A/N: So this is my first story. Please be honest and tell me you think of it. With that, enjoy :)
Disclaimer; Sadly, I own nothing except for my laptop.
Summary: Rachel has always enjoyed storms. She really didn't know why. She just … did. But she doesn't think she can survive this storm. Not by herself, at least. Faberry.
The Beginning of the End
She stared out her window with big brown eyes. It was raining outside. She watched the rain drops race down her window which left a trail behind. There was something about storms that the girl had always liked. Was it because the sound of rain was so calming? Or was it because it seemed as if Mother Nature had to grieve sometimes too? Maybe it was the way she could relate them with the storm inside of herself. They (both the girl and Earth) seemed to be at the complete mercy of the storm. Storms are uncontrollable. Unpredictable. You could never know how it could affect something until it's too late.
Whatever the reason, the girl enjoyed storms.
Said girl was alone in her room. She softly sat on the edge of her bed; back straight, legs together, and hands folded in her lap: perfect posture. It was dark outside and so was her room. The street lamp outside her window casted a soft glow on her features. Her normal soft brown hair looked dark. Her usual bright clothing was dulled. And her eyes, which could once light up a room, were dead. It's as if she was there, but not there. She did not move, and could almost be mistaken as a statue. On the outside, she may have looked calm, but in the inside, there was a storm brewing much worse than the one out her window.
You used to just be unlikable, but now, every time I see you, I just want to punch you.
We are about to have a smack down.
Most of the time I find it hard to be in the same room with you.
I'd like to preserve you – in a jar!
Nobody tells you anything, because, a) you're a blabber mouth, and b) we all just pretend to like you.
You have a terrible attitude, you are a lousy sport, and it is not okay anymore.
The words float around in her head. They didn't stop. No matter how hard she tried, she can't forget them. For years she had heard them. For years she had never let them affect her. For years she had her head held high. Why were they getting to her now? Blinking, she was pulled from her thought. She looked away from her window as a single tear fell down her cheek. Getting off of her bed, she slowly walked over to her desk. Sitting down, she began to write absentmindedly.
It's my fault, she thinks to herself. I brought this upon me. I did it with my hideous clothes. If I would have just gotten over myself and changed my wardrobe, it would have been better. If I wasn't to abrasive and obnoxious, people wouldn't have hated me. If I wasn't too selfish and narcissistic and Machiavellian and annoying and everything else, I maybe would have had a friend. If I wasn't me and tried to fit in, I wouldn't hate myself. I would have been better off.
Sighing angrily, she pushed off of the desk and out of her chair, the piece of paper she carefully wrote on, clutched in her hands. With steady feet and a steady pace, she walked into her bedroom's bathroom. She left the lights off. She stopped at the sink and looked at the mirror. There was barely any light pepping through the blinds of the windows, but it was enough to see her reflection.
Boring brown eyes, boring brown hair, a huge nose, a big forehead, and too-big lips. No wonder people made fun of her. She couldn't blame them. Even this act, people would have called her vain. But, she wasn't really looking at herself; she was looking for herself. Hopelessly she searched for any clues of her old self. Desperately, she searched for the person who never gave up, who had dreams, who was going to prove everybody wrong, who didn't need anybody but herself to believe in, for the person who was strong.
She found no one.
After posting the piece of paper to the mirror and grabbing something out of the medicine cabinet, she walked over to the bath and turned on the water. She slowly stripped out of her clothes. Once the bath was full, she turned off the water and stepped in. She hissed at the cold temperature, goosebumps rising all over her flesh. Her whole body (with the exception of her arms resting on the sides) being submerged in the water, she rested her head on the back of the tub and closed her eyes.
Eyes still closed, she opened a bottle that was in her right hand. Pouring the contents out, she looked at them.
They almost look like candy, she ponders. Yes, sweet, good candy. Candy always makes me feel better.
With a final deep breath, she threw her head back and swallowed the handful of tiny red pills. When all were gone, she rested her head on the back of the tub again, and closed her eyes.
She would never open them again.
It would take 9 hours, 37 minutes, and 42 second before someone would find her. It was one of her dads, Hiram. She was late getting ready for school. He waited impatiently for her in their small kitchen with her breakfast in hand – a glass of orange juice, an apple, and a granola bar. Sighing irritably, he pushed off the counter he was leaning on and marched up the stairs with his daughter's breakfast.
"Rachel! I know you have your schedule that you have to follow – that is rather extensive, might I add. And I know it is to prepare you for your future career on Broadway. But, sweetie, the schools systems actually don't like it when people are 'fashionably late.'" Her father called as he walked to his daughter's room. Standing in front of her door, he added; "Nor does my boss." Shaking his head, he called for her once more.
"Rachel? You in there?" She could have been in the middle of fixing her hair, or getting dressed, or a thousand other things, but her father didn't hear anything. Awkwardly, for still having the apple and granola bar in his hand, he knocked on her door then opened it (not without a little struggle first).
His daughter's room was its usual self. Yellow walls covered with various posters of musicals or famous icons (mainly of Barbra Streisand), bed made with precision, stuffed animals placed with a perfect hand, many music awards on her shelf, and not a spot of dirt.
But no Rachel.
Getting really annoyed by his daughter's games, he decided to check in the bathroom.
He expected his 16 year old daughter to be fixing her hair, or maybe putting on makeup. Maybe even putting the last touches on a ridiculous costume for this week's glee assignment.
Not his baby girl lying in the bath tub dead with an empty bottle of pills on the ground.
The glass of orange juice was dropped and shattered into a million little pieces, and orange juice covered the floor and Hiram's shoes.
To whomever reads this,
It will most likely be one of my fathers who will find me. And for that, I have to say, I'm sorry dad and daddy. I know it must be hard finding me this way. I just want to say that none of this is your fault. I love you both so very much. You believed in me when everyone else gave up. And I thank you for that. But I had to do this. I know I believed I was going to become a huge iconic Broadway star, and that I was determined to accomplish my goal. But I just couldn't do it anymore. I used to think that no matter what people did to me, no matter what people said, I was going to be a star. It was just one thing that … was. It just seemed like it had to come true. Like the sun rising each day, then setting at night. It was one of those things that were just destined to come true.
But it obviously wasn't. And I will say that I was a fool for believing in such things. Every day I was told of each and every one of my flaws. I was told time and time again, relentlessly, of how terrible I am (well, was); how annoying and controlling and selfish I was. I was told that people would be better off without me. In the beginning, I knew that wasn't true. Everyone is born for a purpose, right? And mine was to change the world. So, I stuck it out, and I embraced those flaws. I made sure I never lost myself. I still wore the same clothes, I still told people the blunt truth, and I still tried to be kind to everyone. I thought I was doing well. But I guess I didn't try hard enough. People still hated me. People still bullied me. Even the people in glee club, of whom I thought I would have been such great friends with because they were like me; underdogs in an underdog group. But we were in something special. And that make you special.
But despite being in the same extracurricular activity, I was stilled bullied by them. No matter, I would show them my pure talent, and they would know they needed me. Because they did need me.
But, the thing is, when people tell you everyday how much you suck, and how they would celebrate if you were gone, despite any pep talk you tell yourself, despite any words from people who are supposed to like you, and despite having a goal and being driven to reach it, sometimes, sometimes you just start to believe them. And that's what happened to me. I finally believed them. It hurt so much. So I did something about it… Which you can obviously see.
I really am sorry. I just, I guess I really am selfish. It just hurt so much. And I did the one thing I feared the most; I lost myself. I'm sorry for letting everyone down.
I hope you will somehow be able to find a way to forgive me. I guess living isn't for everyone.
And so, for the sakes of being cliché; Goodbye cruel world,
Rachel Barbra Berry
There was even a gold star at the end.
The news about the Rachel's death stunned everyone. There were tears, and denials, chairs were kicked, and even some few words of blame. People really did feel horrible. Especially the kids (and even some teachers) at William McKinley High School. They knew it was their fault their teen star killed herself. They were the ones who insulted her every day. They were the ones constantly putting her down. They were the ones who threw slushies at her. They were the ones who killed her. The school threw together a memorial assembly for Rachel. The glee club, after some arguing, sang When I Get Where I'm Going by Brad Paisley. It wasn't really Rachel's style – with it being a country song – but it was about being hopeful and about her shedding her troubles and being happy. They thought Rachel would like it.
Later, after some few words about Rachel were said, and after some tears were shed, the students and staff went home. All that was left in the school was a picture of the 16 year old smiling her bright 100 watt smile that hung on a wall, and a bunch of flowers and stuffed animals below it.
Her funeral was almost the same as the memorial at school. It was out doors, and because it being in the spring, there was a slight breeze. The flowers were all just blooming, and the sun was out. In short; it was the perfect day.
There were more speeches, more tears, and more sorrow and guilt. Each of her fathers walked up to her wooden coffin where their daughter laid inside. They both kissed the smooth wood, and then it was lowered into the ground. When there was just a pile of dirt and a marble stone, each person in the audience (which seemed to be all of Lima, Ohio and then some) came up and placed a white Lillie on the dirt mound. Slowly each person left, one by one, with tears in their eyes.
There was only a mighty oak tree and a smooth marble tombstone underneath of it left.
Rachel Barbra Berry
When you are a part of something special
It makes you special
They even carved a star at the end of her name.
There was something about storms that Rachel had always liked. Was it because the sound of rain was so calming? Or was it because it seemed as if Mother Nature had to grieve sometimes too? Maybe it was the way she could relate them with the storm inside of herself. They (both Rachel and Earth) seemed to be at the complete mercy of the storm. Storms are uncontrollable. Unpredictable. You could never know how it could affect something until it's too late.
Whatever the reason, Rachel enjoyed storms.