Chapter Text
Last night, Rachel dreamed she was dissecting Quinn Fabray in Biology class.
Quinn lies motionless on the table, still dressed in her pristine red-and-white Cheerios uniform. The pleated skirt is perfectly fanned out beneath her, the sweater sliced clean down the middle like it’s been tailored for this moment. Her golden hair fans against the paper-covered table, and her eyes are fixed on the ceiling tiles, glassy and unblinking.
Even in death, dream death, she looks annoyed.
Rachel notices it immediately: the tight press of her lips into a pale, judgmental line. The slight wrinkle between her brows that no amount of Bio-Oil or parental pressure could ever quite smooth away.
She lifts the scalpel with steady hands, though her heart is pounding with a twisted mix of excitement and fury. With a practiced motion, she opens Quinn’s chest, peeling back the ribs like the flaps of a half-wrapped Christmas present.
There is a collective gasp behind her.
The class - her audience, really - leans forward in shock and horror, but Rachel stands tall, back straight, chin high. She lifts her hands dramatically, bloodless but sticky in her dream logic.
“As I suspected,” she declares, voice echoing through the sterile classroom. “No heart.”
A voice cuts through her performance like a slap of cold water.
“Rachel… Rachel Berry.”
She jerks upright, blinking hard as the dream dissolves like sugar in tea. Her hands are empty, resting stiffly on her blank notebook. Her English teacher, Mr Smoak, stands at the front of the classroom, arms folded, his graying eyebrows raised in quiet exasperation.
Heat blooms across her cheeks.
Someone snickers behind her. Probably one of the hockey players who only passed freshman lit because their coach had begged.
Rachel swallows and tries to recall the question she was supposed to answer, but her mind is still thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the sound of ribs cracking apart. The dream had been so vivid.
So… satisfying.
She glances down at her notebook, willing words to appear, but the page remains stubbornly blank. She tries the clock next. Maybe the theater gods have been merciful. Maybe class is almost over.
No luck.
The second hand ticks forward, unwavering. Ten more minutes.
Mr Smoak sighs dramatically and turns back to the rest of the class. “People, I know vacation starts in two days, but you still have your final exam. Can someone please explain Iago’s motivation in Othello? And please, please be more specific than just saying ‘revenge.’”
He scans the room with the slow menace of a predator choosing his next meal. Rachel instinctively slouches lower in her chair, as if invisibility could be achieved by poor posture.
Her thoughts drift again.
Her dream last night was so wonderful. She wished she could live in it forever.
Live suspended forever in that moment with Quinn laid out like a science project.
Before the incident there hadn’t been a moment in her life without Quinn in it. Her very first memory is of Quinn’s hand grabbing hers in the sandbox.
Although, back then Quinn had gone by Lucy.
Rachel can’t help but keep them separate in her mind.
Lucy was her friend.
Quinn was the one who betrayed her.
Looking back Lucy had always had a dark side but through it all Lucy had been her friend.
They were born in the same hospital. Lucy arrived just a day earlier. The nurses placed their bassinets side by side in the nursery. Their first sleepover. There would be so many more.
Lucy was in every one of Rachels childhood photos. At age one there is a photo of her fist buried in Rachels birthday cake, at fourteen there is a photo of them posing like they were on a red carpet with Lucy’s outstretched arm covering Rachel’s face.
Even then, she’d needed to be the center of attention. It’s clear now. Maybe it always was.
So maybe Rachel should have seen it coming.
Speaking of front and centre, in English class, Robert Matthews, the eternal teacher's pet, has his hand up waiting for Mr Smoak to call on him.
Mr Smoak calls on him with a sigh, and Robert launches into his answer like a rocket that’s already lost control. Rachel remembered when she had been like that.
But that was before.
“Iago’s motivation is rooted in jealousy, yes, but also in a deep-seated resentment toward Othello’s status and power. It’s about manipulation as art. The thrill of destruction. The high of watching trust crumble.”
He finishes with a breathless pause, clearly expecting applause.
None comes.
Rachel picks up her pen and doodles a cheerleader in the corner of her notebook. The mouth she draws is too big, cartoonish and jagged, almost monstrous. She adds a crown, tilting off-center.
The drawing is bad.
Art wasn’t one of Rachels skills. Personally, she belived the bad drawing represented the true nature of Quinn perfectly.
The second hand of the clock moves again.
Finally.
The bell rings, and she exhales in relief, already packing up her things. Around her, backpacks zip and chairs scrape, the room erupting with the low roar of students desperate for the hallway and the promise of summer.
Mr Smoak calls out, “Be sure to look over Othello! I don’t want anyone telling me they thought the SparkNotes version was enough!”
Nobody’s listening.
Rachel slips into the hallway alone. A few people glance her way, a couple nod, but no one says anything. She’s used to that. Fame is lonely before it arrives.
The hallway pulses with noise and excitement. Summer is coming. Senior year looms ahead like a crown waiting to be claimed. Everyone feels invincible.
But Rachel isn’t thinking about the future.
Three years ago, at the end of middle school, it had all fallen apart.
She has a photo from just before it happened. She and Lucy are curled on a couch in matching pajamas, grinning after their last exam. They’d stayed up all night making plans for high school.
In the photo, Rachel’s smile is wide and easy.
Lucy's is, too.
But Rachel didn’t know what was coming.
Quinn did.
She had already set everything in motion, already sharpened the knife and smiled through it.
No regret.
No hesitation.
Just her best friend’s wide smile.
Maybe Quinn thought Rachel should be grateful. That she’d given her a few last golden days before pulling the world out from under her.
Maybe that was a gift.
After all… what are friends for?