[Soon, Rachel is too exhausted to keep going. She has been dancing for hours -- the same routine, over and over, and her body is just not quite up to par to be doing so much at once. But Rachel needed to do something. Anything. Something to work out the anger and frustration and helplessness and fear and angst that has just been building since her death. And she can't sing about it.
She slumps against the wall, her hands finding her legs to rub them gently, wincing to herself at how sore she is. And idly, because she has nothing else to do except this, she prays. To whom, Rachel doesn't know. Whoever is listening, she thinks, and her fingers massage her calves as she fights down the urge to throw up from dancing for three hours without reprieve.
Don't let Anna die. If you care, you wouldn't let her die. She didn't do anything to deserve dying. She hasn't done anything to --
But then Rachel hears the footsteps, and the prayer abruptly stops, followed by a shaking breath. She knows who it is without looking over. No one else would just stay and not say anything.]
no subject
She slumps against the wall, her hands finding her legs to rub them gently, wincing to herself at how sore she is. And idly, because she has nothing else to do except this, she prays. To whom, Rachel doesn't know. Whoever is listening, she thinks, and her fingers massage her calves as she fights down the urge to throw up from dancing for three hours without reprieve.
Don't let Anna die. If you care, you wouldn't let her die. She didn't do anything to deserve dying. She hasn't done anything to --
But then Rachel hears the footsteps, and the prayer abruptly stops, followed by a shaking breath. She knows who it is without looking over. No one else would just stay and not say anything.]
Michael Jackson is rolling in his grave.