Hey, everyone! Yeah. This is angsty as crap and I'm going to a special hell. As always, please pay attention to the warnings before reading and please review!
Warnings: Death (both stillborn and suicide).
Disclaimer: Beth's adoption? Never would have gone through if I owned Glee. Did it go through? Yes? Okay, so I don't own it.
Leave The Stage In The Middle Of The Song
One-shot
Puck had never really thought about it. Never really thought about just what the term 'stillborn' meant until Beth was one and he had to explain it to a teary-eyed Sarah.
She was born dead.
It didn't make sense to him. Didn't make sense that something could be born dead when being born was supposed to signify life. But that's what it was. Quinn went through a painful labor only to deliver a baby girl that was too limp, too gray, too dead.
She never held Beth. Puck didn't know if Quinn was trying to pretend that she'd given birth to a healthy baby and that her adoption plan had gone through. Maybe she just couldn't handle it. He'd never know for sure. She didn't speak to him again after that day.
He held his little girl. It was only for a few minutes, curled up in a rocking chair. Beth had been all swaddled in pink blankets as if this was normal. As if it was normal to see a sixteen-year-old holding his lifeless daughter on the day she should have taken her first breath.
A nurse snapped a picture and said she was sorry for his loss. He barely held back the snort. Beth was never going to be his. Not even if she'd lived. He was always going to lose her.
That photo went onto his wall, a morbid reminder of something he'd never have. He was crying in it, Beth held tightly to his chest and his thumb on her cheek. Her skin had been cold by then. Staring at the picture, he couldn't lie to himself and say that it was a pre-adoption shot. Everything in that picture screamed dead.
He was staring at it the day he took his dad's old pistol. The rusty piece of shit was the only thing his old man had left behind when he walked out on them. It was some kind of antique, probably worth a bundle, but he didn't think it would ever hold the same value after this.
Maybe he was thinking too much of himself.
It went off like a crack, spraying blood and brain matter across the wall and all over the glass of the frame.
The evidence of his suicide splattered across the reason for it.
He'd call it poetic if he was alive to think it.
The End
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