A/N: While much has been drawn from the show, this fic is an AU and a bit of an exploration into writing a modern day fairy tale. If you've found your way here, I hope you enjoy!
Voiceless
Chapter 1: The Fairest of Them All
Once upon a time, there was a girl blessed with the fairest voice in all the land. She had a happy, carefree childhood with her two loving fathers, spending day after day singing and dancing to her heart's content. Even as a youth with boundless energy, she warmed the coldest soul whenever she broke into song. All who heard her voice knew she was destined for more than a simple life with the other townspeople. But as she grew older, the hearts of her peers grew cold and cruel at knowing she was different from them.
"Why does she think she's so special?" they cried.
One by one, they became deaf to the sound and power of her voice. One by one, the girl was cast out. One by one, she lost all her companions. All she had were her fathers, but they could not protect her from all of the wickedness sent her way. And so the girl matured, beautiful and strong, but lonely and unhappy. She consoled herself only by song and the knowledge that she would flee from the town as soon as she came of age. But it became harder and harder to make it through each day even with the promise of the future…
The slushy strikes her, stinging cold and wet. Bull's-eye. She's left gasping for breath, laughter ringing in her ears. It's only from routine practice that she doesn't drop her books. She knows they'll be kicked down the hall if she does.
"Enjoy loser!" It's a male voice, full of cruel laughter.
Rachel cradles her books in one arm and uses the other to wipe the slushy from her eyes and face. A few students in the hallway still stare, some in relief—that it wasn't them—and some in amusement. But this was a typical day, and most of the students have resumed moving about their business. She may not always be the target, but witnessing such an attack is a common enough activity in McKinley High School. She shivers as the slushy slides down her shirt, and, as she does, she catches sight of Quinn Fabray.
The resident queen of McKinley is as immaculate as always. Golden hair pulled back into a ponytail, the angry red of her crisp Cheerios uniform contrasting to her pale skin—Quinn is untouchably beautiful. But she isn't laughing. She stares, an island of cool indifference in a sea of tittering teenagers.
And for a moment, they lock gazes. There's a flash of something dark and human. And then…nothing.
Quinn turns sharply, the pleats of her skirt twirling around her pale thighs, and glides away. The slushy continues its cold journey down Rachel's body, and she finds herself conscious again, much like waking from a dream. It's the exact opposite of waking from a nightmare into the pleasant confines of her bed.
Rachel wishes that she didn't have a single decent thought about Quinn Fabray. But things change. People change. And Quinn is a prime example of it because the Quinn of now is nothing like the Quinn of freshman year. That Quinn was ruthless. This Quinn is…distant. To everyone.
Casting Quinn from her mind, Rachel hurries to her locker. She quickly opens it, grabbing her emergency change of clothes, before heading toward the nearest restroom at a brisk walk. She ignores the gloating grins of her "popular" peers when they catch sight of her, and she tries to keep her shoulders from dropping as the rest of the student body pointedly ignores her. She wishes she could do something about her heart as it thuds with distress or the way her throat feels like it's about to close up. She manages to keep her head held high all the way to the restroom.
Her heart drops upon seeing who else in the ladies' room when she opens the door. More red Cheerio uniforms await her and these particular ones belong to Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce. They're huddled together in one corner, and Rachel averts her eyes as she makes her way to the sink. Santana is known to be quick to attack on any perceived slight to her, her girlfriend, or their relationship. Though after a rumor circulated that she beat up an ex-convict outside of Breadstix for looking at them the wrong way, everyone has treaded lightly when it comes to Santana and Brittany.
"Blue huh?" comes Santana's sneering voice. "It certainly makes it that much easier to call you a Smurf."
Rachel doesn't respond, knowing it can only end badly if she so much as opens her mouth. She sets her clothes to the side and turns the faucet on, keeping her gaze on the water rushing out and slipping down the drain. Menacing footsteps come closer. Rachel hears a sniff.
"Oh is that blueberry flavor?" Brittany says airily from just behind her.
Rachel blinks slowly before answering, not looking up. "Yes, I suppose it is."
"Sad you have to wash it out. Blueberry smells great!"
"Hey if Brittany thinks you smell alright, maybe you shouldn't be washing up," Santana says with an edge. "Just go like that the rest of the day. Trust me, it's an improvement."
Rachel exhales slowly, swallowing down her retort. If she keeps ignoring Santana, she'll get bored and leave—or so Rachel hopes. Instead, they linger, and Rachel grows ever more tense.
"It's been years, and you still just don't get it," Santana says scornfully after a moment passes. "You can keep that massive nose up in the air all you want—you're still no better than any of the rest of us in this shit town. Maybe if you stop acting like it, you can go a week without getting a slushy facial. Maybe I can go a week without wanting to vomit every time I see you. Doubtful—but you never know. Come on Britt, let's go."
Rachel grips the sink instead of letting her words fly because oh does she want to fight back. But the slushy remnants are growing sticky and her hair is matted into clumps and she's so tired of the abuse. Santana and Brittany are walking out the door, hand and hand, and to let her words fly free now would only make things worse. Plus she still hopes to make it to at least part of her next class…
So instead she finally lets her shoulders fall as the door swings shut behind them. She stiffens again almost immediately when the bathroom door is pulled open just a few seconds later. She doesn't relax even when it's a friendlier face that appears.
"Hey," Tina says. She only takes a couple of steps into the restroom. Her trepidation is obvious as her gaze falls on everywhere but Rachel. "I saw you come in here. You okay?"
Rachel nods her head. "Yes. I'm fine," she says shortly.
There's not much else to say. They both have had a long history of dealing with slushies.
"So…um…we were thinking that maybe we won't have glee practice today?"
"You mean Kurt and Mercedes were thinking?" Rachel snaps, suddenly irrationally angry. Even if they spend half their time fighting over arrangements, solos, song choices, and everything else under the sun, singing in glee club is always cathartic. And she really needs it today.
"Artie and I thought it might not be a bad idea either," Tina says tentatively.
"Fine. If that's what you all want today then it's not like I can keep you there. It's not like we have anything to sing for besides ourselves either," Rachel says heatedly. "If the sale at the mall is more important then that's their business. It's not like any of you really care anyway."
She's not even sure what the care was supposed to refer to. Tina will probably think she means glee club. Rachel thinks she means herself.
"O-Okay…I'll just see you later then?" Tina says, and then she flees the restroom.
Rachel is left alone but for her reflection in the mirror. It's not the first time she's been slushied, and it's not going to be the last. But she is frozen by the sight of herself, and that's when her throat finally closes and the tears start to form. The bell rings, loud and sharp, indicating the start of the period. It reverberates through her, her ears ringing with it, and the cool tile walls seem to close in on her. The last thing she wants is to be in this forsaken school for any longer.
She turns the faucet off, grabs her things, and flies out of the restroom. She's thankful to find the hallway near empty. All she wants is to get to her car and speed out of the parking lot as fast as possible. She forgets about the books she left behind. She forgets about the requirements for signing out. But she doesn't forget about the stickiness on her skin or the blue stains on her blouse. She doesn't forget about the laughter. She doesn't forget about the loneliness.
And then she turns the corner and runs into what feels like a solid wall. And when she looks up, she's horrified to see it's Finn Hudson. Tall, handsome Finn Hudson, complete with a letterman jacket. The very boy that Rachel pretends to sing to on a daily basis.
"Whoa, easy there," he says, reaching out a hand to steady her. "Looks like they got you today."
"Yes," Rachel says tightly. Finn has been on the other end of the slushy cup before, but that doesn't seem to stop her heart from beating erratically somewhere in her throat.
He shrugs. "Nobody means anything by it, but shouldn't you go get cleaned up?"
"I have a change of clothes in my car that I'm going to retrieve at this moment," Rachel says quickly. Never mind the extra clothes in her hand.
Finn doesn't seem to notice them either. "Alright then, see you later. I'm late for class," he says with a smile, and Rachel wishes it weren't so attractive.
He walks away, and she can't help but linger, staring at the back of his broad shoulders. Yet it only takes a second for her to remember the blue slushy and how she just carried on a conversation with Finn Hudson covered in it. The walls begin to close in on her, blood red and suffocating. And as cute as he is, Finn's words burn through her—Nobody means anything by it.
Nobody means anything by it.
She practically sprints toward her car, heart pounding again because of tears and anger and how the last thing she wants is to spend another minute in this place.
She's fairly certain she makes the return trip home in half the normal time. It's like she blinks and then she's stepping into the shower in her bathroom still wearing her slushy-stained clothes. She sits down in the tub, feeling much too overwhelmed to stand. The steady stream of water gently pelts her skin; it's warm and comforting touch washing away the remnants of the assault.
But even with the physical evidence of her lowly place in this town vanishing, she's still left with the fact that who she is has been rejected once again. Continuously, constantly rejected. It hurts. It hurts to keep walking into that school everyday when at best she's merely ignored. She doesn't want to need any of it. She wishes she didn't crave their approval. But she does. And even though she's so close to being done—years of it and the end is in sight. So close that she's just waiting for her acceptance letters to the roughly dozen universities and colleges she applied to. So close that it's just a few more months and then she can avoid Lima forever more. But she's so tired of the abuse. She's so tired of being alone.
She stands when the water starts to grow cool, stripping off her clothes and quickly lathering her hair and body. She watches the suds disappear down the drain and wonders how she can follow them. Somewhere dark, far, and away.
She steps out of the shower when it grows too cold to remain and wraps herself into her oversized robe. She heads downstairs to make tea, glad both of her fathers are working so she doesn't have to explain herself.
As she sets the kettle to boil, a chiming ring resounds throughout the house. The doorbell—she realizes. It must be a package—that's the only rational reason her doorbell could be ringing at this hour. Any visitors would know neither she nor her fathers would (or should) be home. But then the doorbell rings again. And then again. She has a sudden fearful thought that someone from McKinley has followed her home.
She approaches her front door anyway however, because she's much too curious as to whom this visitor could be. She edges toward it cautiously, doing her best to keep quiet. She rises onto her tiptoes, hands braced on the door, and looks through the peephole. She blinks in surprise at what she sees.
There's a woman on the other side, waiting patiently. Rachel doesn't know why, but she feels an instant connection to her—a familiarity of sorts. Still wary, she primes her phone to call 911. Rachel is always prepared for the worst-case scenario, and if this woman is hiding a psychotic kidnapper behind her benevolent smile then she'll be ready. She opens the door just enough to peak out, keeping her foot firmly wedged against it as an emergency doorstop.
"Hello," Rachel ventures.
And the woman smiles wide and disbelieving. "Rachel…"
She's taken aback by her name falling from the woman's lips, and she goes on the offensive, slightly unnerved. "Who are you?"
The woman runs a hand through her long, dark hair. "I'm so sorry. Let me introduce myself. I'm Shelby. Shelby Corcoran. I'm… Rachel, I'm your birth mother."
A thousand and one questions fly through Rachel's head at those words, and she wants each and every one of them answered. But the only thing that falls out of her mouth is "What!?"
"I'm sorry," Shelby says softly. "That perhaps was not the most tactful way of revealing who I am. I talked to your fathers last night about meeting you today while I'm in town. Did they not mention it?"
"I retired early last night," Rachel says. And it's true—she was feeling especially exhausted last night. Both of her fathers were in a rush to get to work this morning so not much was said at that point in time either. "This is just so—if I'm to believe you, and that is a big if—why are you here after all this time?"
"Ah, could I perhaps come in and we can talk for a bit?" Shelby asks. "I didn't plan on visiting until tonight, but I couldn't resist driving by. When I saw a car here, I couldn't stop myself from trying to see if it was you."
Rachel stiffens again at thought of why exactly her car is here and not a school, but she draws in a breath and forces herself to focus on the situation at hand. "Before I let you into my home, I am going to need to see two forms of ID to confirm you're actually this supposed Shelby Corcoran. Then I'm going to confirm with my fathers."
Rachel can see that Shelby is trying not to smile. "Will a driver's license and credit card work? And there's no need to bother your fathers. They're no doubt busy at work. Instead, will my call log with Hiram work?"
"Your driver's license and credit card is sufficient," Rachel says. "But I am still going to talk to my fathers."
Something flashes across Shelby's face. It's not enough to put Rachel on edge, but it is enough for her to catch. She shrugs it off. She's just trying to be safe! This Shelby should understand that.
"Here you go," Shelby says after pulling out her wallet from the purse hanging off her shoulder. "License and a credit card."
Rachel carefully examines the New York license, though she honestly isn't sure what she's looking for. Everything seems to match up between the license and the woman standing before her. In addition, the credit card clearly states Shelby Corcoran on its embossed letters. She hands them back with a smile, "Thank you. Now just give me a moment to call my fathers…"
She dials her both her fathers, one after another, and neither pick up. Shelby waits, a small smile on her face. Rachel eyes her after she hangs up on her dad's voicemail. She's still anxious about this stranger—and deservedly so, Rachel thinks. It's not every day a woman claiming to be your birth mother shows up at your doorstep. She sends a quick text to both her fathers.
"You can see I talked to them last night," Shelby prompts, holding out her phone.
Rachel peers at the small screen, and there it is—a 15-minute phone call with her dad's number. And then her own phone buzzes back with an incoming text. A smile grows across Shelby's face. It's practically all teeth, and it makes the hair on the back of Rachel's neck rise. She checks her phone regardless, and it's response from her dad.
"It's okay if you want to talk to her."
Rachel huffs at her phone. That's really very unforthcoming.
She looks back up at Shelby, and her small, patient smile has returned. She pulls open the door, and motions for Shelby to come inside. "You can come in. You've been nothing but polite and you've passed all security measures."
"Security measures," Shelby says with a chuckle. She strolls into the living room, looking around. "At least I know you've been taught to take care of yourself."
Rachel is suddenly nervous. Not about the unknowns this woman possesses, but about the fact that if her claims are true then Rachel is really staring at her birth mother. She had always wondered about her. She thinks that's normal. And aside from a small period during her sophomore year, she never felt the need to find her. Her dads had always been more than enough.
The kettle in the kitchen whistles, and Rachel jumps. "Oh, I was making tea! Would you like some?" she says hurriedly as she bustles past Shelby.
"That would be lovely," Shelby responds.
They're both quiet as Rachel makes the tea. Shelby stands at the kitchen island, and Rachel can't help but take subtle glances at her. She thinks she sees the resemblance now—the dark hair and eyes, the nose, and facial structure. But Shelby looks…accomplished. Glamorous even. And Rachel feels inadequate.
"Why are you here?" Rachel asks warily as she places Shelby's mug on the island. "Why are you finding me now?"
"I was passing through on business, and I couldn't help but want to see the girl I helped create. To see how you've grown and thrived," Shelby says gently. "But let's start small… How's school and why aren't you there now?"
Rachel's gaze drops to her cup of tea in front of her. "I'm near the top of my class. I'm a member of a number of clubs—"
"Which ones?"
"I love singing and performing, so glee club is my favorite. But we only have a few members and have never had enough to compete in my years at McKinley."
"I'm not surprised you're a singer. I am too," Shelby says with a smile.
"Are you?" Rachel says, unsurprised, but excited all the same.
Then the words start tumbling out. And it's easy and fun as they talk Broadway and music lessons and performances. It comes to her that she's actually talking to her mother. Her mother! And she's beautiful and smart and everything Rachel wants to be. She's learns that Shelby has been in a number of Off-Broadway productions, and Rachel talks about how she dreams of making it in New York. She talks about how singing has always been the one thing that's been easy for her. The one thing that's always been there for her, and then Shelby asks—"But what about your friends?"
And Rachel swallows thickly as she thinks about lying. But she can practically feel blue slushy running down her face and neck. She remembers the sneers and laughter, and she remembers how everyone else turned away. She meets Shelby's gaze, and there's something predatory in their depths. It's like she knows. Rachel finds herself telling the truth regardless.
"I don't have any," Rachel says softly.
"Surely not!" Shelby says.
"No…it's true. I'm too different," Rachel says. "I don't fit in here, and everyone knows it. I'm different. I-I want everything too much, and those Neanderthals at school know it."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Shelby says measuredly.
Rachel hardly notices. It feels so good to have someone new listen—someone who actually seems to care. She hates talking to her dads about her life at school. Even though they have an idea, it hurts her for them to know how much she struggles and she knows it hurts them too.
"I don't think I can deal with it any more," Rachel says impassioned. "I hate that place so much. I'm so close to being done, but the thought of walking in there tomorrow and having to face it again! I can't… I'm so tired of being alone! I just want friends! I want to be popular. I want to have that life. I want to graduate on top! Three and a half years at the bottom of the food chain no matter what I do… I just want things to be different."
Shelby reaches a hand out, gently touching Rachel's wrist.
"And what if I told you, I could make that happen?" Shelby says.
There's something in her voice and in the depths of her stare that make Rachel believe her. "What do you mean?" she says hesitantly, fingering her now cold cup of tea.
"Rachel," Shelby says, "I'm a witch."
Rachel blinks owlishly. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm a witch," Shelby says nonchalantly, taking a sip of her tea.
She's crazy, Rachel thinks as she backs away from Shelby and the kitchen island. "I am going to have to ask you to leave now because your insistence that you're a witch is making me uncomfortable."
"Don't be so hasty dear," Shelby says. "What would I have to gain by claiming I'm a witch?"
"Nothing, but that doesn't rule out the fact that you could be insane!" Rachel says.
"Do I seem insane to you?"
Rachel eyes her, swallowing nervously. "No, but the craziest people often seem the most sane!"
"Rachel," Shelby says calmly. "I can promise that I'm not going to hurt you and that I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do. But I'm going to do something right now to prove it to you…" Shelby's gaze drops from hers, falling to the cup Rachel left sitting on the kitchen counter. She flicks her hand, and Rachel gasps as steam rises over the edge of the lip from the tea that remains.
She approaches, eyes wide and on her cup of tea. She touches the outside and feels heat seep through to her fingers.
"You…"
"Yes," Shelby says. "Like I said, I'm a witch."
Rachel is quiet for a moment, her mind trying to wrap around the fact that witches exist and her birth mother apparently is one. Wait…
"You, my biological mother, are a witch?"
"As we've been over, yes."
"If you're a witch… Am I witch!?" Rachel says excitedly. "Oh my Barbra, I'm a witch aren't I? This—This is the kind of thing I've always waited for! Are there schools like Hogwarts? Did my letter get lost? Is that why you're here? I always knew I was special!"
Shelby laughs. "You're special," she says gently. "Just not in the way you think."
"What do you mean?" Rachel asks curiously.
"For one, you're not a witch. It's a recessive gene, and you were born without it. Needless to say, you would have lived a very different life if you had been granted such powers."
"Oh," Rachel says, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
"You, however, hold something much more powerful," Shelby says lowly. Something sparks deep within her eyes, and Rachel shivers under that gaze. "The fairest voice in all the land."
"The fairest voice in all the land… That hasn't served me well in any capacity," Rachel says bitterly.
"You would know better than I concerning what it has done for you up to this point, but there is something else that such power can give you."
"It would be so kind of you to share exactly what that it is instead of talking in circles," Rachel snaps.
Shelby gives her a look that makes her feel instantly like a child and regretful of her impatience.
"I'm sorry," Rachel says. "It's been a long day, and I…"
"It's fine," Shelby says shortly. "As I was saying… Having the fairest voice in all the land allows you to be touched by the most powerful of magics."
"What does that mean?" Rachel says hesitantly.
"If you truly want to be favored by this town for who you are, to gain the admiration from your peers and the attention of your true love, then I, a witch, can make that happen." Shelby says.
Everything freezes except the blood pounding in her ears. Rachel pictures it then. Finn, with an arm wrapped around her shoulders as he escorts her to class. The sea of students, parting for them with benevolent whispers and admiring looks. Finn kisses her goodbye at the door to her classroom, promising to meet her for lunch.
"Just…just like that? You can make it happen?" Rachel says distantly, lost in her fantasy.
"I can make it happen, but not quite just like that," Shelby says lightly.
Rachel snaps out of her reverie, gaze falling on Shelby's tight smile. "I have a feeling I'm not going to like this part."
"Smart girl," Shelby says. "There is a price to pay for this kind of magic."
"What is the price?" Rachel says warily.
"Your voice."
"M-My voice?"
"Just your singing voice," Shelby quickly amends. "It is the fairest voice in all the land."
"But my voice… Singing is my life," Rachel says.
"It doesn't have to be," Shelby says firmly. "You can have it all. If you want to be popular without having to change you, you have to give up your voice. And as most magic of this magnitude entails—getting it back only involves your true love. All I can tell you is that your true love is somewhere within reach otherwise this spell would be impossible."
"Finn?" Rachel says, heart racing.
"That boy? Sure," Shelby says. There's a curious tone to her voice, and the corner of one of her lips twitch upwards, hinting at a sneer. Then Rachel blinks and Shelby's smile is benign again. "You'll have until the queen and king are crowned to exchange a confession of true love with your soulmate. If such a confession does take place, you'll get your voice back and you can leave Lima at the top, ready to take your next step to stardom by storm. If it doesn't or if you exchange a confession with the wrong person, you can kiss Broadway goodbye."
"I suppose being popular doesn't mean that my true love automatically recognizes what we share?" Rachel says more to herself than anything.
"Love is a little different from popularity," Shelby says dryly. Her voice subsequently softens, her eyes growing gentle. "This magic will essentially make everyone want to be your friend. Isn't that what you want? To not be alone anymore?"
Those words ring in her ears. A whirl of noise that starts to resemble laughter. She sees them, every single one of them, turn away from her time and time again. She feels the sting, physical, mental, of the life she currently leads. And before her is a way to change it all, a way to stop it. The constant, relentless, incessant—every damn day—hurt and abuse. A way for her to get a happy ending now, instead of years down the road.
She doesn't have to be alone anymore.
And she's confident that she can exchange a confession of true love with Finn in time. 'Queen and king crowned' could only mean prom, which is still weeks away. That's plenty of time for things to develop between them. If she's popular, it makes it all the easier. She has no chance with Finn as she is now, and she fears she'll lose any chance with him altogether if she spends the rest of the year in her current state. And he's supposed to be her true love! What if this is her only chance?
It's a risk. Her voice has been her one constant companion—always there for her, ready to remind her of the future. But the rewards are far greater. Acceptance, friends, love. She's at her breaking point, she realizes.
She needs it.
"I want it," Rachel says, the words falling from her lips in a rush. "I want that life. And I will get my voice back."
Shelby's smile widens until it's nothing but a display of teeth, and her eyes glow with fiery intrigue. "Then I will start the spell, and all I need from you is to sing for one last time."
A/N: If you made it through, thanks for reading! As you can see, we have quite the road ahead of us...
Apparently I'm a one-trick pony when it comes to exploring Rachel's future as a performer versus other aspects in her life. That being said, I hope you find that there is room for another such fic from me.
Thank you as always to thoughtsinorange.