Approximately 46 800 seconds into Friday the third of February was the moment my heart stopped. I think it's permanently broken. Like a clock, permanently holding onto the moment it broke. Perhaps that would explain the denial laced memory loss or the fact that I can tell you every detail about that moment on that Friday afternoon; every detail about the choir room and every emotion that had coursed through my veins, every tear that fell.
Watching the door to the choir room open was not daunting in the slightest, I felt a rush. The kind of rush you get when you know that someone was going to come in, that they may just sit beside you, might just take your hand and tell you that they care , that they can make it better, ironically Rachel Berry had been the only girl to have ever shown me support -I don't like irony any more-. Some call it a rush of hope, but I don't like to let myself hope. Hoping makes it that much worse when it doesn't come true, produces that many more tears in bed at night. But I can't deny that in that moment hope was present; the rush of hope that I always felt as I sat waiting for someone to enter an empty room. I plastered on my best smile, and steadied myself for company. Unfortunately my hands weren't cooperating, so I shoved them under my bottom trying to supress their shaking.
Back then, before that fateful moment on the third of February I hurt. It was a consistent dull pain, peaking at night, when I was alone. I'd let the emotion crash over me like a tsunami. Every night was the same; I'd get out my pyjamas, undress and look in the mirror. In the mirror I'd see my stretch marks, I'd taken to thinking of them as my marks from my body being torn away from my baby, I can't shake that thought. I would put my bed clothes on ignoring the stinging sensation in my eyes. Wash my face. Crawl into my bed and let my face be washed for a second time, by my tears. Embrace the feeling of my heart being clenched by a cold fist because somehow that was the only thing that made me know it was real, that I really had held by baby in my arms. I'd think about how my baby was in the arms of stranger, thinking that the stranger is her mother; torturing myself. Eventually I'd fall asleep. I would class it as a successful night if I didn't let out a strained scream during my sobbing, or if I didn't wake up in a cold sweat from my nightmares about Beth. Usually as a toddler in the park with a stranger; running over to hug my baby I'd take her away from the stranger, but Beth would always cry to the stranger "Mummy, mummy help me a strangers trying to take me away." Because in reality I'm the stranger now aren't I?
You see, I've always been broken, just never irreparable before.
Mr Schuester emerged, my hope faded immediately. Replaced with fear, his eyes were bloodshot, tear drops clinging to his lashes like dew on grass. He sat beside me and took my hand, an echo of my hopeful dreaming. I stared ahead, ignoring the clenching of my stomach around a weight that I seemed to have swallowed, sitting there undigestible. I heard a sound close to a moan; I figured he couldn't get the words out.
"It's Rachel, she's dead"
I vaguely noticed his voice quiver on the word 'dead'. At the word 'dead' I felt my heart falter.
All my carefully placed walls came crashing down; my body began to violently shake, unwillingly freeing my hands from their carefully considered position. The smile that I prided myself in being able to produce on queue was slowly fading away. The eyes that took so much effort to keep dry swam with unshed tears. The focus on my surroundings vanished; I stopped caring about what people would think if they saw my distress. Worse than that I didn't even think about it, all I could think about was Rachel Berry; the only girl who tried to save me. And I wasn't there to save her. My first tear drop fell.
At that my heart gave up. It stopped.
I stood up and walked out, not really seeing anything. Not feeling anything.
Approximately 29,520 seconds into Monday the sixth of February was the moment I walked onto school grounds again. I walked through the halls in my usual fashion, silently, strategically and slowly. Watching every movement made in my proximity constantly expecting a slushie to be thrust into myself, a pitying looks to be thrown. I watched myself even closer, feeling my facial expression to make sure I held a slight smile on my lips no tears running down my cheeks, not much I could do about my eyes; they always seemed sad. Looking around the corridors today was a shock though, no pitying looks in my direction, no slushies' being thrown. More than that though; no smiles, no laughter. Every one's eyes resembled mine, a look of sadness. I shook myself and continued to my lesson.
Rachel berry's absence effected the population of McKinley High more than anybody could have expected. But at 29,610 seconds into that Monday morning I was oblivious to Rachel Berry's absence. If I had looked to my right; towards the choir room door as I passed it at 29, 994 seconds into that sixth of February and seen the glee club congregated there, sobbing and comforting each other, Finn and Kurt visibly shaking in the corner… well my world would have come crashing down all that much sooner. But I didn't. I proceeded to first lesson where half the class were absent.
At precisely 39,600 seconds past that particular Monday more commonly known as 11 o'clock as I watched a group of jockeys in the sea of grey faces sniggering; I would have fallen apart, grabbed them by the hair and screamed at them for being so disrespectful perhaps. But I didn't. I continued with my day not lingering on either the sad faces surrounding me or echoes of the sinister sniggering; continued my ignorance.
The day past quickly until soon the fog cleared, my pace quickened down the hall and a smile spread effortlessly upon my lips. Heading towards my release, anticipating the laughter and beautiful music; my Glee club.
If only I'd known.
Walking into the choir room I felt bewilderment wash over me, my eyes wouldn't focus properally and I stopped abruptly, mid step in fact. My friends, all huddled in pairs or small groups; crying, staring into nothing or even audibly struggling to breath The glee club had been in this room all day, filling it thickly with sadness, so much so that I choked on the atmosphere.
"Guys what happened?"
I struggled to ask the room this, I didn't know why. I had a lingering feeling that I already knew, that I didn't want an answer. I noticed Mr Schuester staring at me quite obviously dumbfounded from across the room. Trying to shake his mysterious judgment my eyes wandered readying themselves for the answer, more precisely Rachel Berry, reliable Rachel Berry; the very same Rachel Berry that always answered questions addressed to the room and to anyone else for that matter. The Rachel Berry that I took for granted. A dizziness that I couldn't understand gripped me as I found her missing, in this time no one had answered but they were all paying attention, staring.
"Where's Rachel?" I asked the ignorant room.
They continued staring as I felt the blood run from my face, a tingling sensation shooting through my body like lightning. I knew there was a reason to be sad but not what; I wasn't actually worried about Rachel's absence, I mean she was a 100% attendance student, aiming for the best in life; on the way to the best in life.
"Rachel" I subconsciously choked the word out.
I vaguely felt my knees give way, the pain of the solid choir room floor feeling only like an echo.
Of course I knew what had happened. I'd known all along.
Rachel's dead.
As soon as those words broke through my carefully assembled barriers I could no longer hold them back. She's dead, gone. I'd been hiding from the pain which subconsciously I must have known would find me. The one person who cared, the girl whose voice made my knees quiver; I'd never get that compassion again, never hear her sweet voice again. I started choking on air, panicking I couldn't gulp it down, trying desperately to slow my breathing, calm my sobs until eventually I could breathe again. I'd never realised how much Rachel meant to me, never noticed the way my gazes would always linger on her. Thinking back I realised that she'd light up the room as she bounced in, only now in the gloomy choir room could I see that. How when she cried my stomach would always clench, just as it was now. She wanted to be my friend, she always made that much obvious, I hope to God she realised how much she meant to me even if I didn't myself. I am such a bad person. I don't claim to be otherwise, I hurt people, it's what I do. I hurt Rachel, over and over again. I'm not heartless though, oh how much easier that would be. I regret it, fester in regret. I do horrible things to people then it eats me up inside until do my next hurtful act to which the remorse of replaces the last batch of guilt; and so forth.
I made my way home with blurry eyes not even sparing a thought for the stares, the judgment. I even couldn't walk up my stairs, I just couldn't seem to bring myself to do it so instead I crawled up slowly feeling completely hollow, so hollow that I couldn't support my own weight. Once I'd reached my room I gave up letting my body drop, my eyelids droop and my mind go blank. Time past by meaninglessly until I realised there was something I needed to do looking up I saw my floor length mirror in the reflection I could see a girl hunched over as though she wished her chin could merge into her knees, transforming her into a mindless ball, of dust perhaps, invisible to the naked eye. With her shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow wings. She looked thoroughly helpless. But then again that reflection is me isn't it, everyone always says the pain will get less as time passes, but I don't believe them. I think they only say it so you can face getting out of bed every day. You think today might be the day, but it never is. As time seeps slowly forward it actually gets worse, worse with every realisation, worse with every suspicion and worse with every thought.
I forced myself up ignoring my head rush and weak knees and stumbled towards my bed side table. I pulled the draw open so hard that it toppled out onto my foot making me swear blindly, I proceeded to throw its contents across the room until I found what I was looking for; postit notes. I could feel the anger throbbing through me, but angers good, it doesn't hurt so much; it's not as deeply rooted as sadness. Concentrating to keep my hand steady I wrote out my chosen words on the postit:
RACHEL IS DEAD
Holding the note out at arm's length in trembling fingers I walked over to my bed, climbed on ignoring the blockage situation in my throat and reached up sticking the postit to the ceiling. Now I would never forget no matter how many sleepless nights this gave me.