted to let go but I held on tightly anyway.
On out last night of high school, we found ourselves walking hand-in-hand in the empty hallways of McKinley. When we passed by our old lockers, you came to a stop. I turned to you, waiting for you to say something. Instead, I felt my breath hitch at the expression on your face, the tiny smile lingering on your lips.
"San, will you marry me?"
You whispered it into the air like a spell, soaking into my soul and illuminating parts of me that I forgot exited. The world blurred with my tears as I gasped out yes, and you held me tightly as I repeated the word over and over into lips while you kissed me again and again.
(If I can still open her locker, Brittany is alive.)
On the last day of my defiant denial, I asked Quinn to come with me to walk on the street where you were last alive. We spent the entire morning walking in erratic circles under the sweltering summer sun, attracting people's stares. I felt like I was looking for something, but I didn't know exactly what.
When we came to the spot where you were hit, I sat down on the concrete and looked up at the bright sky that reminded me too well of the shades of blue in your eyes.
Quinn sat beside me and held my hand. She said nothing.
She's gone, I told myself for the first time. Brittany's gone.
(If I can remember the choreography for out last Nationals, Brittany is alive.)
I collapsed that night. Sudden rain made Quinn and I return back to my house, and when Quinn left I ran all the way to your place. I sneaked in through the backdoor and up into your room, leaving puddles of water behind me.
When I opened the door, the first thing I saw were the piles of clothes I had prepared for you to pack with our impending trip to New York. They all lay in the edge of your giant bed, just the way we had both left it a week before.
I locked the door behind me and marched up to the pile. Carefully, I folded them into perfect squares, tucking them into your open suitcase. I turned to the bed and fixed it up, smoothening out the sheets and folding the covers. Afterwards I paced back and forth across the room, telling myself to not cry, not cry not cry.
My legs were the first to give away. I found myself on the ground in all fours, my head bent, my vision blurred, my throat tight, my breathing erratic. My hair cascaded around me in messy black waves. Sobs were breaking free from the deep abyss inside, my body shaking with each one. Brittany, Brittany, Brittany. I crawled to the bathroom, where I dry-retched into the toilet. I thought of bracelets and music sheets, and locker and dance steps. I thought of smiles and giggles and unicorns and rainbows. I felt like I was being emptied of something, but what, I did not know.
(If there's a rainbow sometime today or tomorrow, Brittany is alive.)
Brittany is dead, I whisper into the silence of the choir room, talking to the ghosts of our past selves lingering in the empty spaces. I retract my hand from the dusty piano and inhale deeply. I head back to New York in two days.
I look around the choir room again. I realize that I am still waiting. Somehow, I still feel certain it will come. Certain you will come. One last time, I tell myself, sitting on the piano stool. One last time and then no more.