Chapter IV: The Reddest Red
I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt to lose something you never really had.
~From the television show The Wonder Years
Something bad has happened.
Mercedes knows this. She knows it like she knows how to breathe, like she knows that there's earth beneath her feet and sky above her head (or would be, if she were outside, but that's not the point). So she's prepared for something when she sees the police storming through the halls, even though the blue uniforms still make her head hurt with worry. Then the medics rush down the hall and she hears the high voice of the Lima Post's head reporter, and she knows something is going down. She doesn't know what, but she figures that that's only a matter of time.
She is surprised when Mr. Shue comes in and tells her that she has to come with him. All the other kids in class look at her, and she blushes but squares her shoulders and reminds herself that no one can bring her down without her permission. What she doesn't let herself think about is what this could mean, how bad this news could be. Because if she doesn't let herself go there, she won't put herself through the unnecessary pain of worrying about something that might not even be true. It's what she tells herself about dating; she'll worry about men not think she's beautiful when it becomes a problem, when she's forty and lives with three cats.
"Thanks, Mercedes," Mr. Shue sighs in relief. He smiles at her, and she tries to smile back even the gesture feels foreign and funny on her lips. He begins walking down the hall, and she follows, tries to keep pace with his longer strides.
"It's no problem," she tells him, training her eyes on the navy of his sweater-vest. "What's going on?" She can't help but ask. She's in wonder of the people swarming the building, of the students who aren't populating the hallways. It's never this quiet here, and frankly she's a little disturbed by it now. It's like after Quinn moved out and her room got all quiet at night and it just didn't feel right anymore. But then Quinn started sleeping over again for reasons that didn't become clear until Quinn's sleep-talking betrayed her.
Rachel. Quinn's whispering woke Mercedes up in the middle of the night, and she sat straight up in confusion. Rachel. It was a little louder this time, and Mercedes' head was a little clearer and she knew that it was coming from the other side of the room. Rachel, Quinn said, and Mercedes stared at her in fascination.
"Revenge dream?" she chuckled, watching as anxiety flashed across Quinn's (porcelain) face. "God, you would think they would stop having at it at some point, but no," she mused, sighing. Everyday in Glee practice, it was the same. Quinn screaming at Rachel and Rachel screaming back and if anything, it was worse lately. Quinn didn't even have baby hormones to blame anymore, so Mercedes really didn't understand what was going on. She suspected that it had something to do with Rachel dating Finn, but she didn't ask and Quinn didn't offer any explanations.
Rachel! Quinn's hips bucked at the ceiling, and Mercedes felt her eyes widen because oh, it was that kind of dream, wasn't it? Oh, shit. Quinn was having – was having that kind of dream about Rachel (and in her room, nonetheless!) and only Mercedes knew about it. She stared, watching as Quinn's face scrunched up tight and thought, well, sometimes girls have these thoughts and it doesn't mean –
"Rachel, please, I love you," Quinn said, her voice dropping to such a pleading, painful whimper that Mercedes couldn't block it from her mind. Rachel, Rachel. It echoed in her head through school the next day, playing memories of Quinn's frightened features. Images of Rachel lifting her neck as Quinn leaned in for a (quivering, frightened, desiring) kiss flitted in her mind and she trying to shake them out to no avail. Quinn, I'm going to kill you, I swear.
She grimaced as she came to came to Glee practice, steeling herself for having even more images inundate her mind. As she took her seat, however, she had only questions racing through her mind. Kurt was talking next to her and she couldn't hear him, couldn't' focus on the words coming out of his mouth. Should she talk to Quinn? Should she tell Quinn what she knew? She certainly didn't want to alienate her friend, but on the other hand she didn't know that she could sit on the secret, keep it all to herself.
She almost moved when Quinn walked in the room, but the sad look on her face stopped her. Quinn looked like a beaten puppy, the way her eyes were downcast and the way her shoulders sagged. She looked like it had taken every last ounce of energy for her to just get herself to practice – there was nothing left over for a Big Confrontation. So Mercedes stayed in her seat, content to observe the longing looks Quinn gave Rachel when she (thought) no one was looking.
"Quinn, do you want to sleep over again tonight?" Mercedes couldn't help but ask, grabbing her to linger in the classroom after practice ends. Quinn frowned, shrugged, forced a smile (liar).
"It's really okay," she said, the mask settling into place over her features. "But I appreciate the offer – "
"Quinn, I really think you might want to sleep over more often," Mercedes said, biting her lip to try to hold the words in. Quinn gave her a curious look, tilting her head to one side in (cute) confusion.
"What's going on?" she asked suspiciously, eyes darting around the room in search of people, a camera.
"You know you talk in your sleep?" At that Quinn blushed, her whole face going the reddest red Mercedes had ever seen.
"I – oh my – sorry!" she squeaked, her eyes going wide. "I didn't – what did I say?" Her fists curled up in anxiety, her brows knit together even as she seemed to be trying to stay calm, to stop herself.
"It's okay," Mercedes said gently, but then Quinn started crying (it's not okay, it's not okay) and ran into Mercedes' arms, her whole (tiny) body shaking with sadness.
"I'm a freak of nature," she whispered, her lips sending little vibrations along Mercedes' arms. "It's unnatural, and it's wrong, and she's the only one who brings it out in me. I hate her. I hate her – it's a sin," she hissed.
Man shall not lie with man as he does a woman – it is a detestable sin.
"God loves you," Mercedes said. And when Quinn cried harder and shook her head, she said it louder (God loves you!) and she said it over and over until Quinn stopped crying (and maybe started to believe?). She took the small girl home, and woke up that night to Quinn tapping on her window (can I please come in and sleep here tonight?).
Now, as Mr. Shuester takes her down the hall not saying anything, she's wondering what's wrong and sure that it has something to do with Quinn because Quinn's parents wouldn't come and Mercedes would. Is Quinn inconsolable? Is she dead? No, they wouldn't bother with Mercedes if Quinn were dead – unless they want her to identify the body? But why wouldn't Quinn be at a hospital, why wouldn't they call her mom and dad? She knows that when someone dies traumatically, they often stick them in the ambulance and call them at the hospital rather than on the scene (we're so sorry, we did everything we could.) So it must just be that Quinn is hysterical for so reason, and they want her to comfort her (does Quinn have the gun?).
She isn't prepared for what she sees when she enters the tiny nurse's office, and Quinn is sitting on the table and sobbing. As a matter of fact, Mercedes (shamefully) turns on her heel and hightails it to the bathroom to puke a couple of times before she can even think about going back to that room, because Quinn is covered in blood and it's horrifying and disgusting and this isn't tv and that isn't ketchup. Yeah, that's real blood and that's a hell of a lot of it and that means something really bad has happened.
"Mercedes, are you okay? Can I get you anything?" Mr. Shue asks, his concerned voice coming through the door. Mercedes shallows her pride (and the acidic, spitty aftertaste in her mouth) and shakes her head to the mirror before remembering that he can't see her. "Can I get you something?"
"I'm okay." The words come out and she hears them, but doesn't quite connect that she's the one speaking. She watches herself turn the doorknob and push the door open, coming into the (bright, shining) light.
"Hey, Quinn," she forces herself to say. "What's going on?" she asks, trying to ignore the (blood, blood!) all over her. Quinn bites her lip and fresh tears spill from her eyes, falling to her dress. The red runs pink.
"Look what they did to her," Quinn says, standing up and pushing past Ms. Pillsbury. She stands there in all her bloodied glory, daring Mercedes to look away and her first thought is, oh my god Quinn's dad killed Rachel.
"Quinn – " She moves in to hug her, but Quinn backs away, shaking her head.
"Look what they've done. Look what I've done," she wails, her lower lip quivering. "I lost her." And then Quinn cries again, and Ms. Pillsbury says some comforting nonsense that doesn't seem to really help. Actually, Mercedes is starting to think that maybe someone ought to be comforting Ms. Pillsbury.
"Quinn, Mercedes is here to stay with you while you talk to the police," Mr. Shue says, trying to ignore the tears and (somehow) get through to her. Quinn shakes her head (I'm not ready leave the blood the only part I have left –) "Quinn, you have to talk to the police officers." And he's trying to be gentle, but he's shaken too and he wants her to talk so the police will go away and this whole nightmare can start to be over (or at least processed in the privacy of one's own home).
"I won't!" And no sooner does Quinn speak those words than a flash go off, and they all turn to look, Quinn still hiccupping.
"Aw, shit," Mr. Shue says. "Goddamn reporters! Don't they have something better to do?"
No, Mercedes thinks, watching his face crumble in despair as Quinn goes blank. Because things like this don't happen in Lima.
Whatever it is that happened, anyway.
You are my sweetest downfall.
I loved you first.
I loved you first.
Beneath the sheets of papers lies
My truth.
I have to go, I have to go.
That's me covering Regina Spektor's Samson. Seemed appropriate, no? Because I have to go now – and because there are so many people who I loved first. Who loved you before me, Jesse? Hmm? I –
I'm turning this off now.
(The sound of fumbling.)
(A deep breath).
(Crying).
Oh god I'm so scared I'm so scared I wish there way another way . . .
But everyone hates me.
Everyone hates me.
