That Still Harbors the Question 1/?
Title: That Still Harbors the Question
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn (past)
Rating: PG
Chapter: 1/?
Word Count: 1017
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Summary: ' Follows 'There's a Hole in Her Heart.' (For those who wanted to see Rachel survive the accident.)
Author's Note: This was actually supposed to be a multi-chaptered story inspired by the song Rachael by She Wants Revenge (that's where both titles came from) until I realized how much research and how long it might wind up being. However, after reading all those wonderful comments calling for a continuation I decided to run with it. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
She feels like she’s half asleep. Stuck in that strange limbo where she’s aware of everything that’s going on, but she can’t comprehend any of it.
Sometimes she feels like she wants to fall deeper; further into the flashes of blonde and smiling lips, hear more than faint laughter and words whispered so low she can’t hear. This feeling of warmth and comfort and familiarity always follows, but she doesn’t understand why, she can’t even inspect it more thoroughly.
Other times she wants to step away from the dream-like fog, make sense of the unintelligible murmurs and blurred faces, hovering, always hovering, too close and almost intrusive. There’s no familiarity there and it’s like she’s strung up on a stage for all to see, but she can’t do anything about it. But, it feels like she’s closer to waking, it changes, becoming clearer sometimes and others not.
Gradually, she starts becoming more aware, making connections to the things she glimpses.
White walls, needles, an incessant beeping, brilliantly colored blurs taking shape, sharpening into gorgeous flowers, a red-haired nurse walking into her line of sight. The nurse stops in her tracks, meeting her gaze, and gasping. It sets off a flurry of motion as she spins on her heels, lost and harried, she shouts until a doctor comes running into the room.
A handsome, dark-haired doctor rushes to her bedside, eyes darting briefly to the source of the beeping, before meeting her eyes. "Ms. Berry, can you hear me?"
It's a ridiculous question, there's nothing wrong with her hearing, but her voice is another problem entirely. She doesn't understand the sense of unrestrained panic that accompanies her failure to retort.
She tries again, but her mouth is so dry all that comes out is a barely audible, 'Yes.' A rattling sigh of relief escapes her lips at the sound.
"Excellent," he murmurs, signaling to the nurse. "How do you feel, Ms. Berry? Does anything hurt?"
For the first time, she takes stock of her body. She knows she's injured. There's plaster encasing her right arm and there should be pain, but she can't feel it or much of anything, really. The numbness is almost as unsettling as that initial fear of never being able to speak.
"Ms. Berry," the doctor questions, looking worried. "How about this, can you tell me your name?"
The immediate thought is that it's another stupid question, but now that she thinking about it. Actively trying to recall her name, it’s not all that stupid. It’s like the response had taken a detour on the way out. Closing her eyes, she tries to press through the haze settled firmly over her mind to find an answer.
Suddenly, there's a flash of something in her mind's eye, lips pressed against her neck, the name ‘Rachel’ gasped into her skin. She shudders as she recognizes the flash for what it is, a memory, remembers the feeling of contentment that had enveloped her at the time.
“Rachel,” she croaks finally, wincing at the rough sound. "Water," she rasps weakly.
With a single nod to the nurse, the doctor resumes his perusal of her vitals.
Quietly, she accepts the water pushed at her lips, nearly losing her breath at just how cool and refreshing it feels sliding down her throat. A strange urge to smile accompanies the relief.
“Where am I?” It seems like the thing to ask in such a situation, but she cares less about the answer than she does about the clear way her voice comes out and the fact that it’s her first complete sentence, ridiculous as it is to be proud of the minor accomplishment.
“New York Presbyterian Hospital,” the doctor replies absently.
For a moment she nods, before actually registering the information. “New York,” she repeats.
“Yes,” the doctor responds slowly.
“Ohio,” she says slowly, her thoughts coming faster. “I should be in Ohio.”
“Ms. Berry, do you remember what year it is?” He asks worriedly, after exchanging a rather telling, wide-eyed look with the nurse.
“2009,” comes out as quickly as Ohio did, but she’s got less time to appreciate it when she catches sight of the wince on the doctor’s handsome features.
“What’s the matter?” The doctor looks down, unwilling to let her know whatever conclusion he’s come to at her words. She turns imploringly to the nurse.
Hesitantly, the nurse meets her gaze. "Ms. Berry, it's 2019."
……………
Rachel knows that she could be worse off.
According to the doctors her cognitive functions weren't affected and with the exception of her still healing superficial injuries, she's intact. The coma may have even worked a little to her advantage, because it prevented her from straining her body as it recovered from various surgeries to repair internal damage and the fractures in her hip. The cast on her arm will come off in a few weeks, and, most importantly, she's alive, scarred and sporting a limp in the near future, but alive.
It doesn't change the fact that it's ten years.
Ten years in the making and gone in an instant.
She's twenty-five years old and she feels fifteen, fifteen with dreams of stardom, when she's already accomplished it.
Oddly, she feels cheated of the accomplishment, so unless she's already released the book on her life, she's got nothing on her journey to a star.
A glance to the empty plastic cup of water at her bedside has her pressing the button for assistance for what's probably the fifth time that day.
Apparently, the past ten years aren't the only things missing. That's just the extent of the retrograde amnesia. Anterograde amnesia is what's making her short term memory a joke. For all she knows, she's confused the amnesia types.
She really hopes both conditions are temporary.
The scarring, the eventual limp, they're manageable. Other stars have probably persevered through worse. This, the not knowing what's happened in her life, it just makes her feel empty, lost, like she's lost sight of her goal.
There's an exasperated sigh at the door. "More water, Ms. Berry?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn (past)
Rating: PG
Chapter: 1/?
Word Count: 1017
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Summary: ' Follows 'There's a Hole in Her Heart.' (For those who wanted to see Rachel survive the accident.)
Author's Note: This was actually supposed to be a multi-chaptered story inspired by the song Rachael by She Wants Revenge (that's where both titles came from) until I realized how much research and how long it might wind up being. However, after reading all those wonderful comments calling for a continuation I decided to run with it. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
She feels like she’s half asleep. Stuck in that strange limbo where she’s aware of everything that’s going on, but she can’t comprehend any of it.
Sometimes she feels like she wants to fall deeper; further into the flashes of blonde and smiling lips, hear more than faint laughter and words whispered so low she can’t hear. This feeling of warmth and comfort and familiarity always follows, but she doesn’t understand why, she can’t even inspect it more thoroughly.
Other times she wants to step away from the dream-like fog, make sense of the unintelligible murmurs and blurred faces, hovering, always hovering, too close and almost intrusive. There’s no familiarity there and it’s like she’s strung up on a stage for all to see, but she can’t do anything about it. But, it feels like she’s closer to waking, it changes, becoming clearer sometimes and others not.
Gradually, she starts becoming more aware, making connections to the things she glimpses.
White walls, needles, an incessant beeping, brilliantly colored blurs taking shape, sharpening into gorgeous flowers, a red-haired nurse walking into her line of sight. The nurse stops in her tracks, meeting her gaze, and gasping. It sets off a flurry of motion as she spins on her heels, lost and harried, she shouts until a doctor comes running into the room.
A handsome, dark-haired doctor rushes to her bedside, eyes darting briefly to the source of the beeping, before meeting her eyes. "Ms. Berry, can you hear me?"
It's a ridiculous question, there's nothing wrong with her hearing, but her voice is another problem entirely. She doesn't understand the sense of unrestrained panic that accompanies her failure to retort.
She tries again, but her mouth is so dry all that comes out is a barely audible, 'Yes.' A rattling sigh of relief escapes her lips at the sound.
"Excellent," he murmurs, signaling to the nurse. "How do you feel, Ms. Berry? Does anything hurt?"
For the first time, she takes stock of her body. She knows she's injured. There's plaster encasing her right arm and there should be pain, but she can't feel it or much of anything, really. The numbness is almost as unsettling as that initial fear of never being able to speak.
"Ms. Berry," the doctor questions, looking worried. "How about this, can you tell me your name?"
The immediate thought is that it's another stupid question, but now that she thinking about it. Actively trying to recall her name, it’s not all that stupid. It’s like the response had taken a detour on the way out. Closing her eyes, she tries to press through the haze settled firmly over her mind to find an answer.
Suddenly, there's a flash of something in her mind's eye, lips pressed against her neck, the name ‘Rachel’ gasped into her skin. She shudders as she recognizes the flash for what it is, a memory, remembers the feeling of contentment that had enveloped her at the time.
“Rachel,” she croaks finally, wincing at the rough sound. "Water," she rasps weakly.
With a single nod to the nurse, the doctor resumes his perusal of her vitals.
Quietly, she accepts the water pushed at her lips, nearly losing her breath at just how cool and refreshing it feels sliding down her throat. A strange urge to smile accompanies the relief.
“Where am I?” It seems like the thing to ask in such a situation, but she cares less about the answer than she does about the clear way her voice comes out and the fact that it’s her first complete sentence, ridiculous as it is to be proud of the minor accomplishment.
“New York Presbyterian Hospital,” the doctor replies absently.
For a moment she nods, before actually registering the information. “New York,” she repeats.
“Yes,” the doctor responds slowly.
“Ohio,” she says slowly, her thoughts coming faster. “I should be in Ohio.”
“Ms. Berry, do you remember what year it is?” He asks worriedly, after exchanging a rather telling, wide-eyed look with the nurse.
“2009,” comes out as quickly as Ohio did, but she’s got less time to appreciate it when she catches sight of the wince on the doctor’s handsome features.
“What’s the matter?” The doctor looks down, unwilling to let her know whatever conclusion he’s come to at her words. She turns imploringly to the nurse.
Hesitantly, the nurse meets her gaze. "Ms. Berry, it's 2019."
……………
Rachel knows that she could be worse off.
According to the doctors her cognitive functions weren't affected and with the exception of her still healing superficial injuries, she's intact. The coma may have even worked a little to her advantage, because it prevented her from straining her body as it recovered from various surgeries to repair internal damage and the fractures in her hip. The cast on her arm will come off in a few weeks, and, most importantly, she's alive, scarred and sporting a limp in the near future, but alive.
It doesn't change the fact that it's ten years.
Ten years in the making and gone in an instant.
She's twenty-five years old and she feels fifteen, fifteen with dreams of stardom, when she's already accomplished it.
Oddly, she feels cheated of the accomplishment, so unless she's already released the book on her life, she's got nothing on her journey to a star.
A glance to the empty plastic cup of water at her bedside has her pressing the button for assistance for what's probably the fifth time that day.
Apparently, the past ten years aren't the only things missing. That's just the extent of the retrograde amnesia. Anterograde amnesia is what's making her short term memory a joke. For all she knows, she's confused the amnesia types.
She really hopes both conditions are temporary.
The scarring, the eventual limp, they're manageable. Other stars have probably persevered through worse. This, the not knowing what's happened in her life, it just makes her feel empty, lost, like she's lost sight of her goal.
There's an exasperated sigh at the door. "More water, Ms. Berry?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.