On the 1st of January 1908, Lima, Ohio welcomed the first baby of the New Year, a beautiful girl weighing 7lb 8oz.
Brittany Susan Pierce was an average child. Carefree, happy, popular.
Then everything changed the night of the accident.
You only have 3 rules. One, keep moving. Two, no relationships. 3, never be found.
It's easy enough. Easy to leave everything behind, relocating to a silent, empty apartment. Easy to make new memories and cling onto the old ones.
Easy enough, until New Years Eve, 2013.
You've always hated New Year's Eve—something about the fireworks, and the celebrations, and the ridiculous tradition of kissing a stranger as the New Year was counted out always made you want to scream, to disappear. You probably never actually had any real reason for your detestation of New Year's, other than you were miserable and alone, and had been for almost as long as you can remember.
As soon as you step into the chattering, noisy ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel, you regret even contemplating coming out—the noise hits your ears like a tidal wave, and you visibly wince. If it weren't for Rachel, you wouldn't have even fathomed stepping out of your apartment tonight, but as usual, she had to get her way.
Spotting a familiar brunette head, you take a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and daintily make your way over to the piano, pausing behind the girl sitting at the stool, carefully pressing at the keys. You lean in and whisper, smiling to yourself when she turns around.
"Hey, Rachel."
She smiles, her eyes focused on the space just above your head. "Susan?" She stands up, her small frame enveloping yours in a slightly off-centred hug. "I'm so glad you came! God, we're not getting any younger are we?"
You chuckle, returning the hug eagerly and leading her to a nearby table, helping her into her seat. 'You don't even know,' you think to yourself bitterly.
"We may be getting older but I feel younger everyday, Rach," you answer, a small smile on your face. "Besides, you're not even 40 yet!" She beams back, her hands roaming around the table, and you quickly reach over, steering her hand to her drink. She nods a quick thanks to you, and raises her glass.
"To many more years of friendship," she says, a grin on her face. "To us."
You smile and tap your glass against hers.
"To us," You echo, sipping your champagne delicately. Your eyes survey the ballroom, and your gaze lands on a small, dark-haired woman of around 25, with long lashes and full, pouty lips. Your throat feels dry, and you take another sip of your drink quickly, wetting your lips. She looks up, and her gaze catches yours, and for a moment it's like one of those nauseating romantic movies, something unconsciously pulling you towards her. She moves to walk towards you, a confident smirk gracing her lips. And then the moment's broken; a tall, broad-shouldered man with a poorly cut Mohawk is wrapping an arm around her possessively, whispering in her ear. You look down, and turn away from her, returning your attention to Rachel. The countdown starts, the numbers ringing in your ears.
Ten.
You stand up quickly, a hand on Rachel's back reassuringly.
Nine.
"I'm gonna go," you state, planting a kiss on your cheek. "I'll call you." With that you walk away, your footsteps heavy.
Eight.
You make your way out of the ballroom, pausing in the foyer.
Seven.
You press your forehead against the grand window at the end of the foyer, the cool glass soothing against the warmth of your skin.
Six.
Footsteps sound behind you
Five.
Four.
A tanned hand wraps around your wrist, tugging gently.
Three.
You tense, panic settling in your stomach.
Two.
You're spun around carefully, the hand on your wrist gentle.
One.
You look up into chocolately eyes, and a cocky grin.
Happy New Year.
"Aren't you meant to kiss a stranger at these things?" Her voice is raspy, and the remains of a cigar dangles between her fingers. You can't help but snort.
"Does that line ever actually work?" You shoot back, a smirk on your face. She fakes upset, placing her hand over her heart in mock offense.
"I'm actually hurt now," she says with a chuckle, removing her hand from your wrist. Your skin tingles.
"Besides, I don't think your boyfriend would be too happy," you add, quirking your eyebrow in confusion as her expression turns to one of disgust. She splutters.
"Ew what? You seriously…what?! You think Puck is my boyfriend?" She grimaces, shaking her head. "That's seriously gross, and anyway, I don't play for that team."
You laugh. "And how are you so sure that I do?"
She scoffs playfully, playing with the cigar.
"I saw you ogling me back in there," she replies with a nod of her head. You blush.
"I wasn't…no, you know what, let's just forget this," you say sternly, walking past her and towards the elevator. She pursues you, relentless.
"I'm Santana," she calls out. You nod, relishing the name. Santana. You step into the elevator, and she grabs your hand, stopping you. You jolt at the contact.
"How do I find you again?" She asks, her eyebrows furrowed. Your smile is small, sad.
"Goodbye, Santana."
The elevator doors swing shut.
Thoughts?