Don't hate me. Trust that I have a plan. (Also this is unedited. Didn't want to make you wait any longer so ignore mistakes). That's all I have to say.

Chapter 12: The Descent

"Who the fuck is sending you this?"

"What?" Rachel mumbled, rolling over in bed to see who was yelling at her.

It was the first time she fell asleep without dreams immediately waking her in weeks. Why? Why are you ruining this for me? She silently questioned the intruder.

"Who is this?" Santana asked, her voice dripping in anger and concern.

"Santana? Why are you in my bed?"

"Wake up and talk to me."

"Ugh…" she grumbled, sleepily scooting to lean against her headboard. "What is your problem?"

"Wake up," Santana demanded.

What a horrible way to wake up, Rachel thought as she watched Santana practically hover over her.

"I'm up. I'm up. What do you want?"

Santana waved around a phone in front of Rachel's face and asked, "Who is sending you these text messages?"

"Is that my phone?"

"Get with it, Rachel. Tell me who is sending these to you?"

"Give me my phone," Rachel hissed, hand reaching to swipe the phone back to no avail.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she huffed, getting out of her bed. "Give me my phone, Santana. Now."

"No."

"Give it to me!"

"No, Rachel. Not until you tell me the truth."

Finally, more awake and alert, Rachel asked, "What truth do you want, Santana? Tell me what you want me to say and then give me my phone."

"I broke into your phone," Santana admitted.

"You what?!"

"Don't look at me like a criminal."

"It's a criminal act, Santana!"

"Well, sue me then. Tell me who is sending you these texts."

Santana had spent two weeks trying to break into Rachel's phone. She googled the birthdays of every Broadway star she could remember Rachel ever mentioning – even death dates for some. She tried Finn's birthday, Finn's name in numbers… She tried everything she could think of.

She knew it was wrong, but Rachel had been distant still, and Santana needed answers. Something was still going on and Rachel still wasn't herself, even after therapy started.

Rachel held true to her word. Though she didn't want to, she went to the appointment the next day. She was there at the office early to make sure she had all the paperwork filled out. Dr. Freedman was ready for her at 2pm sharp.

Rachel didn't want to say anything. She didn't want to divulge any secrets. She had been in therapy on and off for years and knew it only worked if she worked it, but she didn't feel she could talk about this.

She was fidgety as she took a seat on the pleather sofa across from where Dr. Freedman sat in an armchair.

"What brings you here today, Rachel?" Dr. Freedman asked.

"My friends thought I needed some help."

"Your friends, but not you?"

"Me too, I guess."

"Why don't you tell me what you're hoping to get out of these sessions and what you want to focus on? Then we'll take it from there."

Rachel hesitated, picking at her nails and the cuts on her hands from her "breakdown." What did she want from this? She wanted the nightmare to end… for everything she had been through to disappear like it never happened.

"I've been dealing with some anxiety," Rachel said, downplaying it.

"How do you mean? What kinds of things are you experiencing?"

"I've been drinking a lot."

"You've been drinking," Dr. Freedman restated. "What's a lot?"

"It's not everyday or anything. But more than I should, I know. Sometimes I'm stressed and we're drinking, and I drink more."

"Do you think you have a problem with alcohol?"

"I don't crave it. I just… I guess I've been using it like a crutch. When I'm stressed or can't sleep, I've been drinking. I know it's not healthy, but sometimes it's the only way I can get any rest."

"You're not sleeping well. How long has that been going on?"

"It's a more recent problem," she said.

"Alright… Well we don't have to delve too deeply into that today. You mentioned drinking. Has that caused any problems? Or have you had any problems that led to you drinking more?"

"I…"

She didn't want to say. For so long, her therapy was just talking about her trouble making friends and her working through some bullying, but this was different. This was real in a very different way.

"Sometimes the thoughts are just a lot. The anxiety… Stress, really."

"Let's get into that a bit more."

"I… I've had some… incidents."

"Can you elaborate?"

"I… Well… I guess I've had a couple panic attacks."

"That must have been scary for you."

"Yeah."

"Rachel, I'm going to ask you some questions about these panic attacks. If thinking about it makes you panic, you can stop at any time. Are you comfortable with that?"

She nodded.

"How many times would you say they have happened?"

"I don't know… At least 5 times over the last few months."

Dr. Freedman followed that by asking questions about and normalizing her experience. From there, she did some basic diagnostic questions to gage where Rachel was mentally.

"Alright Rachel, we have another few minutes left in the session. We discussed what's been going on, but what do you want from this?"

"I just want to feel better."

"Then that's where we'll start."

"How?"

"Rachel, it sounds like you're experiencing some clinical anxiety, beyond what is typical. We can work on some techniques to help you through those panic attacks if they happen again. We can also work on determining any triggers. Together, if you feel comfortable continuing with me, we can come up with a treatment plan of talk therapy and medication that should help you feel better in time."

"Ok…"

"Good, in the meantime, I'd like to give you some information to look over. We'll work through a few different options to see what you best respond to, but you can try a few things out on your own until the next appointment."

Dr. Freedman suggested they meet once a week until Rachel's anxiety started to improve and gave Rachel her number for emergencies or questions. She was willing to write Rachel a prescription for an anti-depressant, but Rachel didn't want medication if she could avoid it. She just didn't trust it right now… Maybe didn't trust herself a little bit too.

"Rachel, before we end this appointment, I'm going to give you a little assignment. If you can't sleep or if you feel high anxiety, try to write down what was happening or what you were thinking about at the time. We can review that to help learn what triggers you."

Rachel nodded, thanked the doctor, and left after making her next appointment.

She wasn't really feeling better or thinking about what comes next, but she did the appointment and that had to count for something. If she accomplished nothing else, at least she did that and gave it a shot. But she wasn't hopeful.

Rachel felt beyond repair, and though she kept going to school and kept pursuing her dreams, she honestly didn't feel like she had much of a future anymore. It all just felt so bleak.

When she got home that afternoon, Kurt, Santana, and Quinn were still there waiting for her. They hugged her in a big group hug and told her they were proud of her. She didn't know what there was to be proud of, but ok.

Though they asked her how it went and shared some looks, it was clear they all decided not to ask her more about it beyond that. She was thankful they didn't and they were thankful she was trying.

Santana could say all the bad things she wanted about Rachel, but she missed the outspoken, sometimes crazy and too blunt Rachel that she was before… Well before whatever changed.

So the four of them hung out the night before and for the rest of the day before Quinn had to get on the train back to New Haven. It felt… Normal. But that didn't mean things were the same.

Rachel wasn't the same.

Shelby reached out to her, checking in. Rachel texted back, but wasn't ready to do any kind of get together like she knew Shelby wanted.

How are you doing? Shelby's text read.

Fine. Went to the therapist as promised. Haven't had a drink if that's what you're worried about.

It's not. I'm worried about you.

I'm fine.

Well that was a lie if Shelby every heard one, but Rachel was texting with her which was more than they had been doing.

Do you want to get coffee sometime?

I don't know. Maybe. Not right now.

When you're ready, I'll be here.

Rachel sighed. It wasn't that she didn't want to try… She just… Well didn't want to do much of anything. It wasn't Shelby, it was her that was the problem.

Dr. Freedman suggested that might be depression. Depression and anxiety… She was a real mess. Though she was doing what Dr. Freedman asked, journaling or noting when she felt what, that didn't seem to help with the sleep.

The nightmares and dreams were as bad as ever. Without the alcohol, she had even more trouble sleeping. Booze numbed the feelings. There was no withdrawal, no desire for the actual drink, just the wish for something to ease the ache.

The only thing that helped was working herself ragged so she was too tired to think and eventually passed out. Unhealthy in a different way, but whatever worked.

Over the next few days, Rachel noticed her friends watching her. They tried not to show it, but every now and then, she caught them staring at her, like they were waiting for her to do something or break, maybe. She couldn't be sure what it was.

The texts from Jasper kept coming. He wanted to meet with her.

I think we need to have a conversation. You better show tomorrow. 8 pm. I know where to find you if you're not there.

It set her off. She didn't want to meet him but wasn't sure what he could do if she didn't. She had one day to figure out how to get out of it or show up. She decided to go. She was terrified either way, but she wouldn't risk him showing up at the apartment. What if he tried something with Santana? She wouldn't be able to forgive herself.

Rachel convinced herself things would be ok. Even on a weekend, the school was fill of ambitious people running through lines or rehearsing. Campus was rarely empty. Surely, he wouldn't do anything so publicly.

But she was on edge every moment until then. Kurt and Santana noticed.

"Why do you look like a junkie right now?"

"What?" Rachel asked.

"You're all jittery. Is it the alcohol? Was it worse than we thought?"

"No… Santana… I'm not an alcoholic. Even my therapist agreed that I was using alcohol as a crutch. I'm not drinking right now to stop doing that, but alcohol itself isn't a problem."

"Then what the hell is wrong with you? If your leg shakes anymore I'm going to think we're experiencing an earthquake."

"I'm just nervous," she told Santana. "I have to go to school today to work on a project with a classmate and I don't think they're prepared."

"And that's it?" she asked skeptically.

"That's it."

"Fine. Whatever. Then keep away from the coffee. You don't need anymore jolt."

"I'm fine, Santana. Don't worry about my caffeine intake."

Santana rolled her eyes and told her, "It's your funeral."

If only she knew…

Rachel was not ok. Not in any real sense of the word. She had been stressed beyond belief and leading up to her meeting with Jasper, could barely function. She couldn't focus in her classes, broke glasses at work, and couldn't eat a thing.

But she showed. Hesitantly… The campus was more abandoned than she was used to and the dance studio was very empty. She didn't pass one person in the hall.

No wonder he picked a Friday night for this, she thought.

Her heart was beating in her throat as she waited. She wanted to run before she saw him, but she knew his threats weren't idle. He would post the pictures he had if she didn't show. Her life would be over – more so than it already felt.

The anticipation and utter dread was terrible, but it was nothing compared to when he actually showed up.

"I'm surprised you showed," he said as soon as he saw her.

Rachel sunk into herself, making herself smaller, but couldn't say anything.

"Not going to talk to me?"

"I'm here. What do you want from me?"

"There's that fire," he said, stepping closer to her.

For each step he took toward her, she took another back until she hit the wall. There was no escaping. Her breaths came in pants, the walls were closing in… She needed to run, but she couldn't.

Now he was right in front of her, body leaning against hers, hand on the wall beside her to keep her trapped.

"I take your breath away, huh?"

"Get away from me."

"Not until I get what I came for."

"What do you want?" she choked out.

"I told you, I wanted to see you," he said, leaning in to kiss her, lips grazing her cheek before moving to her lips.

She tensed which only made him mad and more forceful, biting her lip as he pulled away just a tiny bit.

"Don't tell me you're scared of me," he taunted as he stepped back. "Come on. I've never hurt you."

"Never hurt me?" Her tone was indignant. "You… You… You raped me."

The words hit her harder than she could have imagined. She never admit that out loud. In her head, maybe she thought it, but the words never passed her lips. Now it did and it felt like it just happened all over again.

In his rage, he ran back to her, slamming her against the wall.

"Don't you ever say that," he said between gritted teeth as he gripped her arms, fingers digging into her biceps.

"Let me go," she cried.

"What we did… It was something we both wanted. Don't you dare tell anyone differently. Have you told anyone that?"

"No," she mumbled.

"Good. If you do, I will find out and I will find you."

He released her and backed away, smug smile on his face.

"Besides, Rachel, who would believe you? You were coming on to me, always asking for help and finding ways to spend time with me. Then you kissed me in that bar to make your ex jealous. You wanted it. You can tell yourself whatever lies you want, but I didn't force you into my apartment."

She let him taunt her, unable to do or say anything to stop it. Terror flooded her body. He could do whatever he wanted to her, and no one would be the wiser. So she froze and let him yell at her, tell her it was her fault. She was asking for it.

A part of her knew he was wrong. It was his fault, his actions, but the bigger part of her – the shame filled, broken part, believed him. His words only drove that home harder.

"What do you want from me?" She gathered the courage to ask. "Why are we here?"

He metaphorical grip on her tightened. He didn't need to physically hurt her to control her. His mind games wrapped a lasso around her so tightly he was practically dragging her around.

"I just wanted to make sure we understood each other. We share a great night and now you're treating me like the enemy. I don't like it."

Even without his grip, she felt stuck. She cowered in front of him.

"I've got somewhere to be," he told her. "But before I go. I just want to make something clear. Those pictures I sent you… They only get worse. Those are innocent. Artful even, but not all of them are, and I won't hesitate to send them to everyone if you so much as breath a word of your lies."

"I… I haven't said anything. I won't… But please, please… Get rid of them."

"I love it when you beg. It was such a turn on when you did it that night."

He smiled at her before walking away, not bothering to let her speak or say goodbye.

Rachel was left stunned and scared. Once he was gone, Rachel fell to the floor, her heart pounding and breath ragged. She tried to remember what Dr. Freedman told her about breathing techniques, but she wasn't coherent enough to do it.

For a long time, she just stayed there and cried. Her phone rang and she ignored it. Time seemed so abstract as she was lost in her head, remembering more of that night… She begged him not to do it. Slurred and broken as her voice was, she said stop…

It was late when Rachel got home. Santana was the only one there.

"Where the hell have you been? You look like you saw a ghost."

"Thanks, Santana. You look great too."

"Hey, I dropped off that box of donations today like you asked."

"Only a few weeks late," Rachel teased.

"I saw your dress in there."

Rachel stopped dead in her tracks, hand pausing as she reached into the fridge for water. She quickly shut the door and turned to Santana.

"Which dress?"

"You know… The one we spent five long days picking out so it would be perfect for your showcase," Santana said, matter-of-factly. "I took it out of the box. I didn't think you wanted to donate that."

"I don't want it," she said. "I… spilled something on it. It ripped when I tried to clean it. Get rid of it."

She never wanted to see that dress again.

"I'm going to bed," Rachel said, quickly scurrying away to avoid any further conversation.

She could feel the tell-tale signs of panic bubbling within her, something the therapist's helped her understand. It was a horrible, good for nothing day, and it felt like it was only getting worse. She couldn't handle a conversation about the dress… Not after dealing with Jasper and the first verbalization that she was raped… She still couldn't fathom saying that again.

But her odd behavior set Santana off.

She hadn't inspected the dress or anything. After Rachel said she was donating a bunch of old crap, Santana said she had some stuff to add and so did Kurt. Rachel was happy with that, but insisted that Santana take care of the drop off then because she didn't want to hold on to it any longer.

"Whatever," Santana said, not immediately suspicious.

When she saw the dress, she assumed it was a mistake, put it aside, and didn't think much of it, but now… Now she had to really examine it. Something had to be up if Rachel was on the verge of tears at just the mention of it.

Santana wanted to believe that Rachel wasn't lying to them… That she had just been dealing with some pretty bad anxiety and drinking as a coping mechanism. Maybe that part was true, but she was starting to doubt the rest of it again. There was more there.

Rachel wasn't a technophobe or anything, but she had never been as obsessed with her phone as she had been lately – simultaneously wanting to look at it and run from it. It was unusual. Santana thought maybe Rachel posted something on some channel that Santana refused to subscribe to and was getting messed up comments. Wouldn't be the first time and even Santana was guilty of leaving unpleasant comments at some point.

Point was that Santana felt she needed to know the whole truth. She knew she was missing something. They all were. Rachel was a better liar than they thought. When she looked over the dress and noticed a few tears and rips along the sides, it made her curious. Sure she could believe what Rachel told her. Perhaps that was the simple explanation, but Santana wasn't sold on it.

The more she noticed, the more questions she had. In some respects, the longer Rachel went to therapy, the better things got. But there were other things she noticed that hadn't gotten better. Rachel and her phone for one. The way she always looked terrified when she got a notification.

Santana needed answers and made it her mission to get them. So she needed access to Rachel's phone. Every night, once Rachel was in bed or in the shower, she would try to break into her phone. It took many tries and a lot of google searching for Broadway celebrity birthdays and death dates… even premiere dates of shows.

Then she cracked it.

Something she should have guessed from the beginning really. The date Rachel last saw Finn. Sad really.

Ignoring that, she jumped into looking through the phone, finding harassing texts and pictures… She wasn't expecting it and it just made her so angry.

And that led them there, arguing about Rachel's phone. Santana was angry and desperate for answers. The protectiveness in her needed Rachel to tell her the truth so she could dispense some justice on the asshole who was harassing her.

"Rachel, tell me."

"There's nothing to tell, Santana."

"Really? So this is nothing?"

Santana held out the phone with the picture of, what she assumed to be, Rachel's bare leg up to her lower back, the curve of her hip and panties showing.

"Who the fuck is sending this to you?"

"Leave it alone Santana."

Rachel practically growled, reaching for the phone and ripping it from Santana's hand.

"You had no right. No right," she cried, reminiscent of the time they thought she was pregnant.

"What the hell is happening Rachel? You can trust me. I thought I proved that to you."

Rachel wrapped her arms around herself and fell to the ground in tears.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered.

Santana could just make out what she said and ran to her friends side, wrapping her in a hug.

"Tell me what's going on. Who is doing this?"

Too afraid to say, she shook her head into Santana's shoulder and told her, "I'm late."