So this is my speculation going off some spoilers that have been floating around... namely, something big that is about to happen, some promotional photos, and a tweet from a crew member that spoke of a "pivotal" scene Connie Britton filmed alone. I obviously don't know for sure what that scene is, but a nervous breakdown got stuck in my head and this was the result. Enjoy! One shot.
"The righteous cry and the Lord hears them and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and will save those who are crushed in spirit. Many are the troubles of the righteous; from them all will the Lord deliver them. He keeps all their bones, so that not one of them is broken."
The minister's scraggly voice was etched into her memory. No matter how far away she tried to run, it all followed her; his words, her words to her father, her father's last words to her, the sea of black designer suits, and the frigid chill of the January air as it bit her fiercely in the face.
Rayna closed her eyes and all she could see was that wretched oak casket adorned with the deepest of red roses in front of her, so patiently waiting to be lowered into the red Tennessee dirt. On either side of her, two men she dared to once love comforted the daughters they shared. Somewhere down the line, her sister sat in silence; cloaked in bedeviling guilt.
None of it would ever go away, she thought.
Every time she tried to rest, all the pieces of her twisted puzzle joined perfectly in her head and she was powerless to do anything but relive it all over and over and fucking over again.
She sighed and glimpsed at the clock as she rose from bed, darkness completely taking her over. It was only 8 PM. She'd excused herself around 4, leaving her daughters, her manager, her sister, and Deacon downstairs.
No one questioned her when she'd stood and quietly walked away; in fact, she could feel Deacon and Bucky's sympathetic eyes burning into her as she slinked around the corner. Her sister and daughters quietly cried and reminisced together, almost not even acknowledging that she was leaving them.
She was glad, really. She felt like a shell; a cracked shell, perhaps, but still a perfectly sturdy outer shelter to keep all of the ugliness, toxicity, and blows from getting to her inner core. Had one more person tried to offer her something or look at her like she was fragile, the crack might have grown into a full on break. She couldn't have that.
She placed her feet on the cold hardwood, checking her phone as she stretched her long, lean arms. There were about a million messages of condolence, but she still hadn't received a call from Luke. She frowned. He'd called her the day before, offering up his apologies for being unable to be there on account of his tour.
She got it.
When you're selling out stadiums, it's hard to break yourself away and get back to the real trades of life; even a death in the family of someone you say you love.
He'd sent flowers. That was enough, right?
Sure, maybe. But she had still expected her phone to ring and hear his voice on the other end telling her how sorry he was that she just had to bury her father; that he wasn't there to hold her hand as she fought the urge to lay atop the casket and go down six feet with it.
She'd be lying if she said she wasn't hurt that the call never came.
Taking her phone with her, she walked towards the bedroom door. She had no idea who remained in her house, but she figured she should at least try to rejoin the living… maybe even cook up a meal for the girls.
She stopped just short, quickly turning instead into the bathroom and subconsciously locking the door behind her.
She felt nauseous, suddenly; like a 5-alarm fire was raging in the pits of her stomach.
Kneeling over the toilet, she immediately expelled everything she could. There wasn't much, as she'd eaten so little since she'd received the call that her father was gone.
She stood to her feet, slowly trekking over to the sink and rinsing her mouth out with a tumbler of water. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, looking entirely disgusted as she watched the residual bile wash down the drain.
She looked at her reflection calmly, taking in every bitter wrinkle and every mark that told every chapter of her story; every line that spelled out who she was and where she'd been.
She'd been to the brightest and darkest of places; seen the most beautiful sights and the ugliest of horrors.
She'd stood over a beautifully ornate, closed casket when she was merely 12, forever carrying the knowledge that just inside was her mother's mangled corpse and that she'd never look upon that gorgeous face again. She would never be held when she was sad, cared for when she was hurt, or have someone primping her hair on her wedding day. All she would have was music, as that was the most precious gift Virginia Wyatt had left her.
She'd carried the lifeless, vomit covered body of the man she loved out of seedy motel rooms more times than she was willing to count, never really for sure if it was the one time he wouldn't wake up.
She'd given birth to the most beautiful, precious girl and lied to the man who helped create her.
She'd estranged herself from her father for almost the whole of her life, only allowing herself to forge forward with him when it was all but too late.
Her saw her lip beginning to quiver, as it occurred to her in that moment that she was alone—finally. She'd spent the bulk of her life holding it together for everyone around her. The girls, Tandy, her father, Teddy, and even Deacon had been spared her heartache because she was always trying to keep their hearts intact. Now, there was no one in that bathroom with her.
So she sobbed.
She gripped the counter top as she cried for everything and everyone she couldn't fix: her mother, her father, her sister, her daughters, Teddy, Deacon…
She let out a scream, sliding her arm across the vanity and taking an elegant display of designer perfumes down to the floor with her.
The bottles shattered as eloquently as her heart, surrounding her with shards of glass and puddles of fragrance as visions of everything that was broken in her world crept into her head again.
She relived her mother's funeral; she relived her voice cracking as she begged Deacon to get help for the umpteenth time; she relived the chunks in her throat as she told Teddy she was pregnant and the baby probably wasn't his; she relived her divorce; she relived her father's funeral and a life lost with him, while the sight of Maddie clutching to Deacon for dear life as she cried for her Pawpaw couldn't have gutted her more than if someone actually sliced her belly open with a knife.
She wasn't sure how long she was there, nor was she sure how loud she was sobbing. She didn't even notice the tiny bits of blood showing through her hands and arms as she lay numb in the broken glass on the floor.
A soft rapping on the door broke her thoughts, and she seemingly stopped wailing long enough to listen.
"Rayna?"
She sniffled, but said nothing. She knew it was him and she couldn't face him right that second. She closed her eyes, hoping against hope that if she stayed silent he'd go away.
Yeah right.
"Open the door, Ray. Maddie came down and got me when she heard you screamin'… I think she's scared for ya."
She sat up, only then noticing the stinging sensation in both her hands and her left arm. She remained silent as she inspected the tiny cuts.
"I'm scared too, Ray. Just… please. I'll be out here when you're ready."
She crawled slowly to the door, reaching up and unlatching it. She fell back down, exhausted.
She was emotionless as the knob turned slowly and Deacon poked his head in. Fear washed over his face as he saw the smashed up bottles on the floor and tiny specs of blood mixed in before he fixed his eyes on Rayna as she whimpered behind the door.
As he quickly deduced that her injuries were minor, he softened his panicked demeanor. He could clearly see that she was in the most fragile state he'd ever known her to be in and didn't want to antagonize that.
His heart broke for her; truly, it busted into a million pieces at the sight of her on the floor in her nightgown, bloody, and all cried out. She'd always been the strong one on her feet who had to pick him up off the ground and dust him off, but now here they were. He was, literally, the strong one picking her up. And strangely, it felt right.
Part of him knew this day would come. She couldn't keep herself glued forever, he just wasn't always sure that he'd be able to be there for her when she broke.
Right then, without hesitation, he knew in a split second that he could be the rock she needed. And he was damn glad he was.