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Dysrhythmia


Tonight I'll dream, while I'm in bed,
When silly thoughts go through my head,
About the bugs and alphabet;
And when I wake tomorrow, I'll bet,
That you and I will walk together again.
I can tell that we are gonna be friends.
- The White Stripes


"I met a girl."

Beca crawls along the couch then collapses next to Aubrey. "What is this?"

Aubrey wordlessly removes one earphone and hands it to her.

"Okay, well I haven't really met her yet. I tried to say hello, but she must have been in a hurry. She kind of just marched right past me. But she was at Bellas auditions, and she sounded amazing. I think she also sits in front of me in one of my classes. I'll try talking to her again when she looks less busy." Chloe leans in even closer. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Is it too soon to ask for her hand in marriage?"

Aubrey glances down at her ring – at Chloe's ring.

"I guess I should probably buy her coffee or something first." Chloe laughs and relaxes back. "Do you ever just see someone and you want to be best friends with them? Probably not; you're a laptop. That'd be weird. I mean, maybe you're best friends with the printer or something. I don't know. You do have a connection with Bluetooth." She laughs at her own joke then becomes serious again. "I've never really had that kind of connection with anybody. I hope she likes me. I mean, I know she's going to like me. I just hope she really likes me. Like the go to the mall together, have sleepovers, call each other for no reason kind of like. I guess I'm getting ahead of myself here. I don't even know her favorite color – or her last name. I know her first name is Aubrey though. She said it at auditions. I'm pretty sure she said her last name too, but I was too busy staring at her at that point." She exhales a dreamy sigh. "Remember in middle school when I doodled my crushes names all over my notebooks? I might have started doing that again. At least it looks like I'm taking notes. Here, look." She holds up a notebook with Aubrey's name written in fancy letters several times.

"She is so…" Beca pauses.

"Endearingly creepy?" Aubrey supplies.

"Yes, that."

Aubrey hates to think of Chloe as creepy, because it's not completely accurate. But, also, anyone who bursts in on a stranger in the shower, naked, deserves that label in some way, shape, or form. She's just glad it was Beca who had to had to deal with that. Right now, however, she would deal with anything Chloe had to throw at her. Instead, she has to deal with the gaping hole in her heart where Chloe's presence should be right now. It's unbearable, constant pain, worse than any physical pain she's in. She could be shot and poisoned a hundred times, and it still wouldn't come close.

Chloe might not ever come back.

The thought keeps creeping up no matter how hard Aubrey tries to shove it down.

"Aubrey?"

"I'm fine," Aubrey says, "Shut up." She just wants to talk to her one more time, to hug her one more time, to hear her say her name again in person one more time – even if it's just one more time. Just one more time. One more minute. One more second. Anything. She should have stopped and talked to her after auditions; they would have had more time. Aubrey Posen, who prides herself on never wasting time, somehow managed to waste so much of it.

Chloe is walking across the room then back again after she gets her guitar. She settles back down on her chair and uses her feet to push it back from her desk so she has more room. "I guess I should probably make her her own folder so she doesn't get lost in the sea of my life." She sits there, still, just smiling to herself for a few moments before positioning her guitar so she can play it. "Aubrey…" she says again, "I love that name."

Aubrey could listen to her say her name again and again and again…

She rewinds a few seconds back to hear it one more time – barely registering as Beca removes the earbud from her ear and gets up from the couch to go to the kitchen. Staring at Chloe gives her tunnel vision. Nothing else exists – especially not when she sings.

"Fall is here, hear the yell;
Back to school, ring the bell.
Brand new shoes, walking blues;
Climb the fence - books and pens.
I can tell that we are gonna be friends.
I can tell that we are gonna be friends
."

Aubrey puts the video on repeat.

xxxxx

It's dark when Aubrey wakes up – the kind of dark that makes it feel like a black hole swallowed up any source of light. It takes her a second to realize that her eyes are even open. She stretches her legs out across the couch, kind of hoping to kick Beca so she can convince her to turn on a light – but, of course, Beca abandoned her for the bed and left her out here in the dark living room alone. Great. She can't even see which direction the nearest light switch is in. This would be a lot easier if she was home and could just get there by memory. She sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the couch. The ground is a lot farther down than she remembers it being.

Aubrey slides forward until her feet are on the floor, the utters a sharp 'ow' when the corner of the coffee table jabs her in the lower stomach. Her voice sounds different. Smaller. Maybe more high-pitched. She fumbles her way over to a wall and feels around for a light switch – first at her level and then higher. Not only is her voice smaller; she is smaller. The switch is high above her head. She can just quite reach it with her fingertips, and with some stretching, she manages to flip it on.

Beca is on the couch.

She's sitting up, stiff, eyes wide open and unseeing.

And there's blood pooling around her, leaking into the cushions, spilling onto the floor.

No.

"Mom?!" Aubrey calls toward the bedroom.

A woman appears in the archway, but it isn't Julia. It's her actual mother. She chucks a bleach soaked rag at Aubrey's head as Aubrey gapes at her in confusion. "Clean that up." Then she disappears into the kitchen – completely gone when Aubrey looks that direction.

"Mom?!" Aubrey calls again, hoping for the right one this time. She inches her way along the wall toward the hallway, trying not to look at Beca on her way there. But she can't help it. She keeps glancing that way, numb with shock. "Mom!" No answer. Nothing. She can't be dead too.

"What the hell are you doing?" General Posen booms.

Aubrey backs up, away from the archway, away from her approaching father. "Nothing." The back of her legs bump the coffee table and she freezes, watching him unbuckle his belt. "I didn't do anything."

"Clean it up, Aubrey!" her mother yells from some far off place.

Blood is soaking into the carpet. Just glancing at Beca has her tasting bile. Just clean it up, Aubrey. Just do it. Her knees begin to tremble as her father pulls the familiar leather belt out of the loops on his jeans. She can't move. She tries to move. She gathers up her strength and tries to walk over to the rag discarded on the floor, but her feet just won't do it. She's stuck – like glued to the ground kind of physically stuck. And her father is coming closer.

JJ starts to laugh. Aubrey didn't even know he was in the room. But there he is, next to the front door, laughing hysterically at her. And Liam is next to him, giggling away.

Beca laughs too.

Aubrey's gaze snaps in that direction and she's shocked to see there's no longer any blood. Beca is alive and well, standing next to the couch, staring at her in a satisfied amusement. And when Aubrey looks down, she realizes why. The inside of her pants are becoming increasingly wet and urine is puddling around her feet. Panic wells up inside of her. Instead of standing up for herself, instead of tearing them all down with a string of insults, instead of vomiting, she wrenches her feet from their stuck position and she runs. Straight down the hallway. Through the bedroom door. Into – the living room?

Aubrey looks around in horror – gasping and panting.

This can't be right.

They're all still laughing at her.

She takes off down the hallway again, only to burst right back into the living room.

No, no, no, no, no.

She doesn't stop this time. She runs full speed down the hall, through the living room, again and again and again in a never ending loop as they all just stand there, cracking up.

Chloe would never laugh at her like this.

Chloe.

Aubrey emits a small shriek as she flings the bedroom door open once more and this time, instead of running into the living room, she steps off a ledge and begins to fall. She flails for something to grab onto, but there's nothing. There's just cold, dark nothing. This is what death is.

Wake up.

She's dreaming. This is a dream.

Wake up.

Aubrey belly flops so hard onto warm, wet gravel that she's positive all of her ribs are broken and her internal organs are bleeding. She lays there in the blood, eyes clamped shut, knowing exactly what's beside her.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Get it together.

You're scared of a dream?

Of a dead deer?

Coward.

No wonder you didn't get anyone out of there alive.

Aubrey opens her eyes. Only, it's not the deer beside her. Inches from her face, dead and decaying, is Chloe.

xxxxx

The dream might not have been real, but the terror Aubrey wakes up in sure is – especially when rather than finding herself in bed with Chloe, she throws back the blanket and scrambles upright to see she's in the living room with Beca fast asleep on the other end of the couch. Closing her eyes again, she collapses sideways against the back of the couch and tries to catch her breath. The stench of blood clings to her. It doesn't matter how many times she showers or what clothes she wears; she can still smell blood, vomit, dirt, pee, all of it.

Careful not to wake Beca, she turns and swings her legs over the edge of the couch. The bottom of her feet touch the floor and reality feels a little more real. Beca must have tucked her in, because Chloe's laptop is closed on the table with the earphones in a pile on top of it. She returns the favor and covers Beca up before she makes her way toward the kitchen. Her legs feel made of Jell-O and the rest of her body pins and needles. And maybe she's shaking or maybe she's shivering; it's difficult to tell. Maybe it's both.

It takes her a second to locate the cupboard with the medication, and once she does, she just stares at the bottles. Power through it, Aubrey. It hurts so bad – her arm, her stomach, all of her. Shaking her head, denying the thought, she takes the pain medication down and tries to open the lid. Push and twist caps weren't made for people with only one working hand. She presses the top against her cast and tries to open it that way, but no such luck.

Think, Aubrey, think.

The steak knife holder catches her eye.

She can't even hold her hand steady.

Bad idea.

Suppressing a groan, she turns so her back is against the cabinets and slowly sinks to the floor to think harder.

Bark clambers over to her and scratches at her thigh.

"Stop." Aubrey slides him across the floor away from her.

He's back two seconds later with a toy that he tries to shove in her hand.

Aubrey takes it and throws it (as well as whatever energy she had) as far out of the kitchen as possible. She watches him run after it then draws her legs up closer to her chest so she can rest her head against her knees. This is all so stupid. She can't even open a medicine bottle. She tries to will away the pain, the nausea, the fever, all of it. But all she can think of is Chloe.

Bark slides on the linoleum, half away across the kitchen, when he comes running back. He scrambles back to her and tries to squeeze the toy between her legs and stomach. He barks when she doesn't budge and scratches at her thigh again.

Can't he see she's in pain? Aren't dogs supposed to be hypersensitive of that kind of stuff or something? Aubrey reaches up and grips the counter top in order to pull herself back to her feet. She isn't sure what was a worse idea – standing back up or sitting down to begin with. He's still scratching at her and barking as she leans over the sink, gripping the faucet, letting her forehead rest on the back of her hand. Maybe the steak knife idea isn't such a bad one after all…

"Lose something down the garbage disposal?" Brian asks from behind her.

Aubrey pushes herself upright and shakes her head. "I was just looking."

"Down the garbage disposal?"

"I think you have mold," Aubrey replies, "You should get that taken care of."

"Thank you for your middle of the night plumbing expertise, but the pipes are black because it's dark. You okay?"

Aubrey crosses her arm across her chest and bounces her foot.

"Would you like assistance locating your medication?"

It's not locating it that's the problem.

He flips on the light.

"Definitely mold."

Brian steps up beside her and looks down the drain then at her. "Does your jaw ever get sore from always clenching it like that?"

It does actually. "Never."

"Alright, well, bleach is down below if you want to take care of that. Goodnight."

Bleach. Just like that, the image of Chloe lying next to her bombards her mind again. "Goodnight." The light turns back off, but he doesn't leave. Aubrey can feel him standing there in the archway behind her. "I can't open it."

The light turns on again. "Sucks, doesn't it?" Brian walks over to the table. "People waiting on you like you're the Queen of England?" He pulls out a chair and motions to it. "You know, you could probably make a demand for anything and someone in this house would make it happen. Yet, you still want to do it all yourself."

The only thing Aubrey wants is Chloe. Nothing else matters. She drags herself over to the chair and sits down.

Brian drops an ugly orange mixing bowl with a rainbow confetti pattern all over it on the table in front of her. "If you puke in that, I never have to look at it again," he explains when she looks at him in confusion.

"I don't think I could throw up again if I tried." Her stomach is empty. And on fire.

"Bummer." He brings the medicine bottles to the table and lines them up in front of her. "You could take these – boring. Or," – he places a other bottle in front of them – "You could take one of these bad boys."

Aubrey stares at the bottle. "Morphine?"

"This shit works."

"That wasn't prescribed to me."

"But it was prescribed. If you want stronger, I can go get something from the back." Brian sits down next to her. "Look. You're in pain, and you're not going to get addicted to Morphine from just one pill." He opens the top with ease and slides one tablet across the table in her direction then gets back up again. "I'll get you some water."

Aubrey is in pain – so much so that it's a little difficult to think of much else outside of wanting it to stop. She shakes her head. "I can power through it."

"You can," Brian agrees, "But that doesn't mean you have to. What do you have to prove to anybody here that they don't already know? I could have sat with pain too after I had surgery on my knee, but instead, I chose Morphine. I think you want to be in pain."

"No one wants to be in pain."

"So then take the Morphine." Brian sets the glass of water down in front of her. "If you want to prove something, prove you're not punishing yourself for what happened. It's not your fault anyone is dead. It's not your fault she's in a coma. Take the Morphine."

"Dude, if someone is offering you Morphine, take it," Beca says from the archway, "You're in pain."

"I shouldn't even be in this much pain. It's not even that bad. It should be gone by now."

Beca pushes herself away from the wall and walks into the kitchen. "Okay, cast," she says pointing at Aubrey's arm, then at her shoulder, "Gunshot wound." She lets her hand fall to her side. "And you ran laps around an entire island in the rain, freezing, while vomiting because you were most likely poisoned. But you're right – I can't imagine why you would feel anything less than awesome right now."

"Take the morphine," Brian whispers.

"I don't know how Chloe gets through to you," Beca says, pulling up a chair, "But you know if she was here right now, you'd be taking this Morphine."

"She's not here."

"You can still miss her and take the pills" Beca replies, "They have nothing to do with each other."

"They do if she blames herself."

Aubrey scoffs at him.

"For what?" Beca asks, "Finding her in the middle of the woods?"

If she had just tried harder. She should have never taken her eyes off Chloe – not even for a second. She had only turned around for a second… This could all be different. "I don't." Aubrey picks up the Morphine tablet and looks it over. It's just a painkiller. She swallows it down with some water then leans back in her chair. "What are you doing?" She instinctively flinches away as Beca's hand moves toward her face.

"Okay, that's not going to help you if you have a fever."

Aubrey leans away farther.

"You're impossible." Beca stands up and feels her cheek. Her fingers are pleasantly cool, but also a reminder of the time they slapped her in that exact same spot and the events that followed directly after that.

Aubrey swats Beca's hand away then covers her cheek with her hand.

Beca looks down at her palm, flexing her fingers, and Aubrey can tell she's thinking about the exact same thing.

"Circadian Rhythm," Brian announces.

"What?" Aubrey asks.

"There's less cortisol in your body when it's time to sleep," Brian explains, "Your body kicks into high gear in order to fix whatever's wrong with you. That's why people feel worse at night. I'm so smart."

"Fine," Aubrey concedes and bumps the fever reducer and anti-emetic with the back of her hand, "Just open the bottles."

Beca hops to it.

"See," Brian refers back to his earlier statement on people waiting on her, "Anything."

Aubrey takes the pills as they're handed to her. "How long does this stuff take to kick in?"

"30-60 minutes," Brian answers.

Great.

"Your jaw really has to hurt from clenching it like that all the time."

"Everything hurts." Aubrey looks down and picks at her cast, examining the signatures.

Beca flops back down in a chair and folds her arms across the table to rest her chin on them.

Sit up straight, Aubrey. The demand doesn't quite connect with her movements as she slouches down in the chair, closing her eyes as Beca moves one arm to rest a hand on her knee.

xxxxx

Morphine is like standing alone in an empty field – only that field is Aubrey's body. Everything else is gone. Mostly. It's gone enough. Enough so that when Beca pulls her to her feet, she's completely unaware of how she leans the majority of her body weight on her, and they both almost topple to the ground.

"You're not so bad," she mumbles halfway down the hall.

Whatever Beca says back is lost on her.