Setting Rain on Fire 6/?
okay. so i think that this is significantly calmer in comparison to the last chapter. tell me what you think. :)
Chapter Six: Reaching Across the Great Divide
“Are you listening? I need you now.”
The Great Divide, Emmy Rossum
This flight to Lima is one of the longest trips I’ve ever taken in my entire life.
It’s not just the long hours that have me riled up. Just the thought of going back to the place where it all began freaks the hell out of me. But as I glance to my right and see Brittany staring out the airplane window, I accept - albeit grudgingly - that it’s all for the best.
It’s been four days since the bathroom incident. As soon as Brittany dropped the knife on the ground, Quinn had rushed in, towel in hand. Kurt had turned off the water while Puck had taken the blade off the floor. Then Quinn, in a haze of panic, had screeched incessantly, demanding that we take Brittany to the emergency room, since the blood was still gushing from the deep cut on her left palm. Brittany didn’t want to go, but when I cupped her cheek gently with my hand, she had closed her eyes and given in.
I look at her left hand and see the bandage there. Seven stitches. That’s how many the doctor told me she needed, before he pulled me aside and whispered to me about psychologists, and depression, and SSRIs, and therapists, among other things. I had stiffened at the conversation, and he could tell that all his recommendations were falling on deaf ears.
“At least consider taking her away.” He cried out exasperatedly.
I had frowned then. “Excuse me?”
“Go for a break. Apply for a sabbatical. Take a vacation. Anything. Just don’t keep her here, it’s obviously not working for her.” He hesitated before adding in a low tone, “And I honestly think it isn’t working for you, either.”
I had frozen at the spot and watched as he turned around to attend to another patient’s family. I wanted to ignore his advice, but I knew he was right. Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours all built up to the inevitable conclusion that Brittany was hurting in many ways that I wasn’t, and I needed to be there for her. I needed to be there for her, even if every single moment of it would intensify the guilt I felt pressing heavily on my shoulders. Especially now, after what Brittany had tried to do in our bedroom bathroom.
My eyes slide from Brittany’s bandage to the gold band on the fourth digit of her hand, and my heart clenches painfully. The ring was supposed to represent a promise. It wasn’t a just symbol signifying commitment; it was a promise of love, trust, security and protection.
We haven’t reached eight years yet and I’ve already failed.
My eyes close when I feel tears threaten to fall. A lump grows in my throat, and I swallow painfully against it.
“Santana?” I hear her whisper beside me.
My eyes open quickly and I turn my face towards her. She’s still staring out the window, but something about her expression makes me feel as though she isn’t really seeing the view of the night sky.
“Yeah?”
She bites her lip briefly before asking, “What are we doing?”
What are we doing? My mind echoes. We’re trying to stop everything from falling apart completely. We’re trying to salvage the pieces that are left scattered all over the floor. My mind races ahead of me and I hear myself thinking softly, But more importantly, I’m trying to help you because I can’t help myself. I’m trying to help you because it’s the only good thing I can do in this world. I’m trying to save you because it’s the only way the guilt can be reduced - even if it’s just momentarily.
But I know that Brittany’s still vulnerable, and that my words carry much importance. So instead I take a deep breath and respond evenly, “We’re going home, B.”
I hear her breath hitch and I panic for a few seconds. I replay my response in my mind and re-evaluate it. What did I say? Was it too much?
Then she turns to me, her eyes brimming with tears, and she replies, “You haven’t called me that in a really long time.”
My stunned mind is still formulating a reply when the speakers come to life and a flight stewardess announces the number of minutes before the landing. Then Brittany tears her gaze away from me and begins fixing the things scattered around her, and I have no choice but to do the same.
The airport isn’t that crowded, and I’m relieved because it means there isn’t going to be that much competition getting a cab. I thrust my hands into my pockets, looking for the piece of paper where Quinn had written down the name of the hotel.
Initially, when I had asked for help to find us a hotel, she had given me a questioning look, and I had told her quite plainly that Brittany didn’t feel like staying over with relatives. Quinn had nodded thoughtfully, then flipped open her phone to make the necessary calls.
We arrive in the hotel around twenty minutes later, and a porter assists me as I unload our luggage while Brittany talks to the front desk.
As soon as we arrive in our suite, Brittany turns to me and says tiredly, “I’m going to sleep.”
I make a sound of acknowledgement, and I watch as she heads for the bedroom.
Sighing, I begin opening bags and pulling out things. I begin with the necessities, like toiletries and clothes. But it isn’t thirty minutes later when I hear moans coming from the bedroom.
As though on autopilot, I put down the objects in my hands and walk towards the bedroom. I open the door softly and make my way over to the bed. I turn to face her in the darkness, and I watch as her expression contorts and her head moves from side to side.
My heart breaks when I realize I have absolutely no idea what to do. I never dealt with Nicholas’s night terrors. I was always the one who sang him to sleep, but it was always Brittany who would dart out of the room in the wee hours of the morning and calm him back to sleep after nightmares.
I close my eyes and try to think back and remember what my mother would do when I would have nightmares as a child. With a slight pang I remember that my parents had never really helped. So I try to recall what I would do whenever I had nightmares, and with a jolt I realize what needs to be done.
* * *
I’m back in the hallway again.
I can see the two figures at the edge of the narrow corridor, and I know that I need to get there before my son receives his death blow. I know that I’ve got to change this moment. I’m ready to make all the sacrifices I need to make. I’m prepared to die just to change this moment.
I try to push myself forward but I can’t move. I look down and see that my feet are fastened to the ground with chains. I struggle with all my might because I’ve got to get there; I’ve got to change how this all turns out.
But the more I struggle, the tighter the chains get, until finally I watch as the knife enters my son in one swift movement -
Then all of a sudden, I can move again, and I’m cradling a body growing colder each second and I’m drowning in red and it’s so cold, it’s so cold, so cold -
I feel a warmth press gently at the side of my face, and my eyes fly open. My clothes are damp with sweat, and there are tears sliding down my face.
“Come back.” I hear Santana’s voice murmuring to me in the darkness. “Brittany. Come back.” Her thumb is gently running up and down my cheekbones, wiping away the tears. “It’s alright. I’m here. Come back to me.”
I feel my eyes water even more as I recognize the line her soothing voice is repeating over and over. It’s the same line my mother used to tell me after nightmares, the same line I used to murmur into Santana’s ear when her fears leaked into her dreams, the same line I would whisper into Nicholas’s hair when he, too, began to have trouble sleeping at night. My heart swells.
I feel Santana’s arms find their way around my body, and she pulls me closer to her until my head rests against her collarbone. And despite the horrible circumstances I feel a warmth break over me softly, because I can’t believe she’s actually touching me again. Just as always, she’s found the strength to cross the great divide when I couldn’t.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The question is almost too soft, and a little bit too hesitant, but It doesn’t matter because she’s asking it.
I shake my head slowly, too lost in the moment to think about anything else. Because right now, I can almost pretend everything’s alright. I feel so content it’s a wonder my heart hasn’t exploded. For now, all I need is this.
Her fingers lightly pass through my hair just as she begins to hum his favorite lullaby to me, and I drift into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six: Reaching Across the Great Divide
“Are you listening? I need you now.”
The Great Divide, Emmy Rossum
This flight to Lima is one of the longest trips I’ve ever taken in my entire life.
It’s not just the long hours that have me riled up. Just the thought of going back to the place where it all began freaks the hell out of me. But as I glance to my right and see Brittany staring out the airplane window, I accept - albeit grudgingly - that it’s all for the best.
It’s been four days since the bathroom incident. As soon as Brittany dropped the knife on the ground, Quinn had rushed in, towel in hand. Kurt had turned off the water while Puck had taken the blade off the floor. Then Quinn, in a haze of panic, had screeched incessantly, demanding that we take Brittany to the emergency room, since the blood was still gushing from the deep cut on her left palm. Brittany didn’t want to go, but when I cupped her cheek gently with my hand, she had closed her eyes and given in.
I look at her left hand and see the bandage there. Seven stitches. That’s how many the doctor told me she needed, before he pulled me aside and whispered to me about psychologists, and depression, and SSRIs, and therapists, among other things. I had stiffened at the conversation, and he could tell that all his recommendations were falling on deaf ears.
“At least consider taking her away.” He cried out exasperatedly.
I had frowned then. “Excuse me?”
“Go for a break. Apply for a sabbatical. Take a vacation. Anything. Just don’t keep her here, it’s obviously not working for her.” He hesitated before adding in a low tone, “And I honestly think it isn’t working for you, either.”
I had frozen at the spot and watched as he turned around to attend to another patient’s family. I wanted to ignore his advice, but I knew he was right. Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours all built up to the inevitable conclusion that Brittany was hurting in many ways that I wasn’t, and I needed to be there for her. I needed to be there for her, even if every single moment of it would intensify the guilt I felt pressing heavily on my shoulders. Especially now, after what Brittany had tried to do in our bedroom bathroom.
My eyes slide from Brittany’s bandage to the gold band on the fourth digit of her hand, and my heart clenches painfully. The ring was supposed to represent a promise. It wasn’t a just symbol signifying commitment; it was a promise of love, trust, security and protection.
We haven’t reached eight years yet and I’ve already failed.
My eyes close when I feel tears threaten to fall. A lump grows in my throat, and I swallow painfully against it.
“Santana?” I hear her whisper beside me.
My eyes open quickly and I turn my face towards her. She’s still staring out the window, but something about her expression makes me feel as though she isn’t really seeing the view of the night sky.
“Yeah?”
She bites her lip briefly before asking, “What are we doing?”
What are we doing? My mind echoes. We’re trying to stop everything from falling apart completely. We’re trying to salvage the pieces that are left scattered all over the floor. My mind races ahead of me and I hear myself thinking softly, But more importantly, I’m trying to help you because I can’t help myself. I’m trying to help you because it’s the only good thing I can do in this world. I’m trying to save you because it’s the only way the guilt can be reduced - even if it’s just momentarily.
But I know that Brittany’s still vulnerable, and that my words carry much importance. So instead I take a deep breath and respond evenly, “We’re going home, B.”
I hear her breath hitch and I panic for a few seconds. I replay my response in my mind and re-evaluate it. What did I say? Was it too much?
Then she turns to me, her eyes brimming with tears, and she replies, “You haven’t called me that in a really long time.”
My stunned mind is still formulating a reply when the speakers come to life and a flight stewardess announces the number of minutes before the landing. Then Brittany tears her gaze away from me and begins fixing the things scattered around her, and I have no choice but to do the same.
The airport isn’t that crowded, and I’m relieved because it means there isn’t going to be that much competition getting a cab. I thrust my hands into my pockets, looking for the piece of paper where Quinn had written down the name of the hotel.
Initially, when I had asked for help to find us a hotel, she had given me a questioning look, and I had told her quite plainly that Brittany didn’t feel like staying over with relatives. Quinn had nodded thoughtfully, then flipped open her phone to make the necessary calls.
We arrive in the hotel around twenty minutes later, and a porter assists me as I unload our luggage while Brittany talks to the front desk.
As soon as we arrive in our suite, Brittany turns to me and says tiredly, “I’m going to sleep.”
I make a sound of acknowledgement, and I watch as she heads for the bedroom.
Sighing, I begin opening bags and pulling out things. I begin with the necessities, like toiletries and clothes. But it isn’t thirty minutes later when I hear moans coming from the bedroom.
As though on autopilot, I put down the objects in my hands and walk towards the bedroom. I open the door softly and make my way over to the bed. I turn to face her in the darkness, and I watch as her expression contorts and her head moves from side to side.
My heart breaks when I realize I have absolutely no idea what to do. I never dealt with Nicholas’s night terrors. I was always the one who sang him to sleep, but it was always Brittany who would dart out of the room in the wee hours of the morning and calm him back to sleep after nightmares.
I close my eyes and try to think back and remember what my mother would do when I would have nightmares as a child. With a slight pang I remember that my parents had never really helped. So I try to recall what I would do whenever I had nightmares, and with a jolt I realize what needs to be done.
* * *
I’m back in the hallway again.
I can see the two figures at the edge of the narrow corridor, and I know that I need to get there before my son receives his death blow. I know that I’ve got to change this moment. I’m ready to make all the sacrifices I need to make. I’m prepared to die just to change this moment.
I try to push myself forward but I can’t move. I look down and see that my feet are fastened to the ground with chains. I struggle with all my might because I’ve got to get there; I’ve got to change how this all turns out.
But the more I struggle, the tighter the chains get, until finally I watch as the knife enters my son in one swift movement -
Then all of a sudden, I can move again, and I’m cradling a body growing colder each second and I’m drowning in red and it’s so cold, it’s so cold, so cold -
I feel a warmth press gently at the side of my face, and my eyes fly open. My clothes are damp with sweat, and there are tears sliding down my face.
“Come back.” I hear Santana’s voice murmuring to me in the darkness. “Brittany. Come back.” Her thumb is gently running up and down my cheekbones, wiping away the tears. “It’s alright. I’m here. Come back to me.”
I feel my eyes water even more as I recognize the line her soothing voice is repeating over and over. It’s the same line my mother used to tell me after nightmares, the same line I used to murmur into Santana’s ear when her fears leaked into her dreams, the same line I would whisper into Nicholas’s hair when he, too, began to have trouble sleeping at night. My heart swells.
I feel Santana’s arms find their way around my body, and she pulls me closer to her until my head rests against her collarbone. And despite the horrible circumstances I feel a warmth break over me softly, because I can’t believe she’s actually touching me again. Just as always, she’s found the strength to cross the great divide when I couldn’t.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The question is almost too soft, and a little bit too hesitant, but It doesn’t matter because she’s asking it.
I shake my head slowly, too lost in the moment to think about anything else. Because right now, I can almost pretend everything’s alright. I feel so content it’s a wonder my heart hasn’t exploded. For now, all I need is this.
Her fingers lightly pass through my hair just as she begins to hum his favorite lullaby to me, and I drift into a dreamless sleep.