Glee, Pygmalion and My Fair Lady are not mine.

Prologue

New York; 17th of October, 1959

She cautiously stepped forward, trying to avoid any noise. Splinters, left on purpose, stuck out here and there from the old wooden floor and dug into her bloody feet. The slightest manifestation of her pain was pleasing her tormentor.

So she thought.

Draught fumbled the thin walls, blowing through the numerous cracks, howling her death song. A few months ago she heard the death singing on the day of her engagement. But that was in the Metropolitan Opera and she was in a crumbling mansion somewhere in the suburbs of New York. Then was singing one of the best tenors of America and here was a chilling wind.

"Where are you, beautiful Eliza?" Wind whispered in her ear.

Quinn shuddered and turned sharply. Behind her was just a dusty attic. She shook her head, trying to drive away the terrible truth. The voice was familiar to her, but she refused to believe in his identity.

She took another step toward the coveted door.

"It's a dream. It's just a bad dream." She repeated to herself, hugging herself tightly with trembling hands.

Her body was so tense, fear eclipsed all her feelings, she didn't feel her nails scratching the skin on her thin waist into the blood.

"I'll wake up now." She repeated in her head. "I'll wake up, Sugar will prepare my tea with pears, and maybe I'll even persuade her to give me a cup of coffee with liqueur. Then Joe will take me to the Fifth Avenue ... Dior has new dresses ..."

"It is not good, Eliza!" Bellowed the voice. "It is not good to hide! What would Mr. Higgins say about your behavior, Miss Doolittle?"

Quinn closed her eyes, trying to keep the treacherous tears from falling. Only just a few feet left...

Floor creaked under her foot.

"Eliza! You obnoxious little girl!"

"Please." She prayed in desperation. "Please..."

She was not sure what she was asking for.

Let her go?

Or to kill her?

She was so tired. After the last few months it was a miracle she was still alive.

She dreamed that she had never moved to New York, never got this role, she was even willing to give up her dearest friends and her fiancé. ... If only they were all right and safe and happy and there were no new victims. If only her suspicions were not confirmed.

She dreamed that it was all over.

Quinn had asked for death.

"Where are your manners, Eliza? Proper lady would never beg ..."

This time the voice was even closer.

Quinn was only a few feet away from the door when her eyes fell on an old mirror, which was probably forgotten here more than a century ago.

From the dusty mirror, which was spattered perhaps with kerosene and wax, a slim figure looked at her. And, while the mirror was a good ten feet away, she well distinguished purple bruises on her thighs swell, blood seeping through the thin fabric of her peignoir, if it could still be called that. French fabric was torn to shreds.

But even in the moment of her approaching death she was beautiful.

Quinn Fabray, blond prima of New York scene, was like a fallen angel.

Finally, the realization that this was not a dream went in her head. Her legs buckled and she fell right in the middle of the room, on the ugly floor. She fought desperately against the sob caught in her throat. She wouldn't allow him to enjoy her death. She was an actress and she would die beautifully.

"What's wrong, Eliza? Lady's place is not on her knees, what would…"

Quinn clamped her ears with her hands. She would not listen. Instead, in her thoughts she moved herself to the kitchen of her house, where every other evening she played cards with Joe and Sugar. They would drink a mug of ale by the time Finnegan comes back from the club...

She felt his breath on her neck before she heard the words.

"It's time to say goodbye, Elisa."

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, wiped away fallen tears and only then turned around.

The air left her lungs with a sudden noise. Her worst assumptions were confirmed.

"You." She whispered.

"Me." This laugh was not at all like the melodious sound, which she was accustomed to. The eyes, the once honest and loving eyes, glowed with hatred. Of all her guesses and suspicions confirmed was the craziest. The only person she would have never thought to blame, whom she believed in with all her heart, who she loved...

"Say "goodbye", Quinnie."

Before darkness took over her mind, before her body went limp on the floor, before death overtook her, she heard a new voice calling out her name.

Unfortunately, this time it was too late.

Quinn Fabray was found dead in an abandoned church twenty miles away from New York. Near her body was her fiancé, Sam Evans. His bloody hands served as sufficient evidence for the police. Evans did not deny anything, he refused a lawyer and after only a week, was found guilty of attempted murder of twelve and thirteen murders that took place, earning himself three life sentences in federal prison of New York State.

Staging of "My Fair Lady" at first was postponed and then completely shut down. No one could replace the Great Fabray. And the company refused to work with another actress.

Over the next year people of the Big Apple kept the golden couple in their minds, someone questioned the Evans's involvement, someone asked for his death, while the others just moved on with their lives.

And only three people in a townhouse somewhere in the middle of New York continued to remember not an actress, but a person. They did not play poker in the evenings anymore, did not drink ale and did not go to Broadway. After the time, they too began to move on in their lives.

A year has passed, sixties replaced the fiftieth. It was time of hippies and the Beatles, and the story about the murder on Broadway was gradually forgotten. "My Fair Lady" was turned into a movie, which, fortunately, was never associated with blood. And after half a century, Fabray and Evans were only reminisced in history classes, and only briefly.

And all of this would have continued like this, if not for the next generation deciding to put a new version of a failed musical on stage. And then a new prima arrived to New York. And fifty years later we found out that, no matter how hard we tried, the story was never actually forgotten, but only postponed on the bookshelf.

And the city has never been the same.

Please review and share your thoughts with me :)

~ Ana