Hello there ! I finally decided to translate another story of mine, with the help of the incredible beta Hazel006. I hope you'll like it !
You couldn't open your eyes. It was the only thing you could think about before falling into unconsciousness again.
You didn't dream, and you couldn't even remember falling asleep. When you woke up, however, you didn't feel rested. On the contrary, you felt like the pain in your limbs had suddenly reappeared, and the drumming inside your skull made you wince. You felt like something was pushing hard on your rib cage, as if it was trying to smother you.
You couldn't understand what was happening to you.
You tried to reach out to grab the glass of water which was on the bedside table, but you only managed to increase your physical pain. However, without understanding how or why, the glass was now in front of you, and a straw in your mouth. You only realized how thirsty you were when the glass was empty.
You fell back into sleep, not even thinking about the fact that somebody has brought this glass of water to you, or why you felt that this bedroom wasn't yours.
.
You woke up upon hearing someone entering the room. This time, you managed to open your eyes, but you moaned and closed them after a second. All this pristine white light was blinding you.
The person by your side was telling you something you couldn't understand, then, when you frowned before trying to open your eyes again, you saw that someone was offering you a plastic cup with a straw.
A feeling of déjà-vu assailed you while you drank slowly, trying to forget the tickling in your throat, the pain which was more and more present now that you were recovering your senses.
The liquid had a slightly bitter aftertaste, like aspirin.
You swayed between unconsciousness and awakening, you could hear a few incoherent scraps of conversation; you couldn't tell if they were really happening or only in your dreams.
In this intermediate state, you remembered vague memories; you could picture your sister, grinning like a fool, Sue, Santana and Brittany in their red and white uniforms, Mercedes offering you to live with her, Rachel and her big eyes observing you softly. None of these images made sense, but you thought about it for a long time.
Moreover, you were feeling incredibly exhausted, but you couldn't fall asleep.
When you became conscious enough to open your eyes and keep them open long enough to observe your surroundings, it was dark. The curtains were drawn, only a small lamp was illuminating the corner of the room. There was nobody. You were sure that it was a bedroom, because you had noticed that you were lying down, your body protected by a ton of blankets.
You were hot. It was when you tried to pull back one of the sheets that you saw the wire wrapped around your finger.
You blinked several times in the half darkness. You looked at your left arm, and found that it was weighing down under plastic tubes connected to a drip.
And it was only at this moment that you noticed the wires in your nostrils, linked to a machine you couldn't see.
A monitor, with its slight pale-green glow, was displaying your blood pressure and your cardiac rhythm. You would have never thought that it could be so slow, so irregular, broken.
You understood that you were in a hospital — and you didn't know why. The moment before, you were doing well, and now you found yourself hooked to thousands of wires connected to silent machines. You were getting scared.
You wondered what day was it, for how long you were lying down here on this bed, but it was only at this instant that you realized that nobody was here to answer you, or to hold your hand.
You tried but failed to sit up straight, the deafening pain coming back to harass you. You almost cried with rage; you felt immobilized, unable to get up, without even knowing what had happened for you to end up in a hospital, and it was worrying you.
Since you had nothing else to do, you tried to go back to sleep, but it only came at dawn.
.
When you opened your eyes, you saw that it was daytime. Then, instantly, you recognized your mother's face, sitting on a chair on your right, next to the bed. Frowning a little, you noticed that she had cried.
You were relieved to finally see a familiar figure, and it brought tears to your eyes. You tried to call her, but your throat was too dry, too sore.
Judy must have heard you, nonetheless, because she seemed to wake up and rushed at your bedside upon seeing your open eyes.
"Oh, Quinn. Quinn." Her voice broke on your name. You tried to smile to show her that everything was alright, that she shouldn't worry about you, but the pain in your ribs proved you wrong. You wondered what could have happened for you to feel so numb and inert.
She took your hand carefully, the one which was less bruised by the injections and the catheters, and she brought it to her face. You squeezed her fingers between yours as hard as you could, trying to find some comfort into this touch.
"What is... " You stopped to clear your sore throat in a coughing fit. You ribs and your sides hurt terribly.
You started again after having caught your breath. "What happened ?"
Judy looked serious all of a sudden, and even sadder, if that was possible. She looked down upon your hand which was still between hers, before clasping it softly.
"Honey, you were in an accident."
You didn't need more words for the memories to come back to you.
You remembered getting into your car after picking up your dress, and hurrying down the road to get in time to Rachel and Finn's marriage.
Rachel. You remembered your phone, which couldn't stop ringing on the front seat, and you remembered wanting to text Rachel to tell her not to worry, to tell her that you were coming.
You didn't know if your message had reached its destination.
You closed your eyes, vaguely aware of the pounding between your temples and of your mother's hand clutching your weary fingers. You didn't even have the strength to dry the tears threatening to flow down your cheeks.
.
Judy wasn't there when you woke up. You were feeling a little less drowsy, more conscious of your surroundings, and you had a vague feeling that the pain stiffening your body was gradually vanishing.
The sun rays were warming up the small bedroom through the window. Feeling around a little, you finally found the remote with which you straightened up the top of the bed so you could be sitting. Now, you could finally get a global view of the room.
Apparently, Judy hadn't been the only one to come to see you. A table, at the foot of the bed, was full of flower bouquets, cuddly toys and other get well gifts.
It made you smile, almost made you sick. You thought bitterly that you had to have a brush with death so that people would give you flowers.
However, something drew your attention. You squinted, tried to adapt your vision to the particular luminosity of the hospital bedroom, and it was at this moment that you noticed it.
The single gardenia, away from the other items. It hadn't even been put in a vase.
You stared at it for a while. How much time, you couldn't tell, but it was until a nurse came into the room and asked you if you were feeling alright. You shrugged.
She injected you, checked the machines on your left, and she was on the verge of leaving when you asked the question burning your lips.
"Do you know who came to bring this flower ?" You pointed at the gardenia with a shaky finger.
The nurse smiled softly, then she said that a young brown-haired girl was coming every day since you admitted to the hospital, and that she was bringing the same flower each time, replacing the one from the day before with a new one.
"I remember her, because she looks devastated every time she comes," she continued. "She seems to care about you."
You looked at the white flower and felt your eyes clouding upon thinking about Rachel, Rachel who was coming every day to bring you a flower, Rachel whom you haven't even seen since your awakening, Rachel who had to get married and whom you hadn't been able to reach because you were in this stupid accident.
"How long have I been here ?" you asked in a feeble voice.
"Eight days."
.
The ninth day, you tried to stay awake as long as possible, the slight possibility that you could see Rachel filling you with hope.
You had probably woken up too late, or you had taken one or two naps, or maybe you dozed for a while, floating between dream and reality, because you didn't remember seeing her come in and put a gardenia on the table.
You didn't wonder why the idea of having missed her saddened you.
You mother visited you in the evening, bringing you a meal a bit more substantial than the hospital's, that you couldn't finish. You ribs still hurt, as well as your abdomen and your back. You asked the nurse for a painkiller when she came to tell that the visiting times were over, and she told you, while injecting the morphine in the tube, that the doctor would come to see how you were doing the next day.
You nodded, unsure about how to interpret her sympathetic eyes, or Judy's look, wet and shifty.
.
How could you have not noticed it sooner, despite the morphine, the analgesics and all those fluids going through your body ?
You had to hear this stupid doctor's intervention to notice, with surprise and anger, disappointment and incomprehension, that you couldn't move your legs anymore, or even feel them.
The man in a white coat delivered a speech full of medical jargon that you didn't understand, only a few words caught your attention — concussion, trauma, shock, backbone, paralysis, rib cage, hip, morphine, nerve ending. He told you that you could be experiencing loss of consciousness for a while, without consequence for your recovery.
"Do you really think that I will get better ?" you asked, a little unsure. You felt like your whole body was broken, fractured in a hundred places, and that the rest of your life wouldn't be enough for it to heal.
The man's face kept the same gloomy, unconvincing expression. "Probably. You could leave in three weeks, or even two if everything goes well."
You swallowed hard. "And for my legs ? Will I be able to walk again ?"
"I said that you were paralyzed," he went on, impassive. "It's very unlikely that you would one day get back the control of your lower body."
You only noticed your tears when, fifteen minutes later, Rachel arrived, a white flower in her hand, and without a word, sat down beside you to take your hand freed of its fetters and let you cry on her shoulder.
You grabbed weakly onto her while she was whispering words of consolation, repeating over and over that she was sorry and that she was here for you.
You had wanted to say that she had nothing to feel guilty about, that everything was your fault, and only yours, but the words got stuck in your throat. Rachel held you against her until you fell asleep, exhausted by your tears.
.
This night, you lifted the sheet covering your body to take a look at your legs.
You couldn't see very well because of the lack of light, but you didn't want to anyway. You didn't know if you could have stood seeing more.
You reached out, feeling your right thigh. It was cold under your fingers, flabby, lifeless.
.
Rachel came back the next day — a Saturday, which meant that she arrived sooner, at the beginning of the afternoon.
She was grinning happily, but her eyes betrayed the sorrow and the guilt eating her up. She sat down by your side and took your hand, then the small dark-haired girl told you about those last two weeks, from the moment where your memories suddenly stopped inside this car, the phone in your hand.
Rachel visibly struggled with words but also with tears. You let her talk about her intuition that something wasn't right, that something serious must have happened, then about the moment when an ambulanceman had called Judy to tell her about the accident. Rachel told you that she came as soon as possible, but that she hadn't been able to see you as long as you were in surgery, so she spent the night in the waiting room, until she finally learned that you were out of danger.
Except for your legs.
A tear rolled down on her cheek at this instant. You were afraid you were going to cry, too.
"I was so scared, Quinn."
You tried to smile, knowing that it probably wasn't a pretty sight with all these cuts and scars, these bruises and stitches marbling your face.
"It is my fault if you're here," Rachel went on, shaking. "I should have never rushed you, even less sent you those texts. I am so, so sorry..."
You shook your head, cleared your throat in vain. "It's not your fault, Rachel. I don't blame you."
She sniffed but didn't respond anything, staring at you with her formerly so happy eyes, reflecting all her grief and her guilt.
With a sign of your hand, you asked her to come closer, then you pulled her in a half embrace, while being careful with your still fragile ribs and the wires hindering your left arm. Rachel seemed to take a thousand more precautions, as if she was afraid to break you even more than you already were.
"It's not your fault," you murmured in a hoarse, weak voice. "It's not your fault."
You repeated this sentence over and over, until her tears ran dry. You would have wanted to do more, comfort her harder, but you couldn't move and the words stuck when coming out of your lungs.
.
Kurt visited you, to your great surprise. You discussed for a moment, before he began to sigh and he looked you straight in the eye.
"Quinn, I know that you love Rachel."
You were breath-taken. Stunned, you started to deny, but the tears rolling down your cheeks betrayed you. With rage, you clenched your jaw, wiping with a shaky hand the wetness on your face.
"Promise me that you won't tell her," you said in a feeble voice. He looked at you, sympathetic.
"Honey, forgive me, but look at where it lead you, not to have told her."
You found nothing to reply. He sighed, then took your hand in his and smiled softly.
"You have a second chance, Quinn. Don't throw it away."
.
Santana came to see you the next day. She was grinning weakly, bashfully when she entered your room, and hugged you carefully. She gave you a plush duck, a gift from Brittany wishing you a swift recovery, and an album, Music for Elevators.
"I thought that it would please somebody as eclectic as you."
It made you smile, genuinely, for the first time since you were in this bedroom.
It was she who told you that Rachel and Finn didn't get married.
You swallowed painfully. "Why ?"
Santana shrugged. "I have no idea. Who knows what could have went on inside Rachel's head."
"It's Rachel who didn't want to get married ?"
She nodded. You wondered if the marriage was really cancelled, forgotten forever, or if the due date has only been postponed for a few days.
.
Rachel was keeping on visiting you and bringing you flowers, every day. Your conversations were lighthearted, and you knew that she avoided looking at the tubes taped at your arm, or at your legs. She never talked about the accident — you weren't sure you wanted to talk about it, anyway.
You asked her one day if she could bring you a book, or some distraction for the next time, because you were starting to get bored stiff, immobilized and unable to get up.
The nurses had finally removed the IV, and you were starting to eat normally again.
You tried to spend more time sitting up, even if just rising your head was painful.
You still couldn't realize that you had lost the use of your legs, and you often struggled only to reach a glass of water on the bedside table.
When your mother came to see you, the next time, she wasn't alone. You grinned like a fool when you saw that Frannie was with her.
"Hi, Quinn. Happy to see me ?"
You nodded, unable to hold back your tears, and she immediately kissed you and hugged you tight. You couldn't believe your sister had traveled all the from Stanford, where she was living since she had been accepted into college. Then she brought a plush toy out of her backpack, an Elmo red and smiling and soft which didn't leave your side by night.
Judy left you after some time, promising to bring you some of your clothes for tomorrow. You smiled at her, thanked her, before finding yourself alone with your sister.
"It looks like mom's been making some efforts," Frannie said. "She seems more... relaxed. Calmer."
You nodded. It was true that Judy hadn't been the best of parents, but she was trying. It was all that mattered.
Frannie told you about her studies, the campus, the California heat compared to the low temperatures of Ohio, her field hockey team (you knew that she had always dreamed about it), her boyfriend who had, a few weeks before, become her fiancé.
You grinned. You were happy for her, and told her so. You asked if you could meet him soon. She blushed, nodding her head.
You fell asleep soon after, exhausted, but not before Frannie promised to come back the next day.
.
You sister stuck to her word, and she was back at the beginning of the afternoon, with her laptop under her arm.
"I thought that we could watch something. So you won't be forced to stare at those white walls all day."
Frannie really thought of everything. You giggled and tried as best as you could to move in your bed to make some room for her. She saw you struggling, and helped you by lifting your legs then putting them down carefully.
You looked at these two atrophied limbs which once served you to walk critically. Never could you have thought ending up like this — disabled when you only were eighteen. It was making you sick, and you had never felt as useless.
Frannie must have felt that your thoughts were making you gloomy ; she slipped under the covers at your right and put an arm around your shoulders, kissed your temple and turned her laptop on.
You were grateful that she wasn't asking too much questions — those stupid questions that the doctors asked you every day : Does it hurt ? Do you feel something ? Can you feel my hand on your ankle ? Can you move your toes ? And your pelvis ?
It was terribly exhausting. Humiliating, too, maybe, that people reminded you every time of the definitive loss of use of your legs.
Frannie opened a folder, played a video. You knew what it was about from the first seconds, and you grinned widely. Fran and you, when you were younger, got used to watch dozens of episodes of Buffy in a row, and you had since kept the same passion for the series.
The third episode was already on when discreet knocks were heard behind the door.
Rachel came in, a bit shy when she realized that you weren't alone.
"I am sorry, I can come back later if I'm bothering."
"No, you can... you can stay."
You had a feeling you were mixing up the most simple words. You hoped that nobody noticed. Then, seeing the look both curious and undecided the small girl had, you took the liberty of introducing the two women.
"Rachel, this is Frannie, my sister."
Frannie smiled at her and waved at her. Suddenly, Rachel became aware of what she was holding between her fingers, and blushed when she awkwardly tried to explain to your sister the reason why she was bringing you a gardenia and a book.
It made you laugh out loud. Frannie laughed too, and soon the room was nothing more than a receptacle for your joyful and carefree laughters that nothing could have stopped.
.
You heard someone sing. You didn't want to move or open your eyes, however. You finally had the opportunity to taste a complete night and a restorative sleep, so it was out of the question that somebody would take you out of your rest.
But the voice didn't mean to prevent you from sleeping. It was soothing, gentle, even. You vaguely wondered if you weren't imagining or dreaming it, when the answer appeared in front of your eyelids.
You knew this voice. It was unique, beautiful and innocent, powerful and tender. Just like its owner.
You opened your eyes slowly, squinting to adapt to the last glows of the evening. The small brunette was leaning over you, stroking your hair with one hand and holding your wrist with the other. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
All of a sudden, you recognized the tune she was humming in a hushed voice, and a smile softly stretched your lips. Fleetwood Mac had always been your favorite band, and you thought that Dreams was their greatest success. You wondered if Rachel knew it, if she was singing on purpose, just for you, your favorite song.
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell ?
Dreams of loneliness
Like a heartbeat, drives you mad,
In the stillness of remembering, what you had
And what you lost,
And what you had,
And what you lost
You continued to observe her in the darkness, even after she had finished. You blindly tangled your fingers between hers, squeezed her hand in yours, too bony.
Not one word had been exchanged, but you didn't need to. Surprisingly, Rachel and you had always been able to understand each other without even talking.
Despite this, despite your lack of communication and your rough past, you were hoping it would change.
.
You came out of the hospital after going through another array of tests (physical, this time), and received the support of the doctor who announced you that there still was a chance for you to regain the use of your legs, even if it was tiny. For that to happen, you must stimulate your lower body every day, and you had appointments three times a week with a physiotherapist.
You didn't know how your nerves could miraculously start to work again, but you hoped they would. If there was a chance, a minuscule percentage in your favor, you would seize it.
Your mother and your sister were here to bring you back home. The three of you were anxious during the ride. Judy was driving a lot more slowly than usual, while you clutched Frannie's arm desperately.
When the vehicle finally came to a stop, you noticed the access ramp which had been installed during your stay in the hospital, reminding you painfully that now you had to move about in a wheelchair. You had tried to use it for the first time only yesterday, and it seemed excessively hard to you. Your arms moaned at the effort, the wheels scraped against your palms, it left you out of breath in less than ten minutes.
You didn't have the choice, this time.
You sighed with relief when you found your bedroom again. It had been moved to the first floor, and you thanked profusely your mom and your sister. To celebrate, you watched Shaun the Sheep.
In the evening, Rachel appeared.
"Can I come in ?"
"Sure, make yourself at home."
She moved shyly, looking all around her, then her eyes fell on your wheelchair. They instantly filled with tears.
"Oh, no, Rachel, don't cry," you said hurriedly. "It's not your fault, you know it."
You rolled to her (you couldn't bear to see her in this state), and you tried your best to envelop her in your arms. She hugged you back albeit a bit clumsily, before kneeling to be at your height, burying her head in your neck.
You stayed for a long while without talking, without moving, only breathing the air between your hair and your shoulders and memorizing the shape of your shoulder blades through the fabric as if you had spent ten years without seeing each other. Perhaps that was the case. You had just found each other again, and everything was familiar, everything was new, and you had to start everything over.
"It's going to be alright, Rachel." Never could you have thought that she would be the one needing comfort. It didn't matter ; you were both the victims of an injustice, and you had to repair the damage — her, your legs, and you, her heart.
The thought made you shiver ; it was painful, tangible. Everything had become too real all of a sudden. Everything was possible. You didn't know if you should dare believing it, or if it was too soon to even think about it (yes, it was too soon for you to heal, for Rachel to heal, for you two to be able to move on and build again on solid, lasting bases. But you would make sure it would happen.)
.
You had wanted to tell your mother for a long time already, but the time seemed right only now. She seemed to really care about you, and about your well-being, so why not doing it now ? You knew that Judy wouldn't kick a handicapped out. And, even if she would react badly, you still could catch a plane to California and live with Frannie there.
An afternoon while you were watching TV, you spit it out, raw and honest.
"Mom, I'm gay."
Judy took a sip from her tea, looked at you and only said : "Okay."
You were puzzled. "Really ?"
"Really."
She smiled at you, then put an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple. If it should have been as simple as that, you would have done it years ago.
.
Santana and Brittany spent their evenings at your home. Classes had resumed, but you weren't back in school yet. You didn't know if you could bear spending eight hours in a wheelchair, without being able to stand up, and coming home with your hands skinned by the rubber tires.
Rachel came too, sometimes at first, then every night, and soon you became a solid quartet. And to think that for you to finally be friends, you had to had this stupid accident. At least, it hadn't been totally useless.
You were following courses on the Internet, and spent long hours half lying in your bed, your laptop on your thighs, trying to assimilate the program of five different disciplines. You couldn't feel the battery overheating. Removing the device, you saw your flesh reddened, marbled, and you grazed it with the tip of your fingers with a kind of morbid fascination.
The physical therapy was tough. The physiotherapist said you were making progress, but you didn't see any change. It was disheartening.
At least, it enabled you to see Rachel.
She was coming every day, holding your hand whenever she could, satisfied with watching you moving between the parallel bars, encouraging you when you weakened, then she was taking you back home, and she smiled shyly at you before leaving you on the doorstep.
It was the only thing that forced you to carry on, not to lose hope about your hypothetical recovery.
.
You went back to high school at the beginning of April. Nobody asked you a single question about the accident, but the glances lingered on your wheelchair, and drifted away immediately when they met your eyes.
You briefly wondered if you were less beautiful than before, if your scars were visible through your clothes, if people could feel that you had lost a bit of you (what exactly, you still didn't know) with this car crash.
Britt, Rachel and Santana were making sure that you had the less problems between the walls of the school, pushing your wheelchair when your arms became too weak and pulling out the chairs in front of the tables so that you could install yourself. It was little things, but they meant a lot for you. Above all, the three girls were doing it with a smile, and you knew that you weren't a burden for them, not at all.
It was in one of those hallways that, one morning when Rachel and you were late for class, she abruptly stopped and began to stare at her feet.
"You know, I'm really sorry for... I shouldn't have sent you those texts, I knew that you were driving but..."
You didn't want her to apologize ; she shouldn't. To wipe away a bit of her guilt and to make her understand that it didn't matter whose fault it was, that she had nothing to do with this accident, you had leaned on the armrests of the wheelchair and you kissed her, pressing your mouth on hers for a half-second.
Rachel seemed a little dazed, her eyes half-close, while trying to understand what just happened, and that was why you quickly said that you had to go to class. She nodded absent-mindedly, and you hadn't talked about it for the rest of the day.
.
One day that the four of you were in your bedroom, Brittany put her hand on your ankle.
You knew it instantly, not because you saw her doing it, but because you felt it.
Your laughs and tears of joy alerted Judy, who rushed at your side to kiss you and to call Frannie to share the good news.
.
One night, you invited Rachel to watch a movie at your home. She accepted.
She was sitting on your right on your bed, the laptop on your knees broadcasting Julie & Julia. You felt her shoulder against yours, her hip bone and her thigh pushing against your body, her head resting on you.
You didn't know if your romantic feelings were shared, but you knew that Rachel would always be your friend. Perhaps this stolen kiss would be the only one you would ever have, but at least, she didn't hold it against you.
However, when you saw her to the door, Rachel looked at you for a long time, maybe too long, before leaning forward and kissing you. She moved away while blushing.
"Good night, Quinn."
She smiled at you bashfully, and you watched her leave, a smile at the corner of your lips.
.
It was one day when you were listening to The Album Leaf that you learned that Rachel and Finn had definitively broken up. You couldn't stop yourself from grinning.
That same evening, Rachel knocked at your door, declaring that she wanted to spend some time with you when you teased her about her visiting you almost every day.
Judy had been going out, so you had settled on the couch, watching distractedly the movie you had put on before you gradually found yourselves lying down against each other, Rachel pressing her chest on your back, breathing the air between the nape of your neck and your hair. You were stroking her hands with your fingers, sometimes bringing them to your lips to kiss them, and you felt with relief and bliss her feet tangling with yours.
An instant later, you thought you heard the small brunette crying silently. You thought it was because of her break-up with Finn, so you asked her if everything was alright.
"Yes," she said sniffling. "Don't worry, it's just that..." She took a deep breath to soothe her sobs before laying a light kiss on your shoulder.
"I'm glad that you're alive."
You gripped her hands tenderly. "Me too, Rachel."