A/N: Part three, only one section left of adult glee members freaking out, and then we start the really good stuff. Thank you so, so much for reading and reviewing, this story is pretty unconventional. I hope you all enjoy.
-TSL
PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN
CHAPTER FIVE:
12 PHONE CALLS (2018) - continued...
7
Brittany Pierce Takes A Hotline
She's always been unnaturally perceptive.
It's almost like a sixth sense.
Almost.
She likes to consider herself of direct relation to Shirley MacLaine, simply for the fact that the lady played in "Steel Magnolias" and she has a soft spot for Dolly Parton. But also because Mrs. MacLaine is a notable spiritualist and occultist – she can respect that. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication. And Brittany isn't sure that she has enough of that to make her gift a profession. But she has fun nonetheless. She found an ad in the paper a couple of years ago for a phone psychic. It seemed like fun, plus there was a really cool picture of a genie and a lamp over it – and she's always loved Aladdin. It took a phone call to the dispatch company and soon she was getting her own number code, and instructions for tracking hours and wages. Within two days – Brittany was receiving calls throughout the day from drunk college kids within the metro area, and elderly lonely adults who were looking for answers. She mostly relied on her natural talents to give proper answers – nonetheless, it paid for her parties and her shoes, and her food.
The dancing takes care of everything else. She's an assistant choreographer in the entertainment industry. She's worked on dozens of music videos and a handful of films. Doling out her instructions. It's time consuming and incredibly taxing but she loves the thrill of it, and the rush of adrenaline that floods her system with every jolt of motion that comes rippling out of her toned muscles. She's a natural really. Today however, is not a dance day. It's a psychic on the side day, and she shuffles around her small apartment with a bowl of Lucky Charms mixed with Trix, and fluffy socks with ducks on them. Hovering the phone in the space between her chin and shoulder as her jaws crunch around the cereal.
"Madame Bovary-Blue speaking." She has to swallow the confectionary breakfast away quickly so that she can sound more professional. she speaks through a spoonful. Catching the milk that drips from her lip quickly with a finger.
"Hello, are you the psychic hotline?"
"Madame Bovary-Blue knows no hotline bounds. But would like to inform her clients that she sees a payment of $1.75 per minute in their future if they wish to extend this phone call past three minutes. Is that agreeable darling?"
"Yes."
"Let us begin. What is your name bright one?" She lets an air of mystery swirl around her tongue as she speaks. She has also adopted a rudimentary Russian accent for authenticity purposes.
"…Shouldn't you know that already? I mean you're the psychic."
"Of course, but talent is not wasted on the mundane. Tell me you're name and I'll tell you your future. You cannot wager on readings, we don't always see what our hearts desire of us to see."
"I guess…well my name's Amy."
"Madame Bovary-Blue sees your future Amy." Brittany inflects an airiness into her tone of voice as she tries to silently fill her mouth with another spoonful of cereal. She smiles at the milk in her bowl while it changes colors. She remembers that she has caller I.D. and brings the phone down to her eyes, seeing the name written plainly in black across the small L.E.D. screen.
"Amy…M- Miller. You are an interesting one."
"Woah, how'd you know my last name?"
"Psychics are true seers darling, it's in our blood."
"Well…that's creepy."
Brittany shrugs and places her bowl down on the small table in her kitchen as she moves to sit on top of one of her countertops. Her socks slide on the tile before she pulls herself up, and when she does, she comes into direct eyesight of her picture collage on her old refrigerator. She smiles at all of the familiar faces, frowning fractionally when her mind wavers to a faded photo in the center of all the mayhem. A ten-year-old Santana Lopez smiles up at her brightly, with tan cheeks and a messy ponytail. Her bangs fall into her brown eyes, and she's got a smudge of dirt tainting the side of her neck. Quinn can be seen blurrily in the background, her arm extended, as if she's making a grab for the camera but she's just out of reach. That was a good summer Brittany thinks as she loses time staring at the old memento. And her heart pangs sadly for her friends. She's kept track of all of them over the years…things like Lima, aren't at all forgettable for people like Brittany Pierce. Empathy is much too magnetic.
She keeps a piece of the nightmare with her. She always has, and fortunately for her, the dancing helps quell the fear. She moved away years ago. And as she kept track of the moves they've all made over the years, it doesn't mean that any of them have kept track of her. She's worked for some of Santana's artists before, on music videos and promotional releases, but Santana's all but forgotten the blue-eyed beauty in the flurry of life that's engulfed her since their childhood. It hurts…. every day it hurts. But they're soul mates, they have been since they were six years old – and if anything…Brittany is saving herself for the day that Santana Guadalupe Lopez does remember. And when she does…maybe they'll finally have their chance.
In the meantime she watches from afar. She does her work, and she lives her life. Watching with painted blue eyes the journeys that they've all made. She hears of Quinn, Santana, Rachel, and Noah the most. The four of them run in similarly large circles within the sports and entertainment worlds. That doesn't mean that they speak to one another…it just means that none of them are as alone as they seem to think.
In her musings, Brittany's forgotten about her client, and concentrates on the phone-line. When she hears a dial tone from Amy's end she drops the phone onto the counter and swings her sock clad feet to and fro silently. She's waiting. She's not sure what for, but ever since she had woken up this morning, a thought had stricken her. A thought that perhaps, today, everything would change…she isn't wrong. Not five minutes after she's settled down the phone, does it ring again. There is no I.D. for the number that's calling. Unlisted, she thinks.
Madame Bovary-Blue at your service.
Psychics run in my family, I'm a natural sure.
Tarot cards or palm reading darling?
"Madame Bovary-Blue at your service." She brings back the Russian accent, and she adds a wispiness to her voice for authenticity. But when the calm voice on the other end of the line infuses her senses, she can't help the fall of her lashes or the slow swell of her bright smile.
"Brittany?"
"Matt! I've missed you so much."
He has a happiness in his voice that sounds foreign in it's lack of use as of late. Brittany would be sad at the thought, but she's too happy to be hearing from him at all. They haven't spoken in almost a year, and she loves to hear about his life in Lima when she can.
"Hi B. I missed you too. How are you holding up? Did you get the Christmas present I sent you?"
Brittany looks down at her duck socks and smiles again. She hadn't even realized she'd put them on this morning. Matthew Rutherford has always been nothing but perceptive.
"I'm wearing the socks right now actually. They're super duper comfy."
"I'm glad."
"Me too... I always love hearing your voice, Mattie."
"Likewise." Brittany can hear the inflections of worry seeping into the calm tone of his voice. It's like a slow burn, the way it freezes her insides. She can hear the failed attempt at nonchalance, but now as she sits atop her counter in fuzzy duck socks – she knows that something is wrong. And that makes her much too sad for her own good.
"What's wrong?" She can hear the way he hesitates on the other end of the phone line and this makes her worry her bottom lip between her teeth. The small baby hairs at the back of her neck rise and fall. A slew of gooseflesh prickle up along her arms and thighs.
"Brittany…I, I never wanted to have to make this call." She can feel the tears burning the corners of her eyes as her heart clenches. She knows what he's calling for, and she never intended to have to go back and face old demons. The tears aren't for her, but for Matt, and for Santana, and Quinn, and Noah, and Rachel…all of her friends who've made something of themselves despite the horror. She can't bear having to watch them sacrifice new accomplishments away for old terrors. But things like this…places like Lima…always seem to pull you back. And monsters like IT, never stop scaring you. Things like that wait in the wings, and they rip everything that you once knew away from you until you have nothing left.
She doesn't wish that on anyone.
She can't witness it all over again.
The ducks won't save her this time.
The ducks float too.
But a promise is a promise…and so she squeezes her arm around her torso to keep herself composed, and she brings back Madame Bovary- Blue in a show of escapism. If only for the moment, and Matt's always had a liking for the Madame. Even on the hard days.
"You need me to come back, don't you darling?" He laughs hollowly into the receiver, humoring her. Although they both know that Madame Bovary won't be able to save either of them where they're going.
"How did you know?"
"I am a psychic dear…a seer. Nothing is out of my grasp. When will you be needing my services?"
"As soon as an old psychic can make it."
"Ah…I do see a vacation in my near future. Until then Mr. Rutherford."
"Until then…"
The line clicks and Brittany drops the phone down to the floor, watching it fall apart into a dozen small pieces. She stares at it morosely; the tear tracks still fresh on her now tired face. And as she raises her deep blue eyes back up, she sees the image on the fridge, and a beaming Santana Lopez. And for the first time in a long time – she doesn't feel quite so alone.
8
Kurt Hummel Takes Advice
Public relations are easy.
So is running a top of the line agency as VP by the time you're 28.
And by the time Kurt Timothy Hummel turned 32, he was President at large. Adrift in a sea of lesser than thou's and personal assistants. His client list is long and golden with star power. His events newsworthy and tabloid making; his accomplishments have propelled many careers and floundered hundreds of others. And in the midst of all of this success, he has maintained a life of relative solitude and late nights; Empty champagne bottles and a slight addiction to Lunesta and Ativan minus the rehabilitation. The pills are not without their necessity. As the days have grown shorter and his solidarity longer, the dreams have become much too vivid. He sees them in the middle of the day now, at events, while leading meetings, sometimes while meeting clients. The clown in a red pom pom jumpsuit with eyes as yellow as the melting sun…it calls to him. And it shakes his dreams, and his reality.
His meetings with his psychiatrist, Dr. Reed Murray-Blinder have almost tripled in the last year, on a correlating scale with his worsening lack of sleep. And every other day in between his two o'clock meeting and lunch, he finds himself astride a suede coach in a cold upper Manhattan building. Watching life pass before his weary eyes as Dr. Murray assesses his progress.
"Did you have any nightmares last night Kurt?" His voice is calm and soothing, and Kurt hates it. He always has, but Dr. Murray-Blinder is the best in the city, and Kurt deserves nothing less than the best.
"When don't I have nightmares nowadays doctor?" His tone is mocking and not quite so subtle, but he has a migraine, and he hates this office.
"I'm just asking a question. That's the only way we're going to get answers, Kurt." Dr. Murray sighs before grabbing a pen and twirling it between his thin fingers. "Why don't we start from the beginning? What do you remember of your dreams last night?"
"Not very much. They're hazy, and I have no idea where I am even though there's a familiarity there that I can't decipher. And I feel like a child…my childhood was uneventful and I don't remember much after me and my father moved to Boston but…they leave me feeling, unnaturally haunted…and I think they're getting worse."
"Do you want to elaborate?"
"There's – a clown. I don't know his name or why he's been showing up. But if you had to suffer his coming every night in your dreams, you wouldn't be quite so patronizing. In fact, doctor. I think you'd probably cripple under the terror."
"I believe you Kurt, what does this – clown look like?" Kurt laughs humorlessly then, almost in a cackle as he brushes at an eyebrow in an attempt to stop his trembling.
"Orange pom pom's, bright jumpsuit. Blood red fangs and breath as rotten as corpses laid to rest. He comes for me in the night…he whispers things…sometimes, he follows me when I'm awake."
"And what do you mean by that? He follows you? How long has this been occurring, since our last session?
"He doesn't simply follow me in my nightmares anymore. These d-dreams started almost six months ago, and within the last five days he won't leave me be. I see him in deserted hallways, sometimes in the conference rooms at the firm…when I look into the mirror..."
" And how does that make you feel?" Kurt is near tears now. Unfortunately there is always a moment when one loses their audience, any great performer would know. It's almost like a silent eclipse, when the two worlds suddenly don't converge any longer; and whatever truths they once conjointly shared…suddenly become irreparable falsities. And while Kurt sits here and looks into Dr. Murray's brown eyes, he realizes that he's lost him. Hallucinations, that's what he'll say, and he'll prescribe a new pill for Kurt to keep in his already overflowing medicine cabinet. He'll keep quiet, but in his balding head he's already come to the conclusion that perhaps…Kurt Hummel…is just a little bit crazy.
Kurt doesn't want his advice any more.
Frankly he doesn't need it.
"How does that make me feel…?" Kurt rubs at his weary eyes, knowing that he's already lost. He lost almost six months ago when the dreams began.
"It makes me feel like a lunatic, and it doesn't help that you agree with me."
"Kurt. Mr. Hummel, I'm not – this is a safe space – The—"
"I think I'm done for the day. I'll have my accountant send over the appropriate billing for our session today, and…I don't think I'll be utilizing your services anymore." And he walks out of a too bright office with a wide-eyed psychologist stammering in his wake. Things have not gotten any easier for Kurt Hummel, and by the looks of things – they'll only get harder.
Just last week he was meeting with the executives of Glaceáu about sponsoring a nationally broadcast event, and in the middle of his spiel he could feel the sweat break out on his immaculate brow. A small coif to his hair portrayed the confidence he needed to seal the partnership, but it didn't stop the clown from sneering at him from the back of the room. Pointy, blood stained teeth and a breath as rancid as decayed flesh. He wanted to vomit, all over his immaculately tailored Marseille Canvas Gucci menswear suit. And that is never acceptable.
"Hey fruity boy…do you like candy?"
"Fairies love candy…"
"We have fairies down here Kurt, they float too…"
And now as he stares out of his penthouse apartment suite over a dark Manhattan skyline with a sparkling glass of San Benedetto in his manicured hand, all he can see is his pale reflection in the glass. A failed meeting with Dr. Murray and a dwindling prescription has left him utterly dejected. And when did his dreams become so muddled?
And how can he stop the nightmares?
He fears when he is awake.
He fears when he is asleep.
His hand shakes the sparkling water in his glass, and he has no way of quelling the tremors. They wrack his body, as the world seems to revolve without him. To pass the time he walks delicately over to his vanity and stares deeply into the blue-grey eyes of the boy he doesn't even remember.
Where are you Kurt?
Please, come back. I don't like it here…
He sets down his shaking glass and sighs deeply, uncapping the Lunesta and popping back three pills dry. They won't work. He already knows this, but if he stops, he won't have anything to fall back on. His eyes are tired and bleak, and he can see the fear behind them. He wants to shake it away, but it's becoming harder and harder with each quaking second that passes. He takes a deep sigh as he brings a hand to his forehead, cupping it into his palm as his face falls to the desk before him. He needs peace – he craves it.
Peace.
A phone in the distance jolts him awake, and he spends a moment staring at his tired reflection in the mirror, wondering not for the last time what is happening to him. He decides not to let himself wallow in any further self-pity and he rises out of his chair to find his blaring cellular device. It rests on his night table next to a copy of The Omnivore's Dilemma. A book he had no interest in reading, but something about the content called to him in the bookstore, a faint remembrance about something…or someone. A short brunette with an affinity for veganism, but he still can't be sure. He didn't have any short brunette vegan friends growing up… at least not that he could remember, and so at the time he wrote the feeling off as a false memory or a lingering déjà vu. He pulls his smart phone up to his ear and delivers a firm salutation as he skims through the book's crisp pages.
"Hummel of Hummel and Rodaire, may I ask who's calling?"
"Kurt, it's been a while." His fingers still on the page…he knows that voice. And not for the first time today the feeling of cold dread seeps deep down into his bones.
"Matt Rutherford." He gulps weakly. And like an enclosed dam the levee breaks and disjointed images and memories seep through the cracks of a past he had long forgotten.
Lima.
The fearless thirteen.
Clowns with pointed teeth, and spiders with crawling legs, dead bodies under the sewers. And as all of these images assault his brain, Kurt finally pinpoints the source of his nightmares. The clown with gleaming yellow eyes is not just a figment of his over-stressed imagination, no. The clown is real…it has haunted him before. And he remembers. Gasping into the phone he clenches his eyes shut before opening them. They land on the page of the book he still holds in his hands, and the answer comes to him as if it's been there all along. The small brunette with a distaste for animal cruelty and animal by-products came to him that day in the bookstore because she used to be one of his best friends…a long time ago. Rachel Berry was real…is real. And so is Lima.
"It's me. I'm so sorry Kurt…"
"Why are you calling…after all this time?"
"I think you already know the answer to that question." Kurt can feel the pressure building up behind his eyelids as he scrambles to find his Ativan in the medicine cabinet, dropping other bottles and things in his haste. When he finds it, he uncaps it to see that it's empty, and his heart clenches at the loss. He can already feel the adrenaline overtaking him, his breath releases in shallow spurts.
"Stay calm…Kurt, are you there?"
"I'm h-here." He manages to wheeze.
"Can you come?"
"I –I…"
"We need you Kurt, we already lost Artie…please." And as those words sink in, Kurt takes deep breathes, letting the shock dwindle into a slight throb. And he groans at the news of Artie Abrams. He hadn't thought about the quiet nerdy kid with glasses in as long as anything else from Lima, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. And he doesn't know what to do, and so he manages a strangled wheeze through the receiver.
"Tell his family that I send my condolences."
"I would…but his parents died almost ten years ago. I'll do my best though."
"Thank you… and Matt?"
"Yes."
"I'll be on a flight by morning."
"Thank you." And Kurt ends the phone call, leaving his cell phone to lie on the bed in his place as he turns to look out at his darkening view. His sparkling water lay forgotten on the vanity, and the condensation is already beginning to form a ring on the wood. Kurt doesn't particularly care, and as he rubs his eyes and climbs into bed, he continues to stare out at a bustling New York City cityscape with broken eyes. And he decides, that perhaps tonight he won't fear the nightmares, he'll just let them come. Because by tomorrow, they'll become his reality…
And from that, there is no escaping.
9
Rachel Berry Takes A Xanax
"Congratulations!" Lisa's voice is much too chipper for 5:15am on a Tuesday morning, and Rachel groans as she pulls her cell phone away from her ringing ears.
"Hmm? Why are you calling me, you're my agent. You should be letting me get my beauty sleep so that I can put money in your pocket. Not the other way around." She can hear Lisa squealing from the other end of the line and sighs as she sits up in bed. "Turn on your TV! The Tony nominations are broadcasting live in New York! You're nominated!" Rachel's eyes go wide as she swings her legs out from under her comforter and bed sheets, her hands scramble for the television remote in the dark hotel room. And when she turns on the large Television in her suite, she settles on CBS, watching the live nominations telecast. She can already see her name scrolling at the bottom of the screen, under recent announcements: RACHEL BERRY – BEST PERFORMANCE BY A LEADING ACTRESS IN A MUSICAL FOR "DAISY & LILY." And as her heart stops she's absolutely positive the room around her is spinning.
"Rachel? Rachel? Are you still there?"
"Ohmygod."
"We're going to the Tony's!"
"Ohmygod"
"I know, isn't this wild!" A pregnant pause in the receiver signals an odd silence in the conversation.
"Rachel?" Lisa's voice pierces through the empty space boldly. And perhaps if Rachel weren't staring at one of the single most terrifying moments of her life, she would be much more adequately enthralled by the news. However, things in Rachel Berry's life have never been simple. And as she sits up, cradling a plastic battery-operated Magnavox remote control, she can hear the humidifier humming softly in the corner of her room. Her hair is tied in a loose bun, and her breasts sag perkily and un-supported beneath a heavy and worn t-shirt. Her legs are intertwined loosely, her eyes widely focused on the bright screen across the room; Her hand resting by the dropped cell phone, entangled in the borrowed sheets.
"Rachel...are you there?" Lisa's voice is faint now, almost obsolete in the muffled space around her. She turns up the volume of the TV without even realizing that her fingers have moved accordingly over the appropriate buttons.
"The nominees for Best Performance by a Featured Actor in a Musical are…" Rachel remembers that voice. She turns up the volume a few notches higher.
"Joel Irving as Dr. Ernest Peabody for 'When It Rains, It Pours,' Seth Loeb-Murray as Billy Kidd for "Winchester,' Lucas Davies as Greedy Scoundrel for 'Tides of Grey,' and finally…Foster Witte as Nathan Detroit for 'Guys and Dolls.' Congratulations."
And like magic, the camera focuses on who's speaking. Cutting away from the breaking news section and zooming in ominously to a beautiful blonde woman reading from a teleprompter. She stands at a glass podium, with IBM and Tony and Radio City Music Hall insignias framing her lithe form. She's positively radiant in a grey sleeveless ruffled blouse, and a high-waisted dark green pencil skirt, with a small bow embellishment in the back. Her short hair tapers off wildly coiffed and perfectly unkempt around her Grecian jawline. Dangling diamonds –surely they're diamonds – sparkle lightly in the myriad of flashbulbs. Her make-up is impeccable, but for those who know what she looks like without it, also know that she is one of the few on this planet who has no need for it. And Rachel can feel her heart shattering and crumpling like wasted paper beneath her chest as she clutches for her t-shirt blindly, hyperventilating into her other hand; staring at a real-time image of Quinn Fabray through a dusty television screen 3,000 miles away.
Quinn Fabray, Quinn Fabray. I think we knew each other once…
"Rachel?"
Lisa.
Lisa is still on the line, and her voice pierces through the fog that has settled in this ostentatiously large suite. Rachel tries to calm down, but she can't stop the contractions of her unruly diaphragm. Much like how she can't seem to stop her eyes from remaining focused on the woman on-screen. She's drawn in like a moth to flame. And yet somehow, by some small miracle she manages to regain control of her cell phone, scrambling to push it up to her ear.
"I'm here."
"What happened? A-Are you crying?"
"Um no, that's preposterous…of course I'm not." Rachel tries to calm her breathing, taking in shuddering deep lung-fuls of steady oxygen.
"Rachel, sweetie. You know I don't care, right? I mean this is a big deal. Granted, it's your fifth nomination, and you've already won three times. But I know you. You're emotional. Just let it out, it's all the excitement getting to you. Just pop a Xanax and crawl back into bed. Call me in a few, that's when the reporters will want to get to you anyway." Rachel nods her head, even though she's absolutely positive that Lisa can't possibly know that. And instead of arguing, she simply obliges her agent's request. Letting the cell phone drop back onto the sheets between her legs, as her eyes find the television screen again.
Quinn Fabray is on my TV screen.
I haven't seen her in years.
Rachel watches that familiarly unfamiliar smile bend and hitch at all of the appropriate moments and in all of the appropriate times. And she doesn't know how, but she feels a connection there that's almost mystical. It's scary in its mysticism, but her heart beats that much faster, and when Quinn's honey-hazel eyes fall directly center screen – it's almost like she can see her. Like she's staring directly into her wavering soul. Rachel takes a deep breath and nods her head; she hasn't even realized the small trail of tears that have undoubtedly escaped to trail a track down her sleepy face. It's been almost twenty-something years since they've spoken, and Rachel can still smell the pine in her blonde hair. Still hear the echo of her melodiously husky voice; still feel her small hands on her heated skin. They had been running for their lives then, cheating death in pre-adolescence. And if there is anyone from Lima that Rachel vividly remembers…it's her. And her alone…she wonders if Quinn could reciprocate that admonishment. Probably not.
It's neither here nor there for Rachel Berry nowadays anyway. Broadway Star, Golden Globe nominee, Grammy and Oscar winner for best original song. Things have slowly but surely fallen into place, just as they should always have. But it doesn't mean that Rachel never feels alone. She's been alone for quite some time now. It's unbelievable how empty she constantly feels when her life promises so much fulfillment.
Sometimes, life just sucks.
Even when you're someone like Rachel Berry.
Thirty-something, almost millionaire when assets are included. She's Broadway royalty and musical gold. Voice like silken honey, and eyes as deep and brown as rippling dunes in the dessert. Dry like the rays of sun, and cold from years and years of self-hatred.
Rachel Berry is nothing like she'd hoped she'd be when she finally made it out of Lima. Later than most, unfortunately, and at sixteen when she hoped a Greyhound to New York City after finishing the accelerated high school courses through Stanford for gifted youth, to start a new life in a faceless crowd. It was almost inevitable that she wouldn't make it. But after a year of peddling, and dance classes, and courses at the local community theatre…she got an audition. At seventeen, broke, and emancipated, Rachel Barbra Berry was cast as Maria in West Side Story off-off Broadway for $300 a week. And it was golden. She made something of herself in those few months. And by the time her twentieth birthday was coming around, she found herself surrounded by musical –theatre fame. And portraying one of the leads in Fosse right on 42nd. By 21, she had won her first Tony. And things have been smooth sailing ever since…ever since she left Lima.
Lima.
God, she really doesn't miss that place.
She remembers it faintly and disjointedly. The empty stares, the dead-end streets, the listlessness that always hung thickly in the air; rows and rows of cornfields on summer nights, stalks swaying eerily in the breeze. It's almost a miracle that she made it out. Most people don't.
Except Quinn Fabray it seems…
She made it.
And a cold sweat has broken out on Rachel's immaculate skin, tarnishing her polished nightly T-zone routine. She doesn't mind, and she pays it no bother. Things like T-zone's are inconsequential when your life hits you in the face with a metaphorical two by four. Perhaps that analogy is too dramatic – but what the hell – Rachel Berry lives for drama.
She's beautiful.
Just like your remember her…
But her face is much older now, and the small laugh lines around her lips hold secrets that only she could know. Time has been good to Quinn Fabray, but that doesn't mean that she isn't equally as haunted.
She goes to grab for her cell phone again. Her hand blindly rifling though bed sheets and pillows as her eyes stay focused on the illuminated screen in the darkness. The sun still has yet to rise in Burbank, California. She hates it here. On the West Coast; the sun reminds her of hot summers, and the stares only perpetuate her claustrophobia. She has problems, she knows this – but when has that ever been abnormal. Her too-thin fingers find the cold metal and plastic of her cellular device, and she finds herself tapping out a familiar number. The voice almost shakes her when it comes booming across the line, she fumbles pathetically into the receiver.
"Lisa."
"You rang?"
"Do you happen to have the means to retrieve contact information on Quinn Fabray? Or her personal team perhaps?" The line is dead for a moment, somewhere nearby a clock ticks loudly.
Tick.
Tock.
"You mean like her management or publicist's number?" Rachel bites her lip.
"Yes."
"I'm an agent, of course I can get that for you if you need to get in contact with her team. But, Rachel…what's this really about? Are you considering propositioning a collaboration on an upcoming part?"
"Not entirely, no…" The perspiration is back; it feels like the room is caving in around her. Her lungs begin to contract.
"Oh…what is it then?"
"I, just. Have some pressing matters to discuss to her person. If you could acquire the information in a speedy manner, I would greatly appreciate it." Rachel disconnects the call before Lisa can provide an adequate answer for her. And she cuts off the television quickly, shutting her room once again in total darkness. The beginnings of a distant sunrise play on her eyes from the bed. She stares around her room blankly, forgetting what she's even here in LA for. Ah, an audition for a movie role.
That's right.
An audition. The gigantic script is still sitting on the night table where she left it the day before. Color coded and high- lighted, bound and pristine; every thing that her life currently is not.
She should really be going over her lines.
She's more professional than this.
She's Rachel Berry for goodness sake.
She's a star.
But even Rachel Berry has trouble getting back on track when the past comes rearing its ugly head into a future where it is most definitely not welcome. Rachel shudders in the sudden chill, remembering that she's barely clothed at the moment she buries herself inside of her comforter and sheets, her eyes darting up to the ornate wall clock against the far corner of the room. It still ticks, mocking her restlessness.
Tick.
Tock.
Get it together Rachel Barbra.
Big deal, you saw Quinn on the Television at the Tony Nominations broadcast no less. No need to get your underpants all in a twist.
Tick.
Tock.
You saw Quinn Fabray today…
She bites her bottom lip and whines into her pillow, knowing that her
morning routine is shot for good. The reporters and magazines will be calling soon anyway for reports and lines about her nomination. She can't say that she's thrilled; the rush of the nomination was soon outweighed and cast aside by the peculiarly gorgeous blonde that soon commandeered her full attention. Who is even commandeering it now, as Rachel Berry fawns rest at 5:52am on a Tuesday in outside of Los Feliz. Her cell phone rings again. It jolts her awake, she grabs for it without looking at the caller I.D. She mumbles tiredly into the receiver.
"Lisa? Did you get what I asked for –"
"Rachel." She pauses, this is clearly not Lisa. She would panic and cause a great disturbance had she not secured a small ounce of familiarity in the vocal lilt. She can remember voices almost phonetically from years and years of practice…and she's definitely heard this one before.
"Who is this?"
"Matthew Rutherford. It's me, Rachel." And she suddenly remembers it like it was yesterday. A small, light skinned boy singing along to a portable radio on the curb of the sidewalk outside of Randy's Sporting Goods off of Eisenhower. His hair cut short, with a modest fade. High top Air Jordan's on his feet and white socks. A banana and double fudge Firecracker in his hand as he bobs his head to the music blasting out of the nearby speakers.
"Kriss Kross'll make you JUMP! JUMP!"
"It's like this and like that and like this and uh…"
"Matthew Daniel Rutherford, that music is heinous!"
Rachel almost has the gall to laugh at the memory; of a young Matt singing along to rap songs on the radio. Everything was so inherently easy back then, before she met Quinn Fabray that is. And there she goes…
All of the memories from Lima that she's unwillingly lost grasp of. Of Matthew and Quinn and Santana and Sam Evans. Of Tina and Santana, Mercedes, and Puck. Finn and Brittany. Artie. Kurt. All of her friends, at one point or another; all of them confidantes in a world set apart. All of them fighting for life, when all that seemed imminent was certainly death.
She remembers it now. And not just the familiar blonde and their forts in darkened woods, or their groups water fights in murky river water along the outskirts of Shawnee Township. She remembers much, much more. She remembers things that would scare the wits out of adults and grown burly men. She remembers nightmares that they had all only wished could have stayed buried within their dreams – but that followed them out into the daylight. And she remembers how alone she felt in the world, even with friends rallying all against the same evil. The adults couldn't see, they didn't understand. And with the burning images of moving gargoyles and evil clowns with rancid breath and razor blade teeth swimming into the forefront of her mind, she has the will to scream. The fear settles deeply into her bones, almost as if it had never left to begin with.
"Matthew... I could never forget that voice."
"I've grown out of the Kriss Kross phase since you last remember me Rachel, but Dr. Dre will always be a personal favorite." Rachel would smile if she weren't so shaky. If she didn't feel like her world was caving in at the seams. She spots the wall clock again, 6:23am. She won't be going on her morning jog today, hell if she even makes it to her audition. Every few seconds or so she can hear the faint buzzing of her cell phone, alerting her to other incoming calls, all press. She pushes through it, ignoring each and every one as the seconds tick by in a terrifying silence.
"Matt, I assume that I already know why you're calling…so we can skip past the pleasantries now if that's okay with you."
"Always straight to the case with you Rachel. That's why you've always been my favorite."
"I'm normally a lush for flattery…however, the situation at hand is much too grave for anything remotely similar. I already feel as if my world has ended…Matthew, can you understand that?"
"I can, but understand this Rachel. My life ended twenty-five years ago when I was left to pick up the pieces. All of you left Lima. And it pains me more than you know to have to be the one to give this call. "
"Than why—"
"You know I have no choice. None of us do." Rachel's face pales.
"How many."
"Two gone last week, three more in the last seven days."
"Ohmygod." She hears Matt sigh tiredly through the receiver.
"We can't do this without you. I can't do this without you."
"Matt…'no' never was and never will be an option for me. I promised a long time ago that should the need arise, I would be there…If I can give nothing else, you've always had my word." Matt doesn't respond, but she can tell from the thick silence on the line that he must be nodding his head. She has tears pooling in her eyes and she can't recall when she started crying.
Soon after, she finds herself hanging up with Matt and tucking back beneath her blankets. Her eyes are wide and open, afraid to close to the blackness of her eyelids. Things come out in the dark, and they find you. They always find you.
"How does it feel to have two faggot father's Berry?"
"You little Streisand twat, we're going to find you…KILL you."
"You can't run forever, cunt."
"WE'LL ALWAYS FIND YOU."
The tears are strong as she shakes uncontrollably beneath her linens. The sun has already initiated its steady ascent into the Eastern sky, illuminating a still groggy Los Angeles. Rachel fears the light just as much as the darkness now – because nightmares are real, and they'll find her. Where she's going, they'll kill her. She feels her phone buzzing against her chest, and remembers that she's been ignoring her calls for the last hour. She looks at the screen and sees that it's not a call, but a text from her agent. She swipes at the screen with trembling fingers and all that's there in her message inbox are ten numbers, and a name. She exhales and clenches her eyes shut, seeing fangs, and blonde hair, and broken Sun Jewel-Barbie's on cracked sidewalks.
FROM: Lisa Nguyen – Reiss:
(310) 672-4290 – Quinn Fabray
P.S. Answer your phone. PEOPLE and NEWSWEEK have been trying to call
all morning.
P.S.S. You're welcome.
As Rachel struggles to catch her breath, she manages to send out two messages despite her trembling fingers.
FROM: Rachel Berry
Lisa, I need you to book me a flight into Ohio ASAP.
Preferably Dayton, and no questions.
-R
P.S. Thanks.
The other text takes much more time to write and, and even more resolve to send. Her heart beats haphazardly as she tries to collect her scattered wits.
FROM: (917) 452-1118
Quinn,
I don't know if you remember me. But I'd like to catch up if you
have any availability in the near future. I have a feeling we might be
seeing more of each other very soon.
Give me a call.
xo, Rachel Barbra Berry
And just like that, the course of Rachel Berry's future is in nobody's hands. She stares at her sent folder and flinches before her eyes land once again on the heady script nearby. She frowns as she stares it. And as her phone rings again, the press relentless in their efforts, she answers brightly. Hiding all of the fear and dread that is bubbling so raucously within her chest. She has work to do. She's a professional.
She's Rachel Berry.
She's a Tony winner and current nominee goddamnit.
And if anything, she's always felt that an air of professionalism is called for in moments of intense clarity. And this moment is one of them. She talks brightly and animatedly to people that she could care less about, and who surely could care less about her. She beams and laughs at all of the right moments, she knows…that this is the end.
This will be the last impression that they have of her before the nightmares come for her once and for all. This is all that she has…she better make it damn good.
And that, she does.