Authors note 1: Flash backs are in italics

Authors note 2: This is NOT a happy fic, nor does it have a happy ending. If you are looking for fluff, turn around now.

Authors note 3: This fic is extremely AU, however, I do not own Glee or any of its characters; they belong to the amazingness that is Ryan Murphy.

Reviews are always appreciated!

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What would one more do?

What difference will one more ended spark make?

Why not be one more statistic to boost the stronger willed forward?

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She glanced around the room. Taking in the awards, pictures, music; everything that ever represented her; her personality, ambitions, goals.

Everything looked dull and pointless. All covered in a layer of dust due to disuse.

On the bed were the only items she needed. She wasn't going to make a flashy show. She didn't want her girlfriend to-

EX-girlfriend. Her mind was quick to flood with pictures.

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The blonde's face was stony. "You were just an experiment; a temptation from the Devil. I don't like girls. I don't love you. Your own mother doesn't even want you. Why would you ever think that I would, Treasure Trail? Besides, I'm not a dyke or a freak, like you."

Karofsky walked up with a giant blue slushy in his hand. He raised his eyebrow at the HBIC. She nodded, turned and walked away, laughing at the sound of corn-syrupy ice being dumped over her, now ex, girlfriend's head.

Lunch time came. She walked quickly towards the choir room, hoping to avoid a fourth slushy bath of the day. She had no more Emergency-Slushy clothes and shuddered at the idea of spending the rest of the day covered in the icy beverage.

She opened the choir room door and froze. "Quinn…" The name barely left her lips before she took off running towards the nearest bathroom. Running to the last stall, she dropped to her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet before leaning against the wall.

The image was burned into her mind.

Quinn riding Noah on the piano bench, head thrown back, moaning in ecstasy; the same pleasure written on her face that was present whenever the girls had made love.

A strangled sob left her throat as tears began to cascade down her cheeks unchecked.

The bathroom door flew open. A group of Cheerios walked in. They paused once they saw her. "Come on." One said with a sneer. "This bathroom is contaminated by RuPaul, the lesbo freak." They quickly turned around and walked out, leaving the girl to continue cying.

She stayed in the bathroom until Glee club. Making herself presentable, she quickly entered the choir room; sitting as far away from the piano as possible. Soon everyone filed into the room.

"Ok guys, free day. Show me what you've got!" Mr. Shue said enthusiastically.

No one spoke.

"Rachel?"

She was staring out the window. "Sorry, Mr. Shuester, I haven't got anything prepared today."

A murmur of surprise passed through the club. It was cut off by Quinn's laughter as Puck whispered something in her ear.

"We have something, Mr. Shuester." Quinn called out.

"Alright Quinn, Puck, the stage is yours."

The opening notes of "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" started drifting from the piano, and Rachel lost it. Standing quickly, she ran from the room and straight towards her blue Honda Hybrid, quickly peeling out of the parking lot. Arriving home, she burst through the door and up to her room, collapsing onto her bed as another wave of tears and sobs wracked her body.

She woke some time later and checked her phone. Not a single text or missed call. No one cared. Maybe her fathers would've if they weren't constantly at each others throats about one thing or another; too wrapped up in their own drama to notice they're daughter's life crumbling at her feet.

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No. She wouldn't do that to Quinn. Make her see the destruction she helped to create. No matter what the Head Cheerleader had done, the pieces of Rachel's shattered heart were still in her hands.

Walking up to the bed, she ran her hands over the sharp razor blade that had become her best friend.

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Six slushies in one day and Rachel gave up. Skipping her final period she drove home. Throwing her ruined clothes into the trash and quickly stepping into the shower, she washed all traces of the slush and syrup from her hair and body. Grabbing her razor she began the processes of shaving her legs. A gasp of pain left her as she sliced into her knee by accident. The blood dripped slowly down her leg, enrapturing her in its crimson course.

Almost in a daze, she exited the shower. Dressing quickly into a pair of sweats and a baggy sweatshirt, she went into her daddy's work room. Quickly finding what she needed, she ran back to her room. Closing and locking the door behind her, she crossed to her bed, sitting Indian-style leaning against the headboard.

She stared at the object in her hand for twenty minutes before gathering the courage to slide the sleeve of her sweatshirt up her arm to the elbow. Placing the sharp edge to her forearm, she dragged it slowly across her arm. It stung for a second, and then Rachel felt a feeling of calm bubble through her as she watched the stream of blood run down her arm. The feeling abandoned her quickly, and she returned the razor blade to her arm, giving herself five more cuts before becoming slightly light-headed. Rivulets of blood were dripping down into her hand. Standing, she placed the blade inside the top drawer of her vanity. She then entered her bathroom and quickly doctored her cuts, placing a layer of anti-bacterial ointment on them before wrapping them in gauze.

The next day she wore long sleeves. She was slushied twice and forced to watch Quinn and Puck make-out during Glee. Four more cuts joined the six on her left arm.

By the end of two weeks she had twenty-two slits in her arms, seven on her thighs, and two across her stomach.

She gave up on wearing long sleeves. The scars and fresh damage were visible for all to see. No one said a word.

Not her classmates.

Not her teachers.

Not her dads.

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Sliding a finger down her arm, Rachel felt each line of bumpy scar tissue.

No one cared because you aren't something to care about. You're a worthless dyke, whose mother replaced her with a new baby girl, and who has no friends. Glee Club only uses you for your voice. Quinn only used you for an experiment. Your dads care about themselves much more than you. Understand. You. Are. Worthless. There is not point to you being here anymore.

End your uselessness.

The voice whispered this over and over in her brain in a never ending mantra of loathing; leading her to the two other objects on her bed:

A short note, written and signed with a ripped up, gold star

And her dad's hand gun.

Grabbing the note, she taped it to the outside of her bedroom door.

Slowly crossing back to the bed, her hand gripped the handle of the Colt. She placed the barrel gingerly against her chest; directly over her racing heart. Ten minutes passed in stillness.

Then a bang echoed throughout the house.