"Drum Fills in Our Hearts"

Chapter 7 - Formulaic

Her mother didn't even ask her why she was still at home at 1:30 when she stopped in for her lunch break. She was wearing her putrid green hospital scrubs and had dark bags under her eyes. Quinn was sitting in the kitchen, a few drops of milk from her cereal bowl sprayed across the countertop.

Her mother had paused in the doorway, a little shocked to see her home, Quinn supposed. She took a deep breath in and an audible breath out, then walked to the fridge to prepare her usual sandwich.

One thirty in the afternoon was the break between jobs for Judy Fabray. Since moving to Lima, she'd taken on the early morning nursing shift at the local hospital. From 3:30 to nearly midnight, she'd find herself at one of those chop-shop emergency care storefront clinics, dragging hacking patients from the waiting room to the exam room, where they'd wait forty minutes for the overworked doctor on call.

"Home today?" She looked across the counter, up from her sandwich preparation, at Quinn, who was staring into the leftover milk of her cereal bowl.

Quinn nodded, still looking down.

"Need anything?" Her mother said softly.

She shook her head. Her voice wasn't to be trusted.

"Ok."

Quinn's mind had been blank all day and she intended to keep it that way. In the early morning she'd moved from the stairs to her bed and quickly fallen asleep. At around eleven, she found herself tossing and turning in her covers, unable to will herself back to sleep. At 11:30, she was absentmindedly flipping through television channels, never landing on one for more than a few minutes. At 1:25, the grumbling in her stomach became too overwhelming and she grabbed the easiest thing she could find.

She emptied her bowl in the sink as she heard her mother slip out of the kitchen with her plate and up the stairs. On those few occasions when she'd stayed home sick she knew that this time was most often a time for her mother to catch up on a little sleep. She went back to the television and turned it down a few notches, resuming her channel-flipping.

The loud thrumming of her phone vibrating against the glass top of the coffee table woke her up.

Rachel.

She looked over at the clock. 4:15. She was missing band practice.

She didn't want to talk to Rachel, but she also didn't want to deal with Puck storming into her home, like last time. She picked up.

"Hello?" She tried her best to retain the groggy voice she knew she'd had from waking up.

"Quinn, where are you? Puck and I are waiting. Well, I'm waiting. Puck said he might be back if you show up." As usual, Rachel was buzzing a mile a minute.

"Sorry, Rachel. Not feeling well. I should have called you." She whispered, a scratch still remained from her exhaustive sobs the night before.

"Yes, well." Rachel paused. Quinn wanted her to keep talking. Rachel usually kept talking. She thought about opening her door to find Rachel, with some homemade soup and a movie. They'd get under a blanket and she'd feel the warmth of Rachel's skin against her own. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well, Quinn. I hope you feel better soon."

She felt the air deflate from her lungs. "Thanks," she whispered and heard a click on the other end.

It took a while to fall back asleep on the couch. Their conversation played back through her head another hundred times.

What if I hadn't picked up? Would Rachel have come over? Maybe she'd be over here right now and I'd get to see her.

What if I'd asked her how she was doing? Maybe Rachel would have kept talking and they'd have one of those conversations like best friends have. One of those conversations that only ends because someone falls asleep on the other end.

What if I'd just gone to practice? It would be like nothing happened at all. It would be like I was still back on the medicine and we were just hanging out and Rachel didn't know about me, about my...

But if I'd gone to practice, I'd be able to see it in her face. I'd be able to see that she knows. There'd be a little twitch. Or there'd be some coldness, like there was on the phone. Maybe she'd have told Puck.

Her brain raced until it had worn itself out. The muted television flashed light across the darkened room as Quinn softly snored.

She only woke again when she felt a brush of warmth against her forehead and the click of the remote, shutting off the tv.

"Quinn, go upstairs." Her mother was whispering, very close by. A hand, not her own, ran through her hair and down to the nape of her neck.

She took the stairs slowly, closely followed by her mom. She didn't even change out of her clothes as she collapsed against her bed for another night of dead sleep.

...

Friday happened much the same as Thursday. Her mother paused in the doorway just a little longer this time at lunch, probably contemplating how to get Quinn back to some sense of normalcy, Quinn imagined. She'd struggled even more than she had on Thursday with keeping her mind empty.

In the afternoon, not long after the front door clicked shut and she knew her mother had disappeared to the clinic, she found herself flipping through Rachel's Facebook pictures. Her cheeks flushed as she clicked again and again, studying Rachel through her past year in pictures. Rachel in a pure white dress, kneeling in front of that mean cheerleader as she sang in last year's production of West Side Story. Quinn wondered how Rachel might look kneeling in front of her.

Rachel standing on her tiptoes, eyes searching as she sang to that giant football player, Finn, during Glee club. Quinn wondered if Rachel would ever look at her that way if she joined the Glee club. No matter, she wasn't much of a singer.

Quinn closed her eyes and tried to imagine it. Rachel in front of her. Rachel looking up at her. Rachel searching her. She felt herself harden against the fabric of her cotton sweatpants.

She shook her head to rid her mind of the thoughts. She'd been friends with Rachel. She'd been at Rachel's house. She'd even been in Rachel's bed. These thoughts had never plagued her before.

She flipped through some older pictures. Rachel, again with Finn, on the stage. Finn kneeling down and holding her hand as she sang to him with a bouquet of some type of flowers in her hand. She was wearing one of those mid-thigh pleated skirts. Quinn had seen them so often. It was like Rachel's uniform, but she'd never noticed the tone and smoothness of Rachel's legs. She imagined grabbing a firm thigh and squeezing until it bruised a little. Her hips twitched suddenly at the thought.

Before she could think about what she was doing, her fingers were hovering over the center of her sweatpants and gently rubbing the fabric against her skin underneath. Her right hand abandoned the mouse and brushed down against her own thigh, squeezing tightly just above her knee.

Her eyes trailed back up Rachel's leg on the screen. She'd run her fingers up the back of Rachel's legs until she found the lace of her underwear. It'd be pink, she decided. Black was too mischievous, not like Rachel. Red assumed too much sexuality. Rachel was innocent. She closed her eyes and felt her pelvis begin a shallow rhythmic thrusting against the slow massage of her hand. Her right hand continued to flex and grasp tightly at her right thigh. She could feel a burning in her right forearm from the strength of her grasp.

She opened her eyes back up to see that giant, Finn. Her right hand quickly abandoned her thigh and reached for the mouse, clicking back, back, back, until she found a yearbook shot of Rachel leaning against her open locker in an argyle sweater vest and another short, short skirt.

Quinn found her left hand pulling up the elastic waistband of her sweatpants to pull herself out. She didn't dare look at it, but wrapping her fingers around it, it just seemed bigger than the last time. She didn't want to dwell on the thought too long, but she imagined maybe it had something to do with the medicine. She gasped a little as the cool air whispered against it. Her right hand returned to her thigh, grabbing even harder this time. She could feel the skin on her thigh break under her fingernails.

She knew it was wrong. Staring at this picture of Rachel as her hand slowly, steadily picked up the pace, as her fingers experimented with trailing down the base of the shaft, running along the underside, collecting some fluid from the tip, and slowly running back down. Her right hand would be her disciplinarian - punishing her body as she pleased herself. Her nails dug hard into her thigh, clenched so hard that her forearm hurt, and she released, only to do it again. As her left hand sped its pace, her right hand moved in concert.

She clenched her eyes shut in the final moments. Beads of sweat dewed against her hairline and trickled down the side of her face as her brain and body fought against one another. Her hot breath condensed against the computer screen as she found herself breathing heavier and heavier, muted gasps at every other exhale as she willed her release. She could feel it building, then ebbing, then building more intensely, then ebbing.

She imagined what Rachel might look like - beneath her, on top of her, beside her - trembling, just as Quinn was, gasping, just as Quinn was, body violently working, working, working. Quinn's hips thrust harder as she clenched her jaw. Rachel, mouth open, eyes tightly shut. Quinn's left hand shallowed its strokes until just her thumb, index, and middle fingers rubbed frantically against the top two inches. Rachel, breasts heaving with her harried moans.

Before she could do anything to stop it, a spray of sticky white semen spurted from the tip, erupting against the screen, the desk, her sweatpants. Her hand gradually stroked through her release and into her shame.

As she found her bearings, she unclenched her jaw and the tightness of her right forearm. Beneath, she found five small bloodstains against her gray sweatpants. She opened and closed her right hand, stretching it, and making note of the traces of blood beneath her fingernails.

She wanted to climb into her bed and forget everything. She wanted to immediately fall asleep, just like last time. Except the evidence was in plain view this time. She grabbed the first old t-shirt she could find from her floor and wiped down the screen and desk. She closed out the picture on the screen. She'd deal with the sweatpants and the t-shirt rag in the morning.

She didn't hear her mother come home that night. She didn't hear her phone ring that night. Instead the shame of her actions rattled through her tired mind.

...

There was a voicemail waiting for her on Saturday morning.

Hi Quinn, it's Rachel. I hope you're feeling better. If you're up to it, I thought you might want to come over tomorrow. I can give you the work you missed in Mr. Stevenson's class and we can play a little, too. Call me back.

Quinn rolled into her pillow and buried her face deeper. Rachel must know. She grabbed the pillow tightly until she felt her muscles clench and her arms begin to shake. Rachel had to know what she'd done last night. Rachel must know about the picture, about the scars Quinn left with her fingernails, about the traces of semen still on her sweatpants. She couldn't call her back.

She rolled back and forth in the bed for another hour, leaving the phone on one side of her body, only to roll back over, pick it up, and replay Rachel's voicemail. She did it again and again until her phone beeped at her to be recharged.

Downstairs a note waited for her on the kitchen counter.

Quinn,

I made us an appointment with Dr. White tomorrow. I'm off of work and he's agreed to meet with us a little sooner than usual. Please be ready to go at noon.

Mom

She swore Monday would be the day that she'd go back to school. The weekend would be enough recovery time. But now, tomorrow, she'd be bombarded with adults telling her what she was doing wrong and how she needed to fix herself. Tomorrow would be full of talk on "getting better" and "doing what's appropriate."

She sat down on the couch and tilted her head against the backrest to stare at the ceiling. Nothing was getting better. Nothing would get better. She'd have to make better happen. Or something.

She ran back upstairs to grab her phone. Rachel's picture was on her screen before she'd even fully processed that she'd called her.

"Hello?" Rachel's voice wasn't the cheer she was used to.

"Uh, hi." She wanted Rachel to be her usual self, not this muted, cold girl on the other end. Maybe she was just projecting.

"What's up?" Rachel waited.

"Well. You called me. Last night. I just got the message today." Quinn waited for some recognition.

"Oh right, yeah Daddy had me call...I mean, it's just been a while since you've been over here. Your drum set is collecting dust in the basement and I actually brought home some of your work. Mr. Stevenson was asking if anyone was friends with you and I volunteered to bring it home."

"Uh huh." Quinn wanted to pick every word apart and snap at her, but this was the girl of her literal dreams.

"So, do you want to come play for a little bit or pick up your work or something? I can't hang out for long, I've got a..." she stopped and searched for words. Quinn rarely heard Rachel pause mid-sentence. "I've got something to do tonight. That I need to get ready for."

"Yeah, why not. I'll be over in a few." She couldn't decide if agreeing was the right choice. On the one hand: Rachel. On the other hand, that paranoia wore inside of her, tormenting her. Rachel knew what she did last night.

It took her longer than expected to take a shower and pick out her clothes. It had been nearly three days since her last shower, she realized, as she scrubbed extra hard at the fingernail marks still fresh on her thigh. She willed them, and the reminder of her shame, away. She'd settled on a tighter fitting pair of jeans, her red converse sneakers, and a plain white t-shirt. She'd never done flashy, but she felt good in this outfit. Maybe Rachel would think so, too. Maybe that frigid tone would melt into warmth upon sight.

...

Rachel's dad answered the door, cheerier than usual.

"Quinn!" He smiled, flashing a full set of enhanced white teeth. "It's so good to see you. We were just talking yesterday about how long it's been since you've been over here. Gave Rachel a little nudge to call you up."

So there it was. This wasn't Rachel's idea. That lingering unsettled feeling she'd had on the phone was right. She wanted to turn around and go home in that instant, but the disappointment from Rachel's dad would have been too much.

"Anyway, Rach is in her room, if you wanna go on up."

Quinn nodded and looked toward the stairs. Rachel Berry probably didn't want a freak like her in her room.

She noticed that the door was open as she reached the top of the stairs. She stored away the image of Rachel Berry, head resting against her palms as she read a book on her bed. The swell of her backside had left about an inch of space between the pleats of her skirt and her legs, where Quinn imagined a shock of cool air might hit her underwear and leave her with goosebumps.

She shook her head and moved toward the door.

"Rachel." Rachel scrambled off the bed, ruffling her pink comforter, as she stood to greet Quinn. "May I come in?"

"Um, well, let me get your things...your homework, I mean, and we can go downstairs. Ok?" Quinn felt justified in her self-loathing - Rachel didn't want the freak in her bedroom. Rachel's eyes bored into her as she awaited Quinn's answer.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Fine. I'll meet you down there."

A few minutes without Rachel and her jaw began to clench. Rachel knows. She wished she'd stayed at home.

When Rachel came downstairs, she'd just tell her that it was best they end their friendship. She'd tell her that she had some pathological lying condition and Rachel should never have believed any of the things she'd said to her the other day. Rachel would believe that, right?

Rachel had somehow crept her way downstairs before she'd had enough time to come up with the full plan.

"So, Thursday in Mr. Stevenson's class we learned more about derivatives. He said that you should review the examples on page 331 and do some problems. I put a post-it note on the problems that we did in class. On Friday we took a quiz, so I guess just study what we learned this week." Rachel had the book flipped open. Quinn looked at the book and snuck a look at Rachel as she explained the week's work. Rachel's thigh was almost touching hers on the couch.

"Thanks." She stared down at the open book that rested halfway on her lap and halfway on Rachel's.

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." Quinn took a deep breath, but wouldn't look up.

She could feel Rachel's eyes on her and a stirring beneath her jeans. The material was tight enough that it probably wouldn't show, but she still clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping somehow to make the feeling go away. She felt Rachel's warm hand over her own, still resting atop the calculus book.

"Can I tell you something, Quinn?"

This was the moment. Quinn gulped, swallowing air and saliva. Her chest hurt. The stirring grew more. This was what she was waiting for. If Rachel kisses me, will I be a good kisser? If Rachel tells me she likes me, what should I say back to her? Anything, Rachel, you can tell me anything. Her mind raced but her mouth was sealed shut.

Quinn turned her head toward Rachel, ready for the good news, ready for a kiss.

"I'm going on a date." Rachel's eyes were bright and her hand gripped at Quinn's, clenching it tighter.

She wasn't sure she was breathing. She wasn't sure that she had Rachel's hand still in her own. She wasn't sure of anything.

"Ow, Quinn, that hurts," was the next thing she heard as Rachel gave her a pained look and pulled against her hand.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Quinn released her hand and stared forward.

"Did you hear me? What should I wear? I've never been on a date. Have you been on a date before? I mean, you're so beautiful, of course you've been on a date, Quinn. What am I thinking?" Quinn couldn't tell if Rachel was joking or not. She had to be joking right. Rachel knew. If Rachel knew, then she also must know that there was no way Quinn had ever been on a date. Her molars ached. She didn't realize how hard she'd been clenching her jaw.

"It's with this guy in Glee club. I've had a crush on him for a while. Like a long time, actually. He's just so tall and handsome. He's an all-American guy, too. He plays football and wears polo shirts and drives a truck." Rachel had to be mocking her now. She'd never be an all-American guy. She'd never be able to live up to this guy's appeal. Rachel was flaunting him in her face.

"So, do you think I should go with a dress or a skirt?"

That did it. Rachel had to know. She'd mentioned the skirt in front of Quinn. The skirt that Quinn fantasized about. The skirt that Quinn dreamt of running her fingers beneath. The skirt that Quinn took a mental snapshot of, while Rachel was reading on her bed. Rachel had to know. Quinn's paranoia bubbled over.

"Wear whatever the fuck you want Rachel." Her voice was barely above a raspy whisper. Rachel's eyes blew open as she continued. "Go on your date with your all-American, normal boy. Wear that short, slutty skirt for him and let him do whatever he wants to you. That's what you want, isn't it? Some man to just put his hands all over you and use you? You're disgusting."

Quinn couldn't process the words as they spewed from her mouth, crescendoing at every sentence. "And when he's done with you, I hope you think of me. Think about how nice I've been to you. Think about how I didn't even know you and I played for your college audition. I helped you get into college. Think about those Saturday mornings when we'd drink lemonade on this couch and I'd let you talk to me all about Broadway, this stupid shit I don't even care about. Think about that time when you called me your friend." Her voice dropped off into barely a whisper at the last word. Rachel's mouth hung open.

"Think about how I told you everything." Her voice cracked into a sob, as she stood with tears in her eyes. "I told you everything," she whispered.

"Quinn..." Rachel began.

The binding of the calculus textbook strained as it bent against Rachel's bare thigh, now without Quinn's leg to rest against.

Quinn didn't hear the end of Rachel's sentence. She didn't care how it ended. She knew there wasn't a happy ending to this chapter. There wasn't a happy ending to any chapter.

A/N - Consider this my apology for the length between updates. There's one more chapter left to Part One. Thanks everyone.