Author Note: I wrote this a while ago and decided to post it because I'm trying to decide whether it's something I'll continue or not. Thoughts? Feedback?
First cigarette of the day always makes you feel a little nauseous, but after a few drags your body is at ease and gladly accepts the nicotine relief flowing through you from your head to your toes.
By the time you light up for your second the television is making white noise to cover up the deafening silence throughout your crappy little one bedroom apartment.
The third time you inhale your sweet beloved menthol you're chugging down a second cup of coffee, barely registering the scorching hot liquid burning your throat on the way down.
You're on your seventh cigarette before you even get out of your door, today you didn't even think you'd make it from the couch.
You buy another box on your lunch break, Kurt tries to convince you to join him and Blaine for coffee but you politely decline and he nods understandably as he and his boyfriend walk away clasping each other's hand.
Half way through your first stick you almost fall to the pavement as a petite brunette jogs past you, you make it to the nearest trash can just in time to throw up the morning's coffee. What a waste.
You sip water and attempt some food before going back to work. You trudge your way back through the office with a queasy stomach and stinging eyes, you sit back at your desk and hold a hand up to silence Kurt before he can get more than a single word out.
Your smarmy boss arrives and indiscreetly tells you that you look like hell. Part of you wants to cry, the other part of you is picturing ten different ways to kill him with your stationary. Instead you take a deep breath and tell him you quit.
You quickly get your things together and walk out of there, holding your head as high as you can. You dump the box onto the worn passenger seat of your 1966 Mustang and take a moment to pause.
Pausing isn't good. Pausing leaves space for thought, and thoughts only lead you in one direction. Her.
You were convinced you saw her earlier but you knew you were just hoping. After all, why would she be in LA when it's a well known fact that Tony Award winning actress and vocal artist Rachel Berry is playing the starring role in the newest Broadway version of Funny Girl.
The blare of your phone pulls you from your reverie as the light turns red. The ringtone alerts you that it's Santana; you shake your head and laugh a little bitterly. Didn't take Kurt long to inform your best friend about the latest in a string of 'bad days'. Finally the blaring dies down and you breathe a sigh of relief as you push down on the accelerator.
Suddenly some ass hole cuts across you out of nowhere causing you to have to violently swerve to avoid the oncoming traffic, a string of expletives that would make your mother pale flies from your mouth as your face turns red with anger.
At the next possible moment you pull over to the side of the road unable to drive with tears blurring your vision. To distract yourself you grab your phone going directly to voicemail, you might not want to talk to her at that very second but still you want to hear what Santana has to say.
"Didn't think you had it in you Blondie, you finally stuck it to that pig bastard! Well done, always knew you hated it there, you only stuck it out as long as you did cause' of Kurt and his comic relief. Anyway puta I don't appreciate being ignored but I know you might need some time or whatever. But if you don't call me by six I'm going to assume you've thrown yourself off the tallest building in town, or worse, decided that you need to be degayed by a bunch of nuns pelting you with holy water or some shit. So don't be a stranger Fabray, or Britt and I will assume it's a free for all and raid your apartment. I wants your sound system, B would just pick up Mittens and say we were done. I swear to Satan if you're dead and I have to adopt your smelly cat just to keep my girl happy you better know that you're in for it when I join you. Fuck though, Q, don't be stupid. Call me later and join us for dinner? I know you don't eat much, your thinner than me and that's saying something niñablanca. Quit making us worry about your skinny ass! See what you're doing to me? You're making me babble like fucking Ber-, fuck. Look, i'm sorry I didn't mean to say that, but we need to sort this, Q. You need to sort your shit out, you know we're all here for you. Anyway enough of me bonding with your voicemail, though I know you can't act like you don't enjoy my sexy voice though. Britt said hurry cause' she's in the mood for hugging, so get to it loco! Oh and by the way, we fucking love you"
You can't help but smile over Santana's words, though the almost mention of her makes you want to throw up for the second time today. You're so lucky to have such understanding friends, and Santana's right, you really do need to figure all this mess out. It's messing with your ability to function, you just quit your job for fuck's sake and it's not like you have Mommy dearest supporting you, the regained love didn't last long when her only daughter turned out to be gay.
You grit your teeth at the memory, the cold look in your mother's eyes as she took a swig of Whiskey looking very Russell Fabray-like as she told you to get out and never come back. You managed to get together most of your belongings, the things that meant something to you anyway, before you drove straight over to Brittany's house.
The Pierces took one look at you on their doorstep, mascara running down your face as you shivered in your cardigan and they immediately yelled for Brittany and Santana. They came running and for the next few hours you did nothing but cry and they did nothing but hold you and occasionally kiss your forehead. You slept between them that night, their hands entwined but over you like they were trying to protect you. They're still your protective barrier five years later. Five years they've put up with the mess that is your life. Five years of tears, blood, anti-depressants.
Five years since you've spoken to, written or even emailed Rachel Berry. You still recieve her six monthly newsletter updating people with her latest news and show that she'd love for them to let her get tickets for. You couldn't even open it from the second year.
You want to talk to her, every single day you're driven crazy by the thought until you break and type something out but you just can't bring yourself to send it. Your draft box is full of hundreds of started messages, all untouched, unsent.
You just don't know what to say. The only thing you want to say is three little words that will guarantee she'll never speak to you again. It was never supposed to be like this, you were never supposed to fall for her. Then again you were never supposed to sleep with her either, but that wasn't just your fault. It was her fault too. She was the one that bailed the morning after leaving you to wake up alone and cold.
"It's her fault I broke"
But she never knew how you felt. For all she knew you were going to regret sleeping with her the minute you woke up and were sober again, it isn't really that surprising that she fled.
You realize you've been sat in the car for twenty minutes now. You wipe at your eyes and decide to get home so you have chance for a long soak before going to see your best friends. It's only now that you notice the box had fallen from the seat as you swerved, crushing things near it.
Fuck, you need more cigarettes.