v. oh, it hurts to live
I can do this, Rachel Berry thinks to herself as she wakes up at five-thirty in the morning and changes into her workout attire. I can do this, she thinks as she starts up the elliptical and warms up her voice. I can do this, she thinks, while staring at a pink piece of paper in front of her.
There are no gold stars around it; instead there are two words written in blunt black marker and retraced several times over:
QUINN FABRAY
I can save her.
It's why her grades are starting to drop, slowly but surely, as she spends more and more time researching prostitution on the internet; haggard faces with empty eyes stare at her when she tries to pay attention during class. It's why she quit Glee to work a part-time after-school job that pays seven dollars an hour, up to her elbows in soapy water while tuning out inappropriate remarks from her co-workers and manager. It's why she clocks out every night at exactly the same time, jumps into her car and breaks every single speed limit - she's figured out she averages roughly 15.6 miles above the posted notices - blows through every single yellow light and runs every single stop sign, all so she can pull into the parking spot next to Quinn's car and sprint the four blocks to the blonde's corner.
It's why this turns into a nightly ritual for the two - Quinn doesn't stop, and Rachel never backs down from a challenge. It's why Rachel starts dipping into her own personal savings because she only gets paid once a month and seven dollars an hour doesn't cover what she needs to get Quinn for one hour, a single hour out of twenty-four where Quinn stares at the TV and Rachel stares at Quinn and neither of them stare at the clock until the alarm on Quinn's cell phone - because Rachel refuses to set hers - goes off.
Rachel's grades are suffering, her sleep is suffering. Her savings are suffering - she's managed to get her fathers to start paying her for chores after a weekend full of bargaining and pleading and tears and two perfectly executed diva storm-outs, but it's not quite enough. She's pretty sure her sanity is suffering - she's started obsessing over the blonde's physical appearance during their hour alone; her eyes trail up and down Quinn's arms, searching for track marks indicative of drug use, her gaze sweeps over Quinn's eyes, her nose, her mouth, looking for any symptom of disease. She's begun slipping contraceptives into Quinn's purse while the other girl is too engrossed in numbing herself through a television show or too busy wolfing down the sandwich Rachel carefully prepares each morning (this isn't a pride thing, Quinn thinks, her feeding me... it's just— it's just extra payment is all).And all that, everything that happens within the motel room? Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is Rachel laying eyes on Quinn when she rounds that final corner and verifying that the only person she loves more than music, more than singing, more than herself - is still alive.
It's why she's losing Rachel Berry to save Quinn Fabray, even if just for one hour out of twenty-four.
It's why when she gets home one night, Rachel puts on her Funny Girl playlist on iTunes and promptly breaks down, not even able to make it to her bed to sob into her pillow. It's been weeks since she's sung to anything but the empty air of her bedroom. Weeks of looking at statistics about girls who prostitute themselves: how many end up using drugs, how many end up in prison, how many end up disappearing, how many end up dead.
Weeks of looking at photographs of those same girls to remind herself that Quinn isn't a number.
I can do this. I can save her.
And after weeks of slowly tearing herself apart to save a girl that's beyond shattered, Rachel comes to a realization:
I can do this. I can save her.
But I can't do it alone.