Rachel was drunk. Piss drunk, sans left heel, but still miraculously functional. It was 3am and she had just been declared sole victor of Lima's bi-weekly beer crawl. She'd gone incognito, in a fitted wig that poorly complimented her complexion and an outfit Rachel Berry the movie star would never be caught dead in.
Okay, Lima was getting to her. She was only three days in and the town was already ruminating on a sizable chunk of her soul. Boldly gnawing away at the extension of the morsel it had stolen back when she was still in high school.
She'd caved upon finding the beer crawl flyers, balled up like bread crumbs on her way back from the yoga studio. She told her dads she was going to a mandatory after-hours NA meeting instead. The ease in which she'd lied through clenched teeth terrified her and worse yet, for what? The promise of empty comforts? The implications were unnerving.
Rachel tried her best to discredit the guilt needling away at the shadowy recesses of her brain, but it had persisted, bolstering her thirst throughout the night.
The turnout had been less than desirable, seasoned Lima drunks and wily college kids, but at the end of the night, they'd given her a golden mug, slapped a blank sticker across the baseplate and scribbled her pseudonym (Lisa Butler) in whatever Sharpie was on hand. It was nice, mildly embarrassing, but nice.
The few still buzzing around the alcoholic watering hole had applauded, and it had made her stomach twist in want of the life she'd had merely three days ago…
If Rachel was guilty of any addiction, her drug of choice was the bright banner euphoria of fame. Everything else—the drugs, the booze, the sex—was supplementary. A co-occurrence, really.
Now all Rachel wanted to do was collapse into bed and crawl out when the whole PR nightmare was over. She managed to stick the right key in the lock and stumble inside with minimal ruckus, just a single depth perception fluke involving the umbrella stand. She giggled and slid a finger over her lips to admonish the noisy umbrella stand. "Shh," she urged, "You'll wake my fathers."
"Too late for that," said Paul. Artificial light flooded the room and Rachel groaned, shielding her eyes like Nosferatu.
Jerry remained unmoved, stoic as the night a 15-year-old Rachel had totaled his beloved candy-finished Camaro. "Are you drunk?" he said, tilting Rachel's chin up.
Rachel turned her head away, "I'm an adult—"
"Could have fooled me!"
"As I was saying," Rachel continued, twisting her fingers nervously, "as an adult I think that I am entitled to certain liberties and-"
"Not when you get a goddam DUI, you're not!"
Paul placed a hand on his husband's shoulder, "Jerry, please—"
"Do you think your father and I like seeing you like this?" Jerry said, voice strangled. "What happened to you, Rachel? I look at you and I don't even recognize my own daughter anymore."
Rachel drew back, insides lurching. It was a devastating admission, one that she couldn't ignore, but wasn't quite ready to address. Her arms fell slack as she stared at the hardwood floors, tongue heavy, thick, and inoperable.
"Rachel," said Paul, "We think someone might know you're here."
"Impossible," she said, words a breathless whisper. An arctic fear swirled to the tips of her toes as she stalked towards the window and shoved the curtains aside.
"It's been there for hours," sighed Paul, "and it's not the neighbors'."
Rachel seethed at the sight of the modest red car parked so brazenly across the street. So much for her handlers! Which one of her frenemies had leaked her coordinates to the press? Carol? Justin? Kevin? Kevin. Of course! The rat bastard! How many pieces of silver had he received, she wondered. How many pieces of silver was she worth?
Fury consumed her. She'd have to take care of this one herself. She chose her Excalibur from the umbrella stand, and unsheathed it in one gallant tug.
"Rachel," warned Jerry, easing towards her, "don't."
But it was too late, Rachel was flying out the door, weapon drawn and nostrils flared in indignation. She zipped across the otherwise peaceful street, panicked dads dutifully trailing behind her, and upon approaching the sleeping car, reared the umbrella back to shatter the paparazzo's window.