Disclaimer: Glee characters, any songs mentioned, and Sylvia Plath's quote=not mine

The prologue is in first person POV and the first chapter is in third person limited POV (both Quinn).

Angus and Julia Stone-The Devil's Tears (great song, check it out)

Sylvia Plath quote-The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Jeff Buckley-Hallelujah

This story will probably be around 15 chapters long.

Thanks for reading!

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Prologue

My therapist doesn't even know I'm suicidal.

I guess that says something about me.

Two years. It's been two years. I never thought I'd be here for two years later—not that I consider that an accomplishment.

I always thought that I was emotionally unmovable. Santana, the friend I can tolerate for more than half an hour, compares my emotional variability to Eeyore, the down-and-out donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

She's not completely wrong.

It's humorous in the worst way. In elementary school, several of my teachers thought that I had some sort of medical condition.

After extensive talk therapy my therapist concluded that I'm dysthymic; in other words, a life-long Debbie Downer. However, I personalized my diagnosis by having a devil-may-care personality.

Growing up people thought I was moderately off-beat. Luckily, I was functional enough in conversation and mannerisms to pass off as different.

Quinn? Oh, she's just a little different.

If not for my inherent social intuition that I use only when necessary I'd probably be a rumored school shooter. Or maybe movie theater shooter. Some sort of shooter.

Rachel never thought I was different. Or a possible shooter.

The first and last day that I saw her are the ones that count. We fell in love between those days. We didn't just fall in love—it's like she reached into me and changed the molecular structure of my brain.

For the first time in my life I was able to feel happy.

January 3rd, 2008. That was the first day I saw Rachel Berry.

I was swaddled in layers of coats. My scarf wasn't even a scarf. It was a blanket. I never thought the snow was enjoyable— not even as a child.

I despise snow, and I loathe being cold.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" I remember saying. I don't recall if I had a scowl plastered on my face but knowing me, that's a safe gamble to make. I was somewhere between a walk and a run going down 53rd street.

That was the day I had decided on a whim to go to The Museum of Modern Art in New York City.

Not exactly because I'm an art fanatic. I went because I adore artists. I adore the tortured artist stereotype. Some people avert their eyes and ignore the dark corners of the human experience, but I could never look away.

While my classmates were preoccupied with Gwen Stefani, I was fawning over Sylvia Plath.

I was close to the entrance of MoMA when I saw her. While the people around her, including myself, were actively trying to get out of the cold and the snow she was sitting on a bench, smiling.

Not the kind of smile that is shared with another person; no, she was smiling just to smile, it face was tilted up to the grey sky. She wasn't looking at anything— she couldn't be because her eyes were closed.

I'll admit that I paused just to observe at her. To a photographer's eye this might be a picture perfect moment. The way the snowflakes dusted her brown hair, the way her legs were crossed at her ankles, the way her shoulders shrugged back— in a word, content. She appeared content.

I remember the incredulous look I gave her which only became more pronounced when her bottom lip parted from the top. Her grin was larger now, if that was possible.

Then words spilled from her lips. Not just words— she was singing.

Why wasn't anyone questioning her sanity? I don't particularly enjoy confrontation or else I would have.

"But you don't really care for music, do you?"

People were stopping one by one to stare at the girl on the bench. Some shared my expression, some were wide-eyed, some were smiling because the singing girl was smiling. Her simple joy was catching like a cold among school children.

She was disarming the growing crowd around her. As if under a strange spell it was apparent that destinations, responsibilities, and the hypothermia-inducing weather were temporarily forgotten.

People swarmed around her like a moth to flame. It was like she had decided to fill in for the sun while the sun was on vacation.

At that point I didn't notice that I had stopped shivering, but it didn't matter to me that she had become a blockade for the frosty gusts of wind.

I needed to look away. I needed to run away.

I can take interest in suicide, homicide, depression, drug abuse, self-mutilation—anything like that. It's incredibly difficult for me to look upon happiness.

I had always fostered a dislike for people who were happy or even content just because. I was nearly positive that if I had asked the singing girl why she was happy her response would have been: I just am.

And so I didn't stick around for the end of the Jeff Buckley song. Not because it wasn't a soulful rendition, but because I couldn't stand that the girl seemed happy for no reason at all.

I was pessimist to a fault.

Years later, I realized that I couldn't stand her smile or the way she embraced the cold or the way she sang for no reason at all because I could never be like her.

Sylvia Plath wrote that she wanted to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in her life. And she is horribly limited.

I am horribly limited. The girl on the bench seemed unlimited.

I sat outside of our apartment in Chelsea on the wrought iron bench waiting for Rachel to get home.

That was on November 7th, 2013

Brown, dead leaves were crunching beneath my feet. They were a great distraction from the anxiety I felt coursing through me.

The lump in my jacket pocket reminded me of what I was about to do and the crumpled note beside it reminded me of what I was about to say. I thought I was going to throw up from nervousness.

Minutes turned into two hours. A mildly comfortable sixty-five degrees turned into forty-five. The nervousness that I had about proposing turned into a different kind.

I called her cell phone. No answer.

I called again. Nothing.

It's two years later and still nothing. She never came home that night.

All the reports said the same thing: the truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and t-boned the taxi Rachel was in.

Out of the thousands of taxis buzzing around, out of the dozens of large work trucks, and out of the miles of pavement in New York City— why Rachel?

It was just unlucky happenstance.

Rachel would have lived if she had been on the other side of the taxi. Rachel would have lived if she had hailed that taxi five minutes later. Rachel would have lived if the taxi driver had taken a different route. Rachel would have lived if the truck driver wasn't so over-worked.

I had to have a reason for everything, but I still can't rationalize why Rachel isn't here with me now. There is no reason why.

I guess it was just the way the stars aligned that day.

Today is November 7th, 2015. I don't care that I'm in a crowd of people. I have my recorder in my hand. Just like two years ago, I have her ring and the note I wrote for her in my pocket. I press record, ignoring the few stray glances directed at me.

"Hey, Rach,

"Do you remember how I told you about the first day I saw you? You were sitting where I'm sitting right now. I thought you were crazy, you know.

"I know you don't know but the night you died I was going to propose to you. I—I still think that you'll come home one day. I wish it had been me in the taxi instead.

"Remember when you made me that list? How to be Happy by Rachel Berry? I thought you were out of it—you told me dancing in the rain was the key to happiness.

"I showed up outside of your apartment that night in a hellish storm. I called and told you to come dance with me. I wanted to see if you were right.

"So we danced in the rain. We danced until all we could do was sway back and forth. I don't know if I felt happy, but know I had to kiss you. So I did.

"God, Rach, I don't know who I am anymore. The only thing I know is that I love you and that I don't want to live anymore. So I won't.

"The five years I spent with you—they were the best of my life. All I do now is sit in my apartment trying to remember every detail.

"I know this isn't what you would've wanted. You'd tell me to try to be okay. You'd tell me that it's okay to not feel okay—but that I had to try.

"Rachel, I'm tired of trying. It just hurts. I love you. So much. Maybe I'll see you wherever I end up. I hope so."

Chapter One
The Devil's Tears

November 7th, 2015, 2:45 p.m.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, you gotta move your car. You can't park here."

Quinn barely heard him but nodded as if she had. Several seconds passed.

"Don't make me give you a ticket. Please, move." She finally glanced up and met the aging officer's irritated scowl. She started to reach for her purse and he jolted as if she was reaching for a weapon.

"I'm not— look, this is the last place I've got to go today." Quinn pulled out several crisp hundreds. "Just five more minutes. Please."

Quinn held out her hand with the bills between her middle and pointer finger. The scowl disappeared and he eyed her speculatively and let out a tired sigh.

"You mind telling me why you're willing to fork over several hundred dollars just to sit here for five more minutes?"

She didn't look up. Instead, she sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on the intersection. "I do mind. It's not anything illegal. Please, just a few more minutes." The apathetic tone of her voice broke as tears welled in her eyes.

The officer frowned causing his withered face to reveal more wrinkles. "Alright, alright, I'm going to write you a warning. Gonna take about five minutes." He took the money with a knowing look and leaned against a light pole a few feet away from Quinn's red VW bug.

Her eyes didn't leave the intersection. The tire marks were gone, the glass and chunks of metal were no where to be seen. The yellow chalk used on the road to map out how the wreck happened had been washed away. It looked strangely peaceful.

Quinn wondered if the people who passed through knew that someone special had died here. She knew that this place only served as a passing point— just to get from one place to the other. Quiet and meaningless.

But to her, it was loud and ever present in her thoughts. She imagined what the metal sounded like when it crunched, how the glass sounded when it shattered. She didn't even notice when the officer walked back to her window.

"Time's up. Here's your warning. I—I don't know what's going on, but I hope it works out," the officer muttered with a nod and left.

"Quinn Fabray! I was wondering when you'd get here."

Quinn blinked rapidly, unable to clear her cloudy vision. After several seconds passed some clarity returned and she gazed around the room.

It looked like an office in a New York City high rise, except the large window behind the shadow of a man didn't look at all like the place she called home. Two lamps on either end of the massive oak desk illuminated red, giving the large, dimly lit space an eery glow.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get here— you made it in three days!" The shadow clapped loudly and each time his hands met his shape became more defined.

The man before looked like someone out of a black and white movie. She pegged him to be to be in his forties, maybe early fifties. Quinn was leaning toward the former due to his glassy, combed-back black hair.

"Where am I?"

He beamed at her while scrunching his eyebrows together as if saying— seriously? You're that obtuse?

"Oh, gosh, you know, I'd rather not jump into that just yet. I'm quite excited to meet you. I've been your biggest fan for—well, since the day you were born!" The man boomed while sporting a wide grin.

Quinn had decided that she must be in Hell. Instead of buildings skyrocketing into the sky or trees swaying against the glass, she only saw fire on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling window

"I'm—this is Hell, right? That's what this is?" Quinn gestured to the walls around her. "So you must be… let me guess, the Devil?"

Quinn wheezed out a disbelieving chuckle, the humor of the situation pulling her out of her previous stupor. The man before her continued to smile, his blacker than black and neatly trimmed facial hair framing his pearly white teeth.

"Now, now, Quinn, let's not jump to conclusions. The first thing you need to know is that your little suicide attempt was widely successful and completely dramatic. Women don't usually use guns. I applaud your performance." He stooped into a playful bow and bounded up just as quickly. His soft voice permeated throughout the room, and it confused Quinn to associate the word soft with the Devil.

"The second thing that you need to know is that I have many names—well, names that have been given to me over the years. However, these days I prefer Steve. Steve is a very unassuming name while Devil, Lucifer, Satan— those all make me sound old and quite frankly, mean." The Devil chuckled, amused at his self-proclaimed name. His laugh was melodic and slightly contagious.

Quinn rubbed at her eyes and tried to will "Steve" away. The five second eye rub didn't work. Steve is still there and so are the flames.

"And Quinnie, Quinn, Quinn! This isn't Hell!" He side-stepped and pointed out the enormous window behind him. "That's Hell. This is simply my office." Flames licked the panes of glass.

"Thank God for this sound proof room, huh? I simply don't think I could deal with an eternity of screaming." He shuddered jokingly and winked, his pressed grey and pin-striped suit crinkling with each move he made.

The more Steve jabbered the more Quinn laughed. Her sides were beginning to hurt. Quinn has seen strange days but none stranger than today.

He didn't look at all like the what the Devil is supposed to look like. No horns or hooves. He just looked like a normal person.

"Why am I here? I never doubted that if Hell existed, I'd be in it, but why aren't I out there?" Quinn stated after sobering up and jabbed a finger out the window.

Before the Devil could respond Quinn had an epiphany. "Rachel's in Heaven, right? She has to be there. She's never done anything wrong," Quinn said despondently, heartbroken that they were now both dead and still apart.

"You know, Quinnie, I have no idea who's in Heaven or what the Big Man is up to, all I know is that Rachel is not here. Why do you think you belong in the fire, hmm?" His head tilted to the side, seemingly interested.

Quinn didn't say anything.

"Well, the real reason you're here is because the committee and I have decided that we all are truly touched by yours and Rachel's love and we have a little wager going on. We have a proposition for you," he said excitedly while bouncing his feet.

Quinn scoffed.

"There are books and songs and movies that advise against this," Quinn motioned with her hand between the two.

His boisterous laugh bounced off the empty walls. "You're silly," he said while flapping a hand at her. Was the Devil a flamboyant gay man? Quinn decided against asking.

"Before I offer you our proposition you should know that I am not at all the horrible being you've been raised to assume that I am. Big Man up there doesn't like competition so he and his acquaintances paint me as quite the villain. I'll have you know that I'm on your side, Quinn."

Quinn opened her mouth to ask about the proposition but he quieted her with a raised finger.

"Do you like Katy Perry?" His tone was frighteningly serious, and Quinn was afraid to say no so she decided, once again, to not say anything.

"Oh, she's fantastic! I saw her in concert last year. Mind you, I had to possess a susceptible individual in order to attend, but gosh, it was worth it. Would you like to listen to her latest album before we discuss our proposition?"

"No," Quinn deadpanned, hoping that this conversation had a point. Steve looked put out.

"Your loss. Hm, where were we?" He tapped his chin lightly, seemingly distracted by my obvious dislike of Katy Perry. "Oh! Right, the proposition. Okay, so," he stood up quickly and sat on the edge of the front of his desk.

"My colleagues and I had a little meeting and we've decided to give you and your beloved a second chance."

Quinn's interest peaked and she stared intently at the character before her.

"We went back and forth for hours about what the conditions will be, and this and that. Finally, one of my demons came up with the perfect pitch," he paused, waiting for Quinn's excitement to catch up to his. If anything, Quinn grew more wary.

"I will send you back to the day you saw Rachel for the first time. You will have two weeks for her to fall in love with you. She must say that she's in love with you, and you cannot say it first. You also cannot explain to her our little agreement."

Quinn decided to participate in the conversation. "What if she doesn't?"

"If she doesn't, Quinn, and I very much hope that she will, then I lose the bet. And I hate losing," his face became grim and he finally looked somewhat Devil-like. "Like anything in life, there will be consequences for you as well as for me.

"If you fail I will have to grow my horns out and keep them at their full length for one-hundred years. Ugh," he shuddered.

"And Rachel? What'll happen her? To us?"

"If you agree to my proposition, your soul is mine. Fail or succeed, you will die on the fourteenth day. Rachel, on the other hand, will live—it'll be as if she never died. If you succeed, I will relinquish my claim to your soul. If you fail, you and I will share an eternity together. Of course, you'll be out there," he chuckled while nodding to the blazing fire.

Quinn's mouth gaped and she felt slightly dazed. "You only have to grow out your horns?" She knew that detail wasn't important, but she asked anyways. Was any of this real? She lightly pinched her arm.

The Devil grimaced when he noticed Quinn's shock. "Oh, I really despise those horns. Those pointy abominations age me. I think it's fair, I really do."

He quirked one eyebrow and gauged her reaction before he continued.

Quinn mulled over his words, pursing her lips.

"If you reject my proposal Rachel will still be dead. Even worse, I won't be able to add your soul to my vast collection. Both are very tragic outcomes, Quinn. Don't you want to save Rachel Berry?"

"Why give me a choice at all? Why—why are you doing this?" Quinn wondered, trying to fathom how burning for an eternity will feel. She was grasping at a sense of self-preservation but failing miserably. She knew she'd sell her soul to the Devil for Rachel.

"Because, Quinn, there's always a choice. How much are you willing to suffer? How much are you willing to give up to save the person you love?"

I'll suffer forever, I'll give up my soul— Rachel was never meant to die at twenty-four.

The Devil crept forward until he was within arm's reach of Quinn. "What do you say, Quinnie? Let's shake on it," he offered his hand and showed his teeth.

She didn't care if her soul was damned and she didn't care if she'd burn forever. Without another thought she met his hand and whispered, "okay."

"Lovely," he growled while tucking a pocket watch into her palm. Startled at his tone of voice, Quinn glanced up and was met with a figure much taller than the man from a few seconds ago.

As soon as her brain processed the creature before her, speckles of black filled her vision and led her into unconsciousness.

I'll taste the devil's tears

Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you

-Angus and Julia Stone

The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1(800) 273-8255. If you or anyone you know is going through depression, please don't consider suicide an option. I had someone close to me commit suicide, and it hurt more than I can say. After he died I sank pretty low, and I'll admit I thought about taking my life. But I just couldn't-I didn't want one moment in my life to end the rest of it. There are people out there who care, I promise. Please get help.