Disclaimer: I own nothing...who would of guessed ;)
A/N: so...this is my first glee fic and I'm a little worried :D. To set this story up, it's everyone's senior year (a two year jump, brace yourselves) and Puck and Rachel are an established couple. I hope that doesn't shake anyone up too much. Warning: this fic is way heavy on the angst! :) I hope you guys like it!
Prologue
His throat is painfully tight as he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, bracing himself against the porcelain sink. His heart is pounding a violent tattoo against his ribcage and his barely contained panic is pressing so hard against his chest he feels like he can't breathe. He doesn't want to go outside again, leave the sanctuary of the bathroom, but he needs to see her. He needs to know she's okay.
He stares hard at himself in the mirror. He looks awful. His dress shirt has dried out, but it's stiff and discolored in places from drops of reddish-brown blood. His right sleeve has been cleanly torn from the shoulder and his wrist is in a cast. Both of his knuckles have been scraped nearly to the bone and a gash on his cheek earned him several stitches. He should be hurting. They gave him painkillers, sure, but he should still feel something when he presses his fingers against a purple bruise, he should feel the sting of the water against the cuts on his hand.
He doesn't feel right inside, like everything is dead. His eyes look glazed over and their bloodshot and red, one starting to get a darker, black shadow around it. He has to see her; he has to get out of here. Damn it, there must be something wrong with him because he feels hazy, like he's in a dream, detached from the world and he wonders if he's in shock. He can feel the numbness spreading from inside his chest. It doesn't feel quite right.
He wishes this could be a dream, prays harder than he's ever prayed in his life for this to be nothing more than a bad dream. That he'll wake up soon and forget about it by the next day and go on believing that nothing this bad could ever happen to him. But it has, and it's still going on. He needs to see her. Listlessly, he leaves the bathroom and wanders out into the hallway.
He doesn't notice the people as he walks past them, doesn't see their sympathy or their pity. Instead he clenches and unclenches the fist that isn't broken, trying to concentrate on something because he can feel his thoughts slipping. When he passes the lounge, he knows he's almost there, but someone's tugging on his arm, trying to get his attention. He can't hear what they're saying so he shrugs them off. This is more important. Another person…a woman…the smell of his mother's perfume hits him the same time this woman throws her arms around him and knocks the air out of his chest. He's upset with them because they're keeping him from seeing her and he has to see her. It's important.
He pushes the woman away, trying not to be harsh, but not really caring either, moving back into the hallway with her door in it.
He's almost there when he sees her dad, Alan, come out of her room. His face is deathly pale and there are tear tracks on his face the makes his stomach twist. He wonders if Alan will be angry with him. A part of him wants him to be. A part of him wishes he would yell and curse and hit him because he deserves it. He wasn't there. He didn't stop it. It's his fault.
Instead Alan squeezes his shoulder, but he can't feel any pressure, and steps aside to let him in the room. His legs stop working and for a heart-jerking moment he doesn't think he can handle seeing her. His throat is tight and his stomach flips around until he feels like he could burst into tears or throw up right that second, on command.
He doesn't know how he makes it inside, but she's the first thing his eyes land on and it isn't right. Her skin is too pale, there's a tube down her throat to help her breathe, a heart monitor beeping in the corner and he stumbles backwards into the wall, air hissing past his teeth like someone's kicked him in the gut because she shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be hurting like this.
Before he can even comprehend it, it's all too real. The pain makes him stagger and he slides down against the wall until he's sitting on the cool tile, staring at her lifeless form. Hot tears are the first thing he feels against his skin since the numbness set in and in its place is something sharp and throbbing and twisting. It's his fault. He knows it is. He could have stopped it. If he'd just been there sooner…if he'd just –
His throat catches and he's crying uncontrollably, crying more than he's ever cried in his life and he doesn't think he can handle all the pain. He feels arms encircling his chest and he buries his face into a shoulder, grabs a fistful of sweater and holds on with everything he's got, trying to stay afloat while his heart shatters.
This is his fault. He didn't protect her.
A/N: So...what did you think :)