Disclaimer: I don't know anyone featured in this fanfiction personally, it's just my ramblings! I don't own the cover image either! Or Glee! :)
You're twenty four years old, in your senior year of college. You and your boyfriend both got into your dream college, the New York College of Arts. He's taking music production – he wants to be a singer. You're taking dance. You've been dating for six years. It's the happiest time of your life. The sales forms for the house you want to buy are half-filled out, scattered around your tiny, cosy Manhattan apartment. You want to move in, fix up your jobs, start a family maybe. You've finally got your stuff sorted since your rough, stress-filled teenage lives. But how could you have known that all that was about to change...
Sam's been away for two days now – the whole weekend. It was a pain, but he had to go. He was visiting his manager, in Boston, trying to sort out record deals. You miss him so damn much. You're pacing your apartment, not wanting to get into anything big because he'll be back from the airport in just an hour. You finally settle on the couch, and you pick up your phone from the shelf. You know he's on the flight, so you can't text him, but you scroll through all his messages, a tiny grin creeping across your face. Finally you open up your photos, and look through them. There are 10,628 and most of them are of you and Sam. You've been up late both nights he's been gone, stressed out, and you're tired. You swipe your finger across your phone, smiling stupidly, and you finally begin to delete the bad ones, and sort the good ones into folders. It's something you've been meaning to do for days, and organizing things has always made you less stressed, ever since you were a little girl. You used to categorize your books on your shelves by author when you were younger. It would take your mind off things.
It's tiring, though, and after a little while, your eyes close and you drift into sleep. Three hours later, you wake, and you frantically check the time. You groan. Sam was due home two hours ago. You half-heartedly pick up your phone. No missed calls. He's on speed dial, clearly, you stab his profile picture with your finger and rub your eyes as the phone rings.
'Hello. This is the Vodafone voice mail message for 0781 619 168. The caller you are trying to access is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone. After you have finished recording your message, please hang up or press the hash key for more options.' You've never been a worrier, you figure she's probably just stuck in customs or something. You pull yourself up from the couch, and fix yourself a bagel in the kitchen. When you hear your familiar Coldplay ringtone, though, you drop the bagel and dash into the den, where you hope to see your boyfriend's name on your phone's screen. It's not.
'Hey?' you say, not understanding who's on the line.
'Hello, can I talk to Brittany Pierce please?' a recognizable voice asks.
'Speaking,' you reply. 'Who is this?'
'It's Aubrey Hanson, administrator at the New York College of Arts,' she says. 'Am I right in thinking that you are the next of kin to Sam Evans?' You nod, then realize she can't see you. An unpleasant feeling is in your stomach. You curl up on the couch, slightly worried now.
'Yeah, what's the matter, is something wrong?' you inquire.
'Well – yes. Stay calm, though, we're sure it's going to be okay, we're waiting for news right now-'
'Tell me what's happened to my boyfriend!' you almost shout.
'He was on the flight from Boston to JFK, wasn't he? Anyhow, he... there was a suicidal person on the flight, who managed to get into the cockpit and take over control from the pilot and... and... the plane crashed.'
You don't say anything. You can't help feeling like she's lying to you.
'Is this a joke?' you say sceptically.
'No, no I'm afraid it's not,' the patronizing voice of Ms. Hanson says. You hang up on her, and stare at the rug. Sam chose it. The rug, you mean. He chose the rug. He found it in a thrift shop and he brought you there one day, after work. You didn't want to go, you had a headache and you were tired, but you went anyway, just to please him. It was the first summer you were here, and Sam dragged you into the shop, laughing, and showed you it. Frankly, the rug was ghastly. It was patterned with forest animals and you hated it. But he insisted that you bought it for him.
You suddenly get to your feet, dash to your and Sam's bedroom, and flip open your laptop lid. You enter your password (outsiders47) and open up a new tab. In the search box, you shakily type, 'boston to new york plane crash', hoping for nothing major. Unfortunately, there are more than fifty million hits.
You feel giddy and click on the first result. It's the New York Times. You scan the article and pick out the important bits. You read the final sentence. Everyone on the flight is feared dead.
You don't even know what's happening to you. You're screaming and crying at the same time. You run to the bathroom and kneel down, sobbing, next to the toilet, about to throw up.
The next few hours are just a blur. You must have fallen asleep on the rug at some point, because at about 2am, you're woken by a rough bang on the door. You don't want to get up, but you've got a suspicion it might be someone with news about Sam, so you drag yourself up and open the door.
It's Quinn.
