A/N: This story frustrates the crap out of me. It's so bad it makes me flinch.
If I told you I have a much(MUCH!) better story in the works, would you read it?
NOTE: I got substantially less reviews when the voting closed. Well, here's another question: How would you like Rachel to die? Now, I'm not saying Rachel is next. I'm not saying she's the only one left to die. I just need some ideas on the actual death. RACHEL ONLY.
No one went to school. With only, what, five of us left? What's the point? Instead, we ditched, and went to Kurt's house. His dad was absent, and his mom broke down into chest throbbing sobs when she saw us.
"Why? Why do you live when he dies?" Ms. Hudson cries at us. All of us flinch, not meeting her eyes.
"She's been screaming that to me ever since Finn died," Kurt says. Everyone nods sympathetically. The path to his basement bedroom shows the grief that's been going through the house over the past few weeks. Any picture containing Finn's face has been torn and stripped off the frame. Broken drumstick chunks have been thrown in trash. The TV no longer blares the game. It just, feels, empty. Y'know?
We all sit on the floor of Kurt's bedroom, and no one wants to speak.
Quinn clears her throat. "Show us the picture, Kurt."
Kurt shakily tosses the horrible thing. Tina.
I had loved her once.
Her eyes were just empty sockets. Tongue removed. Hair in chopped pieces. Torn chest, like the strings keeping her together just tore apart.
"I'm out of ideas," Puck says, pushing the photo away.
"But..." Kurt says. It's useless. No one has a clue what they're doing. We're sitting ducks.
"Maybe we should attempt to find out the identity of the killer?" Rachel suggests. Everyone shrugs, having no other better idea.
"Remember? The last time we tried to identify him, he threatened everyone would die right there and then," I pointed out.
"I don't think that applies now. There's so few of us, and it wouldn't be as fun to just kill us all now. He's obviously put a lot of effort into this," Rachel says. "Let's think about what we know."
"But out of us alive, only Kurt and Artie has seen this dude," Puck says.
"Well, then they'll tell us what they know," she says. She turns to Kurt. "Anything?"
"He sang," Kurt says immediately.
"That seems really important. Did his voice sound familiar at all?" she asks.
"Yeah. It sounded like he was our age."
"So we can eliminate any adult, right?"
"Dammit!" Puck says. "I honestly thought it was Mr. Schue."
"No," I say. "He didn't have the same stature as Mr. Schue. He was skinnier, more flexible. But I thought it was odd how Mr. Schue suddenly abandoned us, don't you think?"
"Blackmail," Quinn cuts in. "The killer is keeping Mr. Schue away from us, from interfering."
"Interesting theories," Rachel says. "But let's stay focus. Who is our age, and we know?"
"Karofsky?" I offer.
"No," Kurt says forcefully. "He may be a total ass and I hate him to death, but he's just confused. Not a murder, despite what he wants us to believe."
"What about the voice?" Rachel prods, like we're children. "You said it was familiar. From where?"
"I don't know. I bet if I heard it again, I would recognize it."
"The next time you hear it, you'll be dead. Think!" Rachel demands.
"I don't know!"
"THINK HARDER!" Rachel yells.
"DAMMIT!" Kurt says, standing up. "I can't, okay? I just can't remember." He presses his lips together, holding his temple. "Just move onto something else."
"What if we all kill ourselves?" …. All eyes turn to the quiet whisper from Quinn. Her eyes are watery, and hands are clenches. Her fingernails are biting into the skin, and she's grinding her teeth.
"Quinn, what do you mean?" I ask softly.
"He wouldn't win then," she says, looking up at all of us. "Who could he kill if there were none left?"
Puck shakes his head. "That's shitty logic. He would still win, because he knew he drove us to it. He would still classify that as a win."
"Whoa, Puck actually has some sound reasoning. Who'da guess?" Kurt snipes.
"Guys-" I say.
"Shut it, Hummel," Puck says.
"No, you shut it Puckerman!"
"Guys-"
"I didn't do anything!"
"Except be a total ass for about three years."
"Will you ever get over that?"
"No, frankly."
"You are so-"
"GUYS!" I shout. "Stop this! There's no use in petty arguing." Kurt rolls his eyes, and Puck scoffs.
"Artie, did you notice anything about the killer?" Rachel asks me.
"No. I didn't recognize his voice."
"Damn," she sighs.
.
Kurt pulls a cell out of his pocket, sighing. "It's him." He flips it open, and presses the SPEAKERPHONE button.
"Hello, glee club," a voice said. It sounds like he's talking through a voice modulator, making it seem like a construed machine. It's very labored, like he's breathing through his mouth, exhausted.
"Hello," we all say at once, monotone. Out eyes are glazed over, unfocused.
I realize that we hadn't been getting any sleep since this shit began.
"Artie Abrams is needed at home right now," the killer continues.
My hands grip the wheels tightly. No one looks me in the eye. Tears start to well up, and I stare into my lap.
"Okay," I whisper.
Rolling up to the front door seems a lot differently when you're about to die.
The grass is bolder, the sun is brighter.
The day seems to sweet to lose.
Damn, I hate this.
But what the hell am I supposed to do?
"You have these puppy dog eyes," Brittany says. "It's so sweet. I wanna take you home."
Maybe I could beg? Pathetically beg?
The living room is still. So still. I sort of wish Santana was here. She's much braver than me, and it wouldn't be so bad to die with someone else. I would never wish Brittany was here. She did not deserve to die.
"Mr. Killer?" I ask, voice ringing loud and clear in the empty(?) room. "I know you're listening. I know you want to kill me. I'm asking you not to. Please. I have a family. I have friends, well, I did have friends. I still like to breathe. I expected to be handicapped forever, but now I'm going to be dead forever much sooner. I..." I take a huge breath. "I want to ask you, to maybe, look into your heart? And not kill me?"
A hand comes from behind me, sliding a card into my lap. An ace, but I don't know which one. I never learned.
TOO LATE.
"What does that mean?" I ask, studying the card.
He points around the room, and I see pools of gasoline everywhere. How could I have not noticed that before? He starts to pour more around the room, and I know I can't stop him.
He starts singing.
My soul starts spinning again
I can't stop feeling
No, I won't stop feeling
And the fun's not fun anymore
I can't stop feeling
No, I won't stop feeling
The voice tugs at my memories. I should know this. I haven't heard it often, but I've heard it enough...
The Killer lights a match, staring at it.
Soul boy, down and alone
And your soul is broken again
But you can't stop moving
No you won't stop moving along
Then tosses it.
My life is engulfed in flames.