A/N: I must have had too much coffee last night, but I became fixated on the idea of the "rape whistle" handed out to all freshmen at Barden, which led me to a relative dark place that provides explanation for the school's insistence on providing students with them, and one tragic story that examines that. Definitely not my general genre of fiction, and I decided to write this as a one-shot that is completely unrelated to Music Within (which is far more upbeat). As a final warning, this story does deal with the psychological aftermath of non-consensual sex, and may act as a trigger to some folks. Remember, if you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual assault, please call the National Sexual Assault hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (in the United States) for assistance or support.
A/N 2: I own neither the characters or the movie.
Shades of Pink
As I sat there, I squinted out into the muscular night and watched the droplets of mist become faintly illuminated by the dim golden glow of the faint streetlamp bulbs that provided a dull sheen along the campus walkways. The tiny prisms of light within the cloud of dampness hung, suspended as stars in an endless layer of mist, swirling into a galaxy of humidity that surrounded the small amphitheater at the edge of Barden's campus. There was enough moisture in the air that the rivulets of sweat running down my back weren't absorbed into my damp cotton t-shirt. It didn't bother me terribly, because it was just another hot, sticky Georgian August night. There had been so many lately I had lost count, they all stuck together in my mind. Restless from my overindulgence in caffeine, my mind jumped from thought to thought, channel surfing through my head. The lack of sleep and adjusting to a college schedule was starting to take its toll on me. After a long day of avoiding Jesse's advances, attending classes, and working on my latest mixes, I wanted nothing more than to tumble into bed. A homework assignment due the next day loomed in the back corner of my mind like a bad memory, but after an eighteen-hour day, more school work was the last thing I was looking forward to; in fact, the only hope in my mind was to collapse onto my mattress and wrap myself in between my twisted damp sheets for a few hours. I had been heading back to the room Kimmy Jin and I shared when I got the text. "Meet me at the amphitheater. Please." She had asked me, not her best friend Aubrey, but a girl she had just met to talk to her. She was the vibrant red head from auditions, but since my arrival she had been sitting still, the vivacity that usually exuded from her absent as she sat hunched over, writing in a notebook for the last five minutes without so much as a glance in my direction. I didn't particularly want to deal with whatever concerns she might have on this particular evening, but there was something about Chloe that drew me in, and I was always willing to make time for a friend. As her pink flamingo pen danced across the damp and no longer crisp pages of her journal, I tried to clear my mind, but the fog outside seemed to have permeated my skull. I stood, ready to return to my dorm, and I realized my legs were surprisingly heavy and numb. As I lowered myself to the bench, she finally looked at me, the flamingo bobbing in a frantic fit, though her hand was no longer writing.
"Please." She said. I sighed, knowing that at this rate, it would be morning before I found out why I had been asked to join her. "Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone." That was all she said, and the flamingo shook with a seizure of pink fluff and collapsed onto the bench we were sharing. I could tell this was one of those moments when you have to decide whether friends are more important than your own human wants and needs. As I moved closer toward her, she leaned into me, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. For a brief moment I wondered if she'd be offended by my already wet t-shirt, but as she clung to me frantically, the thought vanished. I held her tightly, and tried to think of something to say, but at that hour, in that amphitheater, I knew I needed no words; my small arms and tight embrace spoke volumes.
The air smelled brown, like dirt and mulch and rotting wood, a musty blend of nature and earth. As I bent my head down, I could smell her hair, tinged with the faint perfume of a floral shampoo, and as she sobbed, her deodorant became a musky blend of sweat and Dove Secret Platinum. The browns of the earth became pink in my nostrils, and I couldn't have ever imagined saying someone smelled pink, but if I were to explicate the smell of pink, it would be her, on that night, in that dense fog that hung around us. Eventually, her sobbing subsided and she leaned back, wiping her nose with her hand. Her perfect red hair had withstood the weather, but not the evening's recent events, and it had become a tangled mass surrounding her pale face. Her makeup had smeared, and I handed her a napkin left over in my pocket from dinner; she delicately wiped away the blackened smears, not noticing a spot of spaghetti sauce on the corner. After a few deep breaths, she tried to talk, but her voice, normally high and clear, cheerful and bright came in raspy tear-deepened tones, as though she was talking through Darth Vader's mask.
"Promise me you won't think less of me if I tell you something Beca?" I blinked in response, not knowing what to say; generally, I wouldn't commit to making that promise, but as her friend, I knew that I needed to.
"What's wrong?" I had been silent so long, my voice caught in my throat, resonating with internal humidity. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Why, what's wrong?"
"Promise me!" Shrill, desperate, Chloe's cries overrode any practical application of legalities within my mind.
"I promise." I said, hesitantly, but impressed by my own blatant disregard for my own rules that had kept me safe and detached for so long. Satisfied that I would keep my word, she began to unravel her story.
"This weekend..." she trailed off, and started shaking, her long pale legs bouncing up and down furiously, her white sneakers with pink stripes blurred into a pink blob on the ground beneath us. She watched her knees, mesmerized, as if she was amazed that they were a part of her body. Realizing that they were part of her whole, she stopped, and turned back to me. "This weekend, I went to a party. I only had one drink, I swear." She looked to me for verification, but she had been at a frat party I wasn't invited to, and I didn't know, but trusted her words, and nodded in agreement. "One drink. I didn't want to, I didn't."
She leaned into me again, her arms enclosing around me like a vice, and as her sobs raked through her body, it made both of us shake. "I can't even remember it!" She said, muffled, into my chest. Between her tears and choking gasps for air, I managed to make out a few phrases "I was waiting-why me-my fault-I didn't ask for it-not drunk-couldn't move-covered my mouth-screaming inside but—why—why—why..." She stopped talking coherently, and I held her tighter, trying to think of something to say; anything.
For someone who lives for words and music, none came into my mind. It was silent, and no acoustics could erase the painful chords playing in that amphitheater. A television after school special can't prepare you for some realities, and no amount of Law & Order SVU can help you when someone looks at you, matted, broken, tear-streaked, blue eyes pleading for you to tell them why he raped her. She needed some verbal validation, some meaning behind it, but I couldn't invent explanation where none was apparent. For a while, I held her, and we clung to each other like we were the other's humid air, and slowly as I came to grips with the situation, tears began to roll down my cheeks into her floral scented hair. The dark night outside the pavilion was another world, but inside, we existed symbiotically.
I had come to Barden at my father's insistence; it was never to make a difference in someone's life, but I knew that evening, no one needed me more than she did, and I am glad that I was able to be there for her. That night she told me that she never thought any one of her friends could understand, and that no one would be able to love her, after what had happened; she was afraid she was incapable of love. I told her that no matter what, I would love her, because that's what true friends do. After more tears, she spoke, the timbre of her voice not the clear alto she generally was, but a huskier and deeper echoing. She said that in that evening she had realized something, that friendship is love, and that she loved me. I walked her back to her own room, and lay in bed with her, lightly running my fingers through her soft red curls. As her bright blue eyes fluttered shut, and her sobs subsided, I read her a childhood book, watched her fall asleep, and quietly slipped out into the dawn's early light. I returned to my dorm just as morning was breaking, and the orange of the cruel sun began to glow. As I drifted to sleep, my heart ached for Chloe, and the smell of pink lingered on my shirt.