I'M SORRY FOR IT TAKING SO LONG!

Extinguishing

Rachel

"You wish you were dead. You want nothing more. Every day, every fucking day, you run up the steps of the house, breathing hard, swing open the cupboards, thinking: You pitiful little bitch. Fucking cow. Greedy pig. All day, your stomach pinches and spits up its bile. You sway when you walk. You begin to get cold again."

- Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

There's blood on her pillow. She's coughing up blood.

It's been two days and Rachel can't get out of bed. Every time she tries, she falls back down, exhausted. She hasn't eaten in two days, either. Maybe that's a good thing. Her throat feels like it's on fire.

Her fathers flutter around her, ever worried. They don't know what to do. Finn calls exactly twelve times, wondering where she is. She doesn't have enough energy to pick up the phone. She doesn't remember what day it is and only senses the passing of time by the rise and fall of the sun out her window.

Something's wrong with her body, that's obvious, though she doesn't know how anything can be wrong since she's not thin. She's just too tired to care what's happening.

They spot the blood on her pillow and in the toilet and the blood she coughs up into tissues and paper towels. Of course, then all hell breaks loose, and she's far too broken to stop them from strapping her into the backseat and taking her to the ER.

Finn was going to tell them soon; he just didn't know how to do it. Of course, he didn't understand how they couldn't know, how they couldn't realize their daughter was sick.

She gets it. No one wants to believe their child is crazy. No one wants to think their child who they love so much is perfectly fine with dying right now. They don't want to see it. They don't want to think she could be anything less than perfection.

Well, she's never been perfect. Maybe she never will be. What a shame.

The hospital is too loud, and she spends a good hour not knowing where she is because every time she opens her eyes she's in a new room with a new person asking her questions.

They stab her with an IV to fill her up, like she's a gas tank. Saline. Potassium. She's dehydrated, apparently. Puking does that.

While she's sleeping, they pump her stomach to get rid of the blood. She doesn't want to know how they got a tube down there. She's just thankful she wasn't awake for it.

They say it's a Mallory-Weiss tear – a tear in the esophageal lining, usually seen in bulimics from constant purging. There's medicine that will help her stomach. There's therapy and pills that will help her mind.

She's just thinking about the drip pumping fat inside her. She's come so far, only to fail. They're making her fat, again.

They take her into a cold exam room with no windows and a scale with the numbers facing backwards. A doctor takes her weight, height, and vitals. They refuse to tell her how much she's gained, even though she asks seven times. Her blood pressure is low, so that's why the world turns upside down when she tries to stand up. He pokes around her body like a Thanksgiving turkey, looking for the stuffing.

"How many times did you throw up yesterday?" he asks, pressing his cool fingers into her throat.

All day.

"I didn't," she swallows.

He raises his eyebrows, "Really?"

She nods. He sighs and continues with his exam.

Low heart rate. Shaky when standing. Swelling of the limbs and throat. Intestinal bleeding. Bloodshot eyes. Acid erosion on her teeth.

She fails with flying colors.

Back in bed, in the room with windows and her fathers pacing in the hallway, a woman with a bright red smile asks her questions. It might be ICU, in the psychiatric ward. The maze of hallways are too big to keep track.

"How do you think you look?"

Gross.

"What's your ideal weight?"

95 for starters.

"Do you ever get depressed for long periods of time?"

The better question is; am I ever happy for any period of time?

She's pretty sure she failed that test too, and it's obvious when, through the wire mesh window, she sees her dads break down, and then the doctor comes in and tells her she has bulimia nervosa.

Half of her thinks well that makes sense and the other half says bullshit! and wants to punch him in the face. Maybe that's two halves of her. Maybe that's why she's so messed up.

They tell her once she's stable, she's going to inpatient. She says it's her life and she can do whatever she wants.

Then they tell her she can't sing for a while, maybe not ever again. Stomach acid has been damaging her esophagus for years (no wonder all those cough drops weren't doing their job…). It'll take a long time for the scars to form (if she stops, that is, and if she doesn't her throat will probably rupture and she'll choke on her own blood and die there next to the toilet, like the pathetic piece of shit she is).

She can't sing? Well fuck them, she can sing.

But she can't. Her throat hurts and singing hurts and nothings fair…

She cries when no ones watching, but only in the dark.

…

Finn visits at night. It's only been eight hours since she got to the hospital, but it feels like days. She doesn't even really want to see him – she's too ugly. Why would she want him to see her when she's infested with tubes and wires and pumped full of fat?

He just stands there for a minute, staring at her. At the machines. At her face, the image broken by the feeding tube going up her nose. Her throat hurts too much to eat. She wouldn't eat for them anyway.

His gaze is uncomfortable. All of this is uncomfortable. That's why she never wanted everyone to know. It's better if they just see what they want to see.

"You can… sit down, you know," she says softly, looking away to stare at her hands, hospital bracelet hanging off her wrist.

"Right…" he mutters, sitting in the chair next to her bed. He places his hand on top of the bed sheets, open, waiting. She doesn't reach for him, but he leaves it there anyway. Hopeful. Well, he always was persistent.

"You were right. They said I'm sick."

"I know. Your dads told me. Everything's gonna be okay, Rach."

"It's not."

"But it will-"

"They're making me fat, Finn," her head snaps to stare at him, "It's not okay if they're… ruining everything."

"Those doctors saved your life! You know, you could at least pretend you want to live, for everyone else's sake!"

"I have been. Excuse me for getting tired of trying."

His shoulders sag in defeat. She wasn't supposed to say that loud. She wasn't supposed to hurt his feelings. She hurts everyone.

"Well I'm sorry for trying to help you. Sorry for being worried, and I'm sorry for loving you and wanting to keep you around."

But nobody loves a stupid girl.

"I just…" but she can't finish her sentence. She doesn't know what to say.

They sit there in awkward silence, listening to the gurgle of machines.

"They found Brittany and Santana, you know?"

"Really?" she hasn't heard anything since she stopped remembering how to sleep. If Brittany's home, she'll visit her. Maybe she'll help get her out-

"Yeah. Britt had a heart attack. From not eating."

He stresses the last part. She stares at his hand, still sitting there, open. Brittany's not dead. He would've told her. Maybe she's in the hospital, too. What does that mean? Neither of them has a chance?

"Oh."

"And Quinn… um…"

"What about Quinn?" why on Earth would he bring her up? Quinn's caused enough trouble in her life already…

"She tried to kill herself."

"Oh…"

Well. Where did that come from? It was obvious she had been depressed, but Rachel never saw her as the type of person to do that… so really, what ground did she have to stand on, telling her to stop throwing up when Quinn herself wasn't exactly all there in the head?

"She'll be okay. Scared everybody pretty bad, though."

"I'd imagine."

"Kind of like how you keep scaring me. I wish you'd quit doing that…"

"I'm not doing it on purpose."

"I know," he sighs, "I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Slowly, she picks up her hand dangling at her wrist, placing it in his. He's warm. His hand closes around hers. Warm.

"I love you," she mumbles quietly, "And I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," he squeezes her hand.

"I never wanted to… to drag you into this," her voice cracks a little from the swelling, but she feels her eyes growing hot and she hates crying in front of people, especially important people.

"I want to be here. I'm not leaving you."

He wipes a tear away with his thumb, gently stroking her face. She's just so cold, and he's warm. She wishes he could crawl into bed with her to keep her warm and they could lie there forever, and she'd never have to face the world again.

…

It's the middle of the day when Shelby visits. It's been twenty-nine hours since she entered the hospital, and Rachel is surprised. She didn't expect her. It's not like she cares about her anyway (didn't she say it at Regionals? She needs a life without her in it).

Her fathers are on a coffee break when she walks in. Shelby sits in a chair and just stares at her for a long time. She wonders how she appears to her. IV, feeding tube, and a heart monitor. What if Shelby had seen her when she had a seizure, or when she threw up blood? Would she have taken pity on her?

Would that have made her want to be her mother?

"I'm sorry I didn't visit sooner," Shelby says quietly, staring at her hands in her lap, "I heard… about how you got sick after Regionals. I didn't want to bother you."

"You wouldn't have bothered me," she smiles, clearing her throat. It's still sore. Talking too much hurts. Perfect excuse to not say anything.

"I thought you seemed… off, when we met? And when I saw you again, it was only worse. I just thought it was some teenage thing, you know? It's not like I actually know you… I mean, what do I know, right?" she sniffs, looking away and wiping her eyes, "I just… is this my fault? Because I barged into your life?"

"No. It was going on much longer than that."

"… How long? I have to tell you, I really don't know anything about… eating disorders," Rachel winces at the word, but she continues, "Then is it my fault for never being there for you? For never being your mom?"

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault for what I did."

"I just… I'm sorry. I'm probably making everything worse. I said I'd leave you alone. I shouldn't…"

"Why did you come?"

She stops and looks up, "I… I'm not sure. I just felt like I should."

"I didn't know you cared enough to come."

She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't. She checks her watch and stands up, hand resting near the hospital bed railing, "I should get going. I need to pick up Beth."

"… Beth?"

"Yes, I… well, I didn't want you to find out this way, but I adopted a baby girl. Your friend's baby, actually. Quinn? And the boy's name, Noah, but you all call him something else…"

"Puck," her mouth is dry. She adopted a baby and she doesn't need you anymore ever again. It's like a punch in the gut (for, what, the third time?), yet she can't say she didn't expect it (she's rejected her before, after all. Multiple times.).

"Yes, that's it! Puck. I only put her in daycare for half the day so I could… come visit you. Now I suppose… we're done."

They missed their chance. They will never be part of each other's lives…

Slowly, Shelby reaches up her hand and gently strokes her face, careful to avoid the feeding tube going up her nose. It feels… good. But empty, underneath. Fake.

"I've had an eating disorder for four years."

She steps back, face blank, and Rachel wonders if that makes her feel bad for her. She wants her to feel guilty because she was never there. No one was ever there.

Quickly, she leaves, probably to hide. Rachel stares at the ceiling, mulling over how the words eating disorder tasted in her mouth.

She doesn't have a mother or a running dream or a functioning body.

At least she has a diagnosis. Maybe that's the only title she'll ever earn again, but she doesn't really care anymore.

She's beginning to wonder when, exactly, she lost her will to live.