This story seems to have burst through my usual writer's block/creativity barrier so I'm enjoying it while it lasts! May get edited later on. This is set slightly before the last chapter and I have no idea where this is going or if it will continue but if you deem anything worthy in it, let me know!
- XCatseyesX
As always, characters belong to the creators of Glee, I'm just adding a little extra.
Time is dragging, the distance between each metal hand stretching for an eternity, a frozen scene in a hospital waiting room. You worry your lip between your teeth, the plum shade of your lipstick tasting bitter and unnatural on your tongue. Your hands are in front of you, clutching at the snowfall gown, the material crinkling like tissue paper under the nervous movements of your twitching fingers. The call came just moments after you walked hand in hand for the first time as a married couple, Mr Schuster's exuberant expression falling, face paling to match the white of your dress. You haven't seen Puck since he tore out of city hall, burning rubber to race the ambulance, his congratulations still floating in the air around you. You lift your head again to glance at the clock. Ten minutes past. Across from you, Santana's languish form is stretched over two chairs, her upper body fully collapsed into her soul mate's support, fingers clinging onto the strong thighs for dear life. Her bleary eyes like the dying embers of a forest fire are fixed on the door further up the hall, the cinders dulling to dust with each passing minute. Crescent marks mar the soft skin beneath her, inflicted as lovingly as the hand gently brushing through the dark wavy locks, the words "Don't leave me" marked into the flesh. Britney's electric blue gaze sends crackling jolts over your lashes and a blush works up your throat as you realise you are intruding on their grievous solace. You quickly drop your eyes to rest on the glaringly empty chair beside you; your newly minted husband isn't by your side. Guilt worms its way through your insides, burrowing deep within your heart before settling into a thick tight knot. White picket dreams tearing at the seams. A sigh slips past your lips, the only emotional response you can muster right now and you force yourself to concentrate on the present. Four fifteen. All you can do is wait, you just hope the seconds are long enough to help the broken girl on the other side of the door.