A/N: This is my very first Glee Fanfiction! A quick backtory: Finn and Rachel did end up getting married and both moved out to the big city. However, after Finn's death, Rachel moves back home. This is where it gets a little tricky. "Back home" will not be Lima! It is literally a no-name town and I'll be keeping it that way so you can use your imagination and create it yourself. Hunter is a new character, never before seen in Glee. His history with Rachel will be explained later on. Just like any other Glee fan, I want a happily-ever-after for Rachel. And since it can't be with Finn, I decided to create a brand new character that we could all fall in love with. Please review and tell me what you think!
Dear Finn,
It is quite hopeless how people make promises for the future, simply because they don't know how their lives will truly turn out. "I will love you forever", "I will always be here for you", "It will all get better."
They are more like temporary truths, though, aren't they?
Because it is now five months later, our "forever" has been ripped away, your "always" ceased to exist along with your life, and nothing has gotten better.
My selfishness has gotten the best of me. Or, maybe, the best of me died along with you. Regardless, the pain of your absence is unceasing and sharp, and I do not care to wish happiness upon anyone in this world.
I would be content if I could simply lay some blame atop your grave just to rid myself of guilt. But this guilt has rooted itself so deep into my core that ripping it out would finish me entirely. This guilt is all I am left to feel and it is eating me alive as the days mockingly crawl by.
I cannot help but be frightened by how much I miss you, so it seems, guilt is not all I feel. I miss waking up in your arms. I miss opening my eyes to meet the oddness of yours, reveling in the seduction of your lips warming my skin, the soft-spoken words of encouragement passed between two hearts that never imagined a world without the other; but, most of all, I miss you, all of you, and my thoughts can hardly move without jolting into some memory of you.
We both agreed to disagree that I was never good at anything, until I realized on that Sunday, with white bed sheets and lazy smiles, that I was good at one thing: loving you when I couldn't even love myself.
The question is no longer, "Why do I still love you?" For it has become, "How could I ever stop?" This may seem pathetic to you, as you lay six feet buried underground, but to me; it is all I have left. I've begun questioning my sanity, but I've figured that as long as I still question myself, I must still be quite sane.
Mom is coming for me in a week's time so I'll be leaving. I do not want to leave our life together behind, but I have been given no choice. Your parents believe it would be best for all of us involved if I sold the house and moved back home. I do not think so, but, again, no one takes the opinions of recent-widows very seriously. I may be forced to move along, however, a different house will not change the fact that I love you. You must always remember, as I always will, that you are mine and I am yours, with all of our faults and all of our scars.
Forever and always,
Rachel
P.S. I still look up at my star and wonder if you're there, looking down on me.
The sun is shining too brightly, the birds are chirping too joyfully, and the flowers have begun to bloom with too much vivacity. I know mother will state that these are all "signs" sent from "the God Almighty" about my homecoming, but I know better. It is spring. Plain and simple.
As I butter the last slice of my toast I think about what's waiting for me back home. Here, in the city, I no longer have anything. My sole purpose for being here dissolved when Finn's heart beat for the last time. Back home, I'll be received by Quinn, my old best friend from high school, Sam and Puck, my two brothers who love nothing more than to use me as a punching bag, and Shelby, my mother, who turned to Jesus Christ when my father left her because she had an affair, saying "The only men I need are waitin' for me in heaven." Of course, when she bowed to this faith seeking redemption and an untainted reputation amongst the townsfolk, I had already left. Nevertheless, through the intermittent and concise emails that I received from Quinn, I hadn't missed much.
I hear the tires of my old neon blue Chevrolet crushing the gravel of our -my- driveway before I see the small vehicle through the kitchen window that overlooks the front lawn. Her thin but well endowed figure pops out of the car with so much gusto that I realize how little of my own I truly have. I should be delighted to go back home. Every corner I turn in this desolate, withering home, I run into some recollection of Finn. Sometimes, when I can't even bear to take another step in fear of what else may crawl through my memory, I just lay myself flat on the hardwood floor and take deep breaths until I am calm enough to drag myself to bed. In a few hours after sleep takes me, I wake up with nightmares that threaten to swallow me whole from the heartache.
"Rachel! Open up!" Shelby's knuckles repeatedly bang on the front door, interminable until I open it, and then I am swathed in an embrace so strong that it robs me of air.
"Mom, please," she releases me at my subtle command, placing her hands on both of my shoulders and scrutinizing me from head to toe at arms-length.
"You've lost weight that you should have kept, your hair looks as though it hasn't been washed in days, your under-eyes are practically purple and," she picks up my hand and huffs at my fingers, "is that dirt under your nails?" Leave it to Shelby to make you feel downright repellent while you're grieving your husband's passing. I hesitantly pull back my hand, thrusting them both in my front pockets. If she hadn't brought to alertness my recent weight loss, I would have never taken into account how much free room my fingers have to roam.
"I was busy packing up my things and cleaning up the house," I say. Of course, this is only moderately true. In reality, I have just ceased to care about my objective well-being. Between organizing the mortgage payments, Finn's life insurance documents, and voiding the house of his possessions -the former which I've yet to actually commit to- and trying my hardest not to consider how effortlessly he was taken from me, I have little time to myself.
"So, you're ready to go?" Mom's brown eyes, undistinguishable to my own, take in the small house as we walk back into the mint-colored kitchen; its new appliances (all wedding gifts from the registry Finn and I had put together just nine months ago) reflect the answer on my face. No, by no means am I ready to leave the only place Finn and I shared. I deceivingly nod, feeling the rapid beating of my heart pulse through my chest.
Mother is already heading towards the door, taking with her the last piece of luggage I have. I sigh as I rinse the crumbs off the small plate that had held my toast, knowing this is it. Even though I am now twenty-three, I know my mother well enough to know that if I don't follow her instructions, she will easily make my life a living hell. At least, until I "come to terms with what God has planned" for me and realize that "all He does is with purpose." So, is that who I am to blame for taking away the only person I ever loved? Is the dealer who constantly sold to Finn, to blame? Was it the Finn's fate set forth by God when he decided to take the drugs? Or was it my very own fate, never seeing the signs, which led to the entire ordeal? These are all irrelevant questions I've come to ask to an even higher irrelevant being.
My car smells the way it always has, it is a scent I had grown to know and a scent that, until now, I realize I had also come to miss. The familiarities of the worn leather seats provide a nostalgic comfort, my small frame resting intentionally between the creases caused by years of use. It is not until she begins backing out of the driveway that I notice a bouquet of withered wild flowers next to the garage door. I wonder, as I always do when I receive a new bouquet or a container of food, who has gone through the trouble to offer their condolences. But I don't care why they did it. It had been five months since Finn passed and to this day people give me constant reminders of this, as if I truly needed it. As if I wasn't reminded every day, the moment I reached consciousness, that I was alone. That for the rest of my life, I would wake up with a gaping hole in my chest that Finn's life could only fill. But Finn is dead, and in turn, I would never be whole again.
"What's on your mind?" Mom is drumming her fingers against the wheel, bound by a leather holster for additional grip. I'm sure Sam or Puck must have gifted it to me through her, since neither mother nor I have ever been the type to spend on car accessories.
"Oh, you know," I begin, even though she really doesn't. She doesn't know how badly I want to turn the car around and go home, climb back into bed, and smother my face with one of Finn's shirts, his scent protruding through every thread. In Shelby's mind, I, her only daughter, perfect and wonderful in every way, is sad, yes, but bringing her back home will make her realize how magnificent her life there truly was, blah, blah, blah, "I'm excited to see Quinn and the boys, you know…" Again, no, she doesn't know.
"I hear Hunter has been asking around town for you," My eyes widen at her words and I immediately turn in her direction, hoping to catch her in the lie.
"He has not, you're lying." She solely nods and makes a satisfactory sound, taking a slight right turn and finally merging into the traffic of the highway.
"Why didn't things ever work out with that boy? He is quite… endearing," and by "endearing" I knew what my mother means. Instead of answering her, I close my eyes and lay my head against the seat, faking the beginning stages of sleep. A barely audible click sounds and I am surrounded by the sound of Yiruma's compositions, mothers all time favourite.
I attempt to focus on the music more so than my impending thoughts of Hunter. In the most basic terms, my love life had come to an ultimatum: Hunter or Finn. Discernibly, I chose Finn. At eighteen, I had wanted nothing more than to escape the insignificant town that I felt had always held me captive. Five years later, I am right back where I started: in my 2001 Chevrolet, headed towards the place I swore to never return, right into the playing-field of the man I vowed to never think about again.
I can't quite recall when the dark depths of sleep overtook my consciousness but, suddenly, I am being shaken awake. My first realization is that for the first time in five months, I did not wake up to a nightmare. I steal a quick sideways glance at Shelby, hoping to catch some hint of anything I may have muttered in my sleep—any hint of un-comfortableness. Finding none on her smooth and vibrant face, I take in my second realization: my bare arms and upper back are stuck to the leather seat, my sweat acting as an adhesive. Gross. I remove my seat belt and begin to pull my body forward, gaining odd looks from my mother.
"What?" I ask her, "I'm literally stuck to the seat." My body unsticks with a vacuuming sound. My mother's musical laughter fills the car. I feel an invisible thread tugging at my heart. Her laughter should be something that I could recognize. I hadn't spoken to her since I left when I was eighteen, against her every will; at least, not until Finn passed. I feel the corners of my mouth begin to pull up, my very own laughter bubbling in my throat. I catch myself in time and pull myself together, sitting back in place and fastening my seat belt somberly. How could I possibly reserve any happiness within me when Finn will never again have any of his own? It's not fair and it will never again be fair. And that is the sad but awful truth.
Mom quickly composes herself the moment she notices the sudden change in my mood. Of course, I do not want to be like this. I want to feel alive, and smile, and have fun, and feel something other than guilt, sadness, and anger. As hard as I push myself to feel something other than these ineffectual emotions, I can't.
Some nights, as my last resort, I even prayed. When I woke up just as empty as when I fell asleep, I eradicated all faith in any god I thought ever existed.
My surroundings have gone from city lights to infinite green pastures with scatterings of cows and horses. This was a familiar sight but now it feels anew, as though I had never been here to begin with. The smell of cut grass, musk, and manure whip in the air around me, settling my stomach in an unpredicted way.
"How much longer?" My voice is still raspy with sleep.
"Another hour or so. We'll make a stop in ten minutes," I nod enthusiastically as I feel the tension in my legs from sitting for so long. "Are you still singing? Can't let a voice like that go to waste."
"No." Yet another love of mine that left. Finn was my person. The other half of my duo; the better half. "I can't anymore." My voice is quiet, and thankfully, she doesn't comment on it.
Everything passes in a blur, especially at the speed mother is driving, and not long after she pulls into a lot that holds a two-pump gas station (if you can call it that), a small convenience store big enough to fit maybe four people, and a coffee shop that consists of bricks laid out in a square and a blunt and decently-sized sign that reads, "COFFEE & STUFF". I'm not very curious to find out what "stuff" consists of. Shelby turns off the car and we both open our doors in unison.
The sand beneath my feet lifts in small clouds around me as I step out of the car and slam the door shut; at it's day and age it needs a little more force to co-operate.
"Coffee?" Shelby pulls her wallet out of her back pocket as we both make our way to the brick building.
"Stuff, I think." she sends me a wicked smile and I instinctively smile in return. The motion feels awkward on my face so it comes out lopsided.
The coffee shop is slightly nicer on the inside. There are three tables placed alongside opposite walls with a counter that crowds most of the back wall. There is no one else inside except for the young barista sitting on the counter, stuffing napkins into the dispensers. I don't think she realizes we're in there, which personally, I take as a poor sign of customer service. We make our way to the front counter as I seek out a washroom. I spot a sign to my right and make my way over.
"Washroom's are for paying customers only." I stop in my tracks and turn to the girl that has now hopped off the counter and is staring me down with an arched brow and a straight mouth.
"Do we serve ourselves, or what? Isn't that your job?" I cross my arms under my chest and watch as her eyes size me up. She is roughly two inches shorter than I am, so I slightly tower her at a mere 5'3. Where my hair is long, wavy and dark, hers is cut in a short pixie-style and is bleached blonde. She has a great figure; I'll give her that. She curvy but she has them where it matters.
"What can I get for you?" I notice she doesn't reach for the pen and pad that is sitting less than a meter away from her.
"Double-double, please." my mother sits down at the counter and sends me a stern warning with her eyes. I roll my eyes and make my way over, my ego completely deflating as I sit down next to her.
"And you?"
"A bowl of bitch flakes, seems to have done you some good this morning," is what I would rather be able to say. Instead, taking the civil route, I mumble, "A glass of orange juice." She spins on her toes and heads to the back to retrieve our orders. The stale air in the shop feels heavy and sweat has already begun to gather across my chest and around my neck. In less than two minutes she is walking towards us, a little bounce in her step. She places a mug in front of my mother and a glass of… apple juice in front of me. I look from the glass to her and a questioning glance crosses my face.
"Oops, we don't seem to have any OJ in the house." she smiles mischievously and struts away, taking with her a rag and a tray that had been laying off to the side. I pull out a five and slam it on the table, jumping off the bar stool and stomping my way to the bathroom.
"I'm almost done," mother calls out behind me. I nod, uncertain whether she saw it or not, but not caring regardless. The bathroom door requires some coaxing to get into, so once the door gives way I stumble into the black-tiled floor. Surprisingly, it is clean enough that I don't get any stains or wet spots on me. Still, I crouch when I pee, not letting my thighs even remotely skim the surface of the toilet seat. The door of the stall has been vandalized to no end, with a bunch of graffiti'd words overlapping each other, none of which I could make out. There are a few phone numbers on the walls of the stall, written down by jokesters or people desperate enough to actually put their information there.
I flush the toilet with my foot, not wanting to touch the handle either. It's not that I am a germaphobe, I just don't like public restrooms, especially foreign ones in the middle of nowhere. I pass on washing my hands out of sheer laziness and make my way back to the counter. Mother isn't there but I arrive just in time to catch the young girl placing our change in her pocket.
"Mommy is waiting in the car." She calls out in a cooing voice. Her eyes are hard and teasing. I wonder if she does this with every customer that comes in here; I mean, what else is there to do? I walk up the counter and pick up my glass of apple juice. I take a sip while holding her eyes.
"Ugh, I always hated apple juice." In a swift motion I turn the cup over and watch as her face changes from mockery to complete shock as the juice cascades all over the counter and drips onto the floor. Slamming the cup down on the counter so it causes a small splash, I turn around and take my turn to strut out of there.
The blazing sun outside is brighter than I recalled it. Shelby is leaning on the hood of the car and spinning the keys of the car on her index finger. She casually tosses the keys at me and I catch them midair, confused.
"Your turn," She walks over to the passenger door, her sneakers kicking up dirt, and opens up the door, leaning into it to look at me, "You didn't forget how to drive in that big city, did you?"
"No," I smile and practically skip to the driver's side. I slip in and feel the familiarity of its place settle me down. Starting up the car and reversing out of the small station, I reminisce. It has been approximately five years since I drove Lima (yes, I named my car when I was younger), but it still feels as though I had never gotten out of it.
I try to look forward to going home. Maybe it will all workout like this just did. Maybe I'll just arrive and it will feel as though nothing ever changed.
Except everything did change.
And no matter how strongly I will it, I can't make the emptiness inside of me go away. It has planted itself there, it has rooted itself into the center of my being, and ripping it out would be ripping myself straight through the middle.
A/N I hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter. Leave me a review and tell me what you think. I'll update faster if you do ;)