She is 15 years old when it happens.
She is sitting in her room, meant to be doing her homework, but instead she is doodling Quinn loves Rachel all in the margins, complete with stars and hearts. She hasn't spoken much to Rachel today, but she knows Rachel is still there. She seemed agitated earlier, so Quinn pushed the little bit of worry to the furthest part of her mind, and tried to reach out in comfort to the one that needed her, thinking that of course everything would fine. It's just an ordinary day and Rachel will slip back to her quietly as she always does, making herself at home in Quinn's psyche, and her heart. As she's done every day for the past 8 years.
She should have known better.
The pain is instant, so fast and hard that Quinn drops her pen onto the floor and rocks forward on her bed, clutching her stomach. She's never felt anything like it. She can't describe it, and as her hands scrabble for purchase on where the pain has originated, she realizes she can't find it. It is in her stomach, in her head, in her heart, in her very skin. It's as if something inside her is being stretched, slowly, hesitantly, until at the very end…
"Rachel, no," Quinn wheezes. "Rachel, Rachel, don't, baby, don't."
I'm sorry.
"Rachel. No, talk to me, please, baby…"
I have to.
Her mother is there, then, and her father, both of them picking Quinn up and carrying her to the living room. They put her on the couch, gentle hands holding her, trying to straighten out her legs and her muscles but she curls herself deeper into a ball, desperately searching to hold on.
"Rachel, it's going to be okay, whatever I did I'll fix it, please don't, little one, I promise you I'll fix it!"
I love you… goodbye.
A snap. Quinn will later say it reminds her of a rubber band breaking. The snip of scissors. Cutting through a ribbon. Two pieces falling, falling to the ground and landing apart.
Quinn screams. Over and over until her voice gave out.
And all around her, on that dark Lima night…
There is silence.
Rachel is gone.