Horizontal Fault Lines
"I can feel the hurt.
There's something good about it.
Mostly it makes me stop remembering."
-Albert Borris, Crash Into Me
...
She walks through the school like a ghost. A hollow, empty interior and an exterior that could fool the world. She's the shining star of them all, but on the inside she's dying. Probably already dead, if she really thinks about it. She doesn't like to think about it.
She can't pinpoint the exact moment her life changed, and she began to feel like this, but if she had to choose she'd pick somewhere near the start of high school. She remembers walking into school on September first, her pink backpack hoisted a little too high on her shoulders, her smile a little too wide, her outfit a little too middle school, and her attitude a little too optimistic. She remembers the cold, freezing ice hitting her face for the first time, and she remembers how much easier it was to feel the hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she scrambled through unfamiliar hallways, trying to find the closest bathroom. But she doesn't like to remember.
It's around December of freshman year when she learns that no one notices if art supplies go missing. A few markers here and there don't really matter, but she thought the school would be up in arms if they noticed a missing xacto knife. But it goes as unnoticed as she does, and really if anyone found out, there was no way it could be traced back to smiling, cheery, showtune-singing Rachel Berry. No one would suspect the captain of a club called 'glee' to be slicing open her skin every chance she gets. Not that she gets many chances—she refuses to do it at home, and there is only so much time you could take in the school bathrooms before the teacher becomes suspicious.
A year later though, and she doesn't care about anything but feeling the soft sting of the blade across her wrists, and the almost orgasmic feelings of release as she watches the blood drip onto the floor. She should really clean that up, she thinks, but she's tired, and this feels too good. She's been in the bathroom for nearly twenty minutes—the first five were spent trying to find a clean, unmarred spot on her arms to sink the blade in, and the next fifteen spent slicing and watching in a state of outer-body bliss as the red liquid bubbles from her skin.
She smiles to herself as the word "worthless" stares back at her in red ink. It's an affirmation of a title she's accepted years ago—she is worthless, and having it written there on her arm, beside words like 'ugly', 'stupid', and 'loser', really helps her to reinforce it.
Another year goes by and her arm is so cut up that she's moved down to her thighs, and she's beyond caring at this point. She shouldn't have to care, if no one bothers to care about her. It's exhausting, all this self-hate, but it's all she knows now, and it's too comforting to let go. So she takes her daily trips to the bathroom, slices open her skin, gets her release, and walks out as if she's high on pain. Which she's not ashamed to admit, she is.
"Rachel?"
When she hears the voice, that voice, Rachel drops the razor (she's moved on from stolen art knives. She's grown up, she has better tricks now). It clangs to the ground and she curses, knowing she's been caught.
"Rachel!" The voice cries, upset and frantic this time, and Rachel doesn't think she's ever heard Quinn Fabray use that much emotion in her voice, ever.
Rachel stays quiet, hoping that if she doesn't make a sound, Quinn will go away and forget the whole thing. But her arm is bleeding, and she can't grab any toilet paper, so she watches in defeat as the blood drips to the linoleum floor, collecting in a pool beside her razor, winding in between the tiles and staining the pink floor red.
"Rachel if you don't open the door, I'm going to crawl under," Quinn says, her voice brave. Rachel knows it's an act—bravery is always only an act. She doesn't move. Let Quinn come in; let her see what she and the rest of this school have driven her to. Let her see the blood and faint, let it get all over her white dress and let her realize that Rachel hasn't been ok since she stepped foot in this godforsaken school. Let her help me, a small part of Rachel thinks, let her see me.
"Fine. I'm coming in," Quinn huffs, and Rachel sees a crop of blonde curls emerge from under the door. Quinn crawls under, gasping as she sees how much blood has collected on the ground, and when she stands up, her eyes are wide. "Rachel…"
Rachel can't move for a few seconds, and she just stares at Quinn. Quinn makes the first move, lurching for the toilet paper dispenser and rolling up a wad of it, grabbing Rachel's hand and pressing the wad to her cut.
"Horizontal," she mumbles to herself. "So you weren't trying to die."
Rachel's eyes narrow, that isn't at all what she expects to hear. What does Quinn know about cutting?
"You don't know that," she says, her voice abrasive. Quinn only shrugs and keeps the paper on her arm.
"You have to stop this."
"Why?"
"Because you're better than this."
"I'm not."
"You are." And Quinn says it with such conviction, that Rachel almost believes her. Almost.
"Two years…" Rachel starts. "It's been two years. Why now?" She doesn't have to explain what she's asking, for some reason Quinn just seems to get it.
"Please don't ask me that. I'm here now, ok?" Quinn says, and Rachel sees a flicker of pain in Quinn's eye. It's enough to make her nod, sighing. She guesses it's not important anyway.
"I'm not going to stop. You don't understand. It's the only thing I have…" she explains, wincing slightly as Quinn presses harder to stop the bleeding.
Suddenly, Quinn pulls away and gives Rachel an intense look. She sighs as she looks down, hitches up her skirt, and reveals a smattering of red lines weaving around her upper and inner thigh.
She sighs, letting her skirt fall. And suddenly she's crying, and Rachel's never seen anything so tragically beautiful in her life. She stands there and lets her cry, unsure of what to do, but knowing that somehow, everything has just changed. When Quinn finishes crying, Rachel takes the toilet paper from her wrist and flushes it down the toilet. She bends down and picks up her razor, making to tuck it back safely in her pocket, but Quinn's strong hand loops around her wrist and she shakes her head.
"Give it to me," she whispers, with a serious look.
"No."
"Rachel."
And Rachel hands it over, completely unsure as to how one word is able to make her surrender the one thing that's kept her sane over the past two years. She sighs, and so does Quinn, and then they're looking at each other.
"It's not the only thing you have, ok?" Quinn whispers.
"Isn't it?" Rachel breaths back.
"No," Quinn shakes her head and takes Rachel's hand. "You have me."
And Rachel feels a weight being lifted off her chest, because when she thinks about it, that's all she'd ever needed.