The Silence of Silence

The sky was an angry shade of grey. It was dark and the clouds were billowing violently as far as Quinn could see and she was sure that raindrops were going to form and fall down around her in a matter of moments. She could almost feel the moisture in the air, taste the humidity on her tongue, smell the earthy scent of an approaching storm in her nose.

Her line of sight dropped back down to the ground, and she was immediately confused. It didn't make sense that she would be here, of all places. She could see it in the distance – the tree with the swing, the swing she had pushed Caleb on in their childhood.

He had fallen once. He had fallen and he had cried and Quinn had only been nine-years old at the time and she hadn't known what to do. She had been scared then. She had wanted to cry herself. But she had held the tears back because she knew crying would make Caleb sob even harder – he would have seen the wetness leaking from the corners of her eyes, and it would have frightened him even more than his own pain was hurting him.

"It's ok," Quinn had whispered then, pressing her lips against his hair. He hadn't heard. He had never heard a single word she had said in the entire course of their existence as brother and sister. But she had said the words anyway – she had pressed her lips against his downy hair, and she had uttered reassurances and tried to placate her distraught sibling.

It had worked. Quinn had always been good at taking care of Caleb.

But now, she was confused. She could see the tree – far away, out of reach against the horizon. But it didn't make sense. There was nothing else – nothing but tall grass waving in the wind, glancing off of her waist benevolently as she took a step towards that tree in the distance.

The earth shook underneath her as her bare foot hit the grass. It didn't make sense, but nothing here did. Why were her feet bare anyway? It was just another question that she couldn't answer, another question on a long list that she was already forgetting.

Her eyes shifted from the ground beneath her feet and back towards the tree. It was a tall, majestic oak. Its branches were numerous, its base was wide. Quinn could just make out the ropes hanging down from an outstretched limb, the rubber tire that made for a perfect childhood pastime hanging between them. But the tree looked farther away than it had only moments before. Quinn's brow furrowed of its own accord, her eyes cried out louder than spoken words ever could, and she hoped that she was wrong.

She took another step to confirm it – the tree was getting farther and farther away with each step she took towards it. Suddenly, she couldn't comprehend anything less than reaching that tree, that swing. She had to reach the tree, she had to. There must be a reason that only the tree was in this barren landscape with her. If it was the only thing she could see, she had to get there – she had to run, she had to run as fast as she could.

Her bare soles flattened the stalks of the prairie grass as she ran. And the harder she ran, the smaller the tree became. "No," she gasped out, "please." But her words were ripped from her throat on a sob that she hadn't realized was even forming within her – it came from a place of terror and confusion and uncertainty, and Quinn couldn't stand any of those things on a good day. And this was not a good day.

Her legs were pumping so fast underneath her that she finally reached a point where they gave out. Her calves and thighs were burning, every inch of her muscles was on fire. And she crumpled like a paper crane between a clenched fist. Her arms splayed out in a failed attempt to catch herself, and her face hit the ground with a bruising thud. Another ragged sob escaped from her quivering body, but it sounded far away and weak. A shadow of a memory of a cry, little more. A ghostly sound carried away on the wind.

Quinn's fingers clenched, grasping tightly onto the grass next to her face. Her eyes were closed as she attempted to settle her breathing. Her hold on the grass served as an anchor to whatever reality it was she found herself in. The grass was tangible – she could feel it and see it and smell it. If she could seize onto that fact, maybe she could pull herself up and out of this place.

Her fingers flexed once more, and several blades broke off into her hands. Quinn opened her eyes and stared at the grass in her open palm. It was only then that she noticed the color. The grass was grey. But so was Quinn's hand. She blinked and lifted her head, and she realized that it wasn't just the wicked clouds swirling in the sky or the grass in her hand or her hand itself – it was everything.

Everything was grey.

But the importance of the color faded. Because when Quinn pushed herself to her knees, she found herself staring directly at the old oak tree. It had suddenly appeared right next to her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And not ten steps away from her was the tire swing that she and Caleb had played on as children – the swing that they had played on well into their teenage years and young adulthood. It was the place they had come to talk, out in this old disused field a mile or so from where they had grown up. There had been a barn as well, some other trees, a couple pieces of broken, abandoned farm equipment that Caleb had liked to play on at times.

Now, there was only Quinn. And the tree. And the swing. And the tall blades of grass. And it was all shades of grey, like a beautiful black and white movie from an almost forgotten time, a recollection of a dream or a passing glimpse into another world.

And Quinn was afraid to blink.

Because someone was sitting on her swing.

It was her swing. It belonged to her and her brother. And maybe it wasn't exactly their property, but they had staked a claim over it a long time ago. Years ago. And they had reinforced that claim with love and childhood memories and laughter and tears and their initials carved inside the smooth rubber on the inside lip of the tire.

And now someone was sitting on Quinn's swing. They were pushing back and forth, their toes barely making contact with the ground each time. The stalks of grass brushed along the bottom of the tire swing, against the material of the person's jeans. Quinn narrowed her eyes in their direction – not from any ill will towards them for infringing on her territory, but mostly from confusion and intrigue.

Quinn didn't know why she was here. Maybe this person did.

"Excuse me," Quinn called out as she pushed herself up off of the ground. Her knees were stained with dirt – grey and wet from some previous moisture that had saturated the soil. She brushed them off and winced as she noticed that she had skinned the heels of her hands during her fall.

The person didn't respond. They just kept kicking leisurely back and forth, swaying to and fro, obviously not noticing Quinn or perhaps not caring to pay her any mind.

Quinn moved closer, brushing off the front of her khaki shorts she was wearing and grimacing as she noticed how dirty she had gotten her white t-shirt.

"Excuse me," Quinn tried again. She reached forward to tap on a shoulder hidden by long, dark hair. But she never got to tap on the shoulder because the person was suddenly spinning around.

"Oh, Quinn!" the girl exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Uhh…"

Quinn couldn't form words. She just didn't know how or what or why or any other context clues to help her figure out what to do.

She was lost.

The mysterious girl quickly caught on to Quinn's confusion. "Oh honey," she said, pulling herself up and out of the tire swing, "I hope I didn't frighten you."

"You didn't frighten me," Quinn replied. The words came unbidden to her lips, and she said them without thought or consideration because they were true. This beautiful girl standing in front of her wasn't a threat. In fact, she seemed like some kind of beacon of hope in this place of uncertainty and doubt and despair, in this place where time and distance seemed irreconcilable and confusing.

The girl took a step towards Quinn. "I'm glad," she said. And Quinn was glad too, even though she couldn't explain why. "You look younger than I remember." The girl's voice was reverent now as her eyes traced across the features of Quinn's face. "Barely older than I am now…" But instead of feeling self-conscious or vulnerable or confused as to why this person was examining her so closely, Quinn felt something else. Maybe it was comfort or belonging or safety or…

Maybe it was all of those things.

Maybe Quinn felt loved.

So when the girl stepped even closer – when she stood a few inches in front of Quinn's face and reached out as if she was about to cup Quinn's cheek in her palm – Quinn didn't move an inch. She didn't retreat because she was more captivated by this girl standing in front of her than anything her heart could ever remember. "Who are you?" Quinn whispered.

"I'm Rachel." She didn't seem put-off in the slightest that Quinn hadn't recognized her. "You don't remember me?" Quinn shook her head. "How old are you?"

Quinn blinked twice as she tried to think about the question, but numbers were escaping her and she just didn't know. "I don't remember," she finally answered.

"That's ok," Rachel was quick to reassure, her hand still outstretched between them as if she had momentarily sunk into uncertainty as to whether or not she should continue.

"You can touch me," Quinn said, biting her lip. "I mean," she almost stumbled on her words, "you can try. This place… It's strange, and I'm not sure it will work. The tree…" she trailed off, gesturing towards the tree next to them, her eyes shifting briefly to the tire swing just over Rachel's right shoulder. "It's as if I only got here when all hope was lost. Like this place only gave me the tree when I had nothing else to offer."

"So you're not sure if I can touch you?"

Quinn swallowed thickly and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to form the words to explain. As she was thinking, she quickly wondered whether or not Rachel would still be there when she opened her eyes again, so she snapped them open and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the still present brunette. "I think I want you to be able to touch me," Quinn tried to explain, her voice escaping in the softest of whispers across lips. "I want you to be able to touch me, and I want to be able to touch you. And I'm scared that it can't happen until I have nothing left to lose. And in this place –" she gestured around them "– I'm not sure what else it is that I have to lose. And that scares me. So touching you, it might mean losing something I didn't even know I had…"

Instead of looking confused at Quinn's attempt at logic, Rachel simply smiled. "I know you don't remember me right now, and that's ok. In fact, the you in here doesn't remember the me from out there, and the me who is out there probably won't remember the you from in here. But you'll come to learn that nothing can keep us apart, Quinn. We're stronger than that – all of the negativity and the trying times and whatever else the world has to throw at us. We're stronger than all of that."

Quinn didn't know what Rachel meant because she really didn't remember. Instead of feeling bad for the gaping holes in her memory, Quinn just reached her hand out towards Rachel's and said, "Show me."

The air shimmered and shifted uncontrollably as their hands neared each other. A swirling, beautiful mirage of colors formed between their outstretched fingertips, the only color palette in this bleak landscape. Just a little closer, that was all. Quinn's brow furrowed and she held her breath and pushed her hand closer and closer to Rachel's. The colors were churning so fast and violently, mimicking the angry, grey clouds above their heads. But still, Quinn and Rachel reached for each other.

And finally, skin touched skin. The strange mirage of colors that had formed between their palms exploded outward. Quinn's eyes eagerly took in the sight of her hand pressing against Rachel's as her hair buffeted against her face in a sudden rush of wind – she relished the solid feel of human contact against her skin. But the explosion of colors distracted her, and she turned to look at the arrays of browns and greens of her tree and its leaves and the prairie grass around their waist and the worn, fraying rope that led to the black rubber of the tire swing.

It was all so crisp and clear, and Quinn nearly cried out with joy as the heavens opened up above them and sweet raindrops began to fall down on their heads. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance as Quinn turned back to Rachel – the girl who was keeping her grounded and sane when before she had been anything but. As she stared into the most beautiful brown eyes she had ever seen, Quinn felt her body warming and her cheeks flushing.

Home.

"There she is," Rachel said, reaching out with her free hand and finally cupping Quinn's cheek, gently caressing and holding and loving.

The rain drops poured down on them, but it was as if they couldn't touch them. They were phantom drops, splattering on their noses or their shoulders or their outstretched arms before fading away into nothingness – little more than a cool splash of moisture for a single fraction of a second before disappearing.

"Here I am," Quinn whispered back. And though Rachel was smaller than her by several inches, Quinn felt herself leaning forward and letting the other girl wrap her up in a comforting embrace.

"Shh," Rachel whispered as she pressed her lips against Quinn's cheek in a chaste kiss. Because Quinn was crying, and neither of them were entirely sure as to why. Rachel slowly lowered them to the ground, leaning back against the familiar bark of the oak tree where Quinn and Caleb had long ago carved their initials in faux ownership, and she held Quinn to her chest.

Quinn rested her ear against the crook in Rachel's shoulder, and her body continued to be racked with sobs that she couldn't control if she had wanted to. Something was hurting now – it was aching painfully, and she couldn't stop it. It was causing her legs to curl up against her chest and her hands to fist tightly in the material of Rachel's shirt and her eyes to squeeze shut in the hope that it would all just dissipate from her body.

Rachel's hands soothed her hair back away from her face as raindrops pelted the ground around them, falling precariously through the many leaves above them before reaching their final destination and disappearing. Thunder shook Quinn, and she pulled herself even closer to Rachel. Which should have been impossible. But this place seemed full of possible impossibilities, so she probably shouldn't have been surprised.

With her ear pressed so tightly against Rachel, Quinn could discern a faint, precious sound. Rachel's heartbeat, it was soft and perfect and just there beneath Quinn's face. It began to calm her – even though something was still radiating torturous pain outward from somewhere inside of her chest.

Quinn realized with sudden clarity that she could not feel her own heartbeat. Where Rachel was warm and comforting and pulsing with life, Quinn felt cold and empty and as if she was nothing more than her own excruciating pain.

"Tell me a story," Quinn managed to softly gasp out from between her parted lips. She unclenched one of her hands from the now-wrinkled material of Rachel's shirt and brought it up to hold onto the smooth skin of Rachel's neck. Her fingers trailed lightly over sun-kissed skin, her knuckles gently brushed against the underside of Rachel's jaw.

"A story about what?" Rachel asked, running her fingers through Quinn's long, blonde hair.

"Anything."

Quinn felt the vibration in Rachel's chest as she hummed quietly, a noise from her throat of something akin to consideration, contemplation. And then she was speaking. Quinn thought – just maybe – that Rachel's voice was fitted for song.

The girl's words began flowing from some place deep inside of her that Quinn thought she could almost reach out and touch – some place full of warmth and compassion, hope and reassurance, familiarity and love.

Love.

The pain began to fluctuate; ebb and flow. It would reach its painful peak, and Quinn would immerse herself as fully as she could in Rachel's voice. Then the pain would recede, fading back into some place far away inside of Quinn that she could ignore, choosing to focus instead on the suppleness of Rachel's skin, the scent of strawberries and freshness and maybe the slightest hint of vanilla every time the rain-infused breeze would sweep through her hair.

And in each of these lows – in each of these recesses between the tremor-inducing pain – Quinn would feel herself slipping away. It was just there, at the edge of her vision – a beautiful array of colors that represented happiness and ease and freedom. Her eyes were already shut, all she had to do was let go. All she had to do was sleep.

But every time Quinn found herself slipping closer and closer to that restful place – that place free of whatever was causing her body's misery – Rachel would speak louder. She would speak louder or scratch her fingernails lightly down Quinn's arm or even shake her the slightest bit. Every time Quinn felt herself letting go, Rachel would grab a hold of her, keep her grounded, keep her awake.

But Quinn was so, so tired already.

"Rach," she whispered against the fabric of Rachel's t-shirt. "Please," she moaned. And the moan was so soft that it was effectively lost in a roar of thunder.

"I can't, Quinn," Rachel replied, tightening her grip around Quinn's shoulders and rocking them back and forth together. "I can't let you sleep."

"Why not?"

Rachel shook her head, and Quinn felt wetness against her cheeks. But it was from Rachel and not from herself – it was Rachel's tears. "I don't know, baby," Rachel choked out. "I just know that I can't let you sleep. I have to hold onto you, I have to keep you here. Please don't leave me." Despite the pain that was once more surging to every nerve-ending in Quinn's body, she could hear the desperation in Rachel's voice.

And it finally pulled her back to reality.

"I'm not leaving you," Quinn managed. "I would never leave you."

Quinn didn't know this girl. Not really. But she felt like she was home, and she felt loved. And whatever those feelings were – whatever they really meant – Quinn didn't know for sure. But when she told Rachel that she wouldn't leave, she meant it with every fiber of her being.

And as soon as the words left her lips, the pain stopped.

It didn't fade away. It didn't slowly recede or ebb like the tide of the ocean away from the shore.

It was just…gone.

Quinn's hands fell limply down to rest in Rachel's lap as her body finally found itself in a state of relaxation. The material of the other girl's jeans was dark, and it contrasted starkly with Quinn's pale fingers. She trailed them up and down Rachel's thighs, and it wasn't surprising in the least when a strangled laugh laced with hope escaped from the brunette.

"I would never leave you either," Rachel murmured, tilting Quinn's head back gently and pressing their lips together. "And certainly not when you need me the most."

The clouds parted. A bright, yellow ball of sunshine floated above them in the sky as they moved to lie underneath the tire swing. Rachel's arms were wrapped around Quinn's shoulders, holding her tightly, protectively to her side.

Time didn't really exist as the swing swayed gently back and forth over their heads, its shadow occasionally blocking the sun entirely from their vision.

Quinn's fingertips trailed over the tiniest portion of exposed skin between the hem of Rachel's shirt and the top of her jeans. "Sing me a song," she said softly. Her eyes fluttered closed, eyelashes tickling the skin of Rachel's neck as they did so.

"What kind of song?" Rachel asked in return. But her lips quirked upwards at the corners, knowing Quinn's answer long before it was spoken aloud.

"Anything."

When Rachel began singing, Quinn once again felt everything slipping away. But this time, it was peaceful and unaccompanied by pain. This time, the light at the edge of her vision was the purest form of white imaginable – the previous maelstrom of colors nothing more than a memory of a memory of something almost forgotten.

And this time when Quinn began to fall asleep, Rachel just kissed her forehead and continued to sing.