Warning: Please proceed with caution, triggers abound.

A/N: This is a test. I need lots of feedback on how this is happening, and it's going to be very reader and review-driven as far as what I revise and how I continue. I have no idea what the heck I'm doing with this. It started off as a sort of fill for a prompt and then took on a life of it's own...and now I have no idea what I'm doing! So, read and then please please please let me know what you think!

The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own.

-Fiona Apple

Looking back, she supposed she should have regretted it. It was the reaction that society dictated she have if she was truly "normal", whatever that meant. Truthfully, though, she couldn't bring herself to feel any sort of regret about it. Oh, if anyone asked then she would certainly express an appropriate amount of remorse, but it was nothing more than a lie to keep them from sending her off for more therapy to try to fix her.

It had started when she was so young, back before she even really understood what cutting was. She had been in her garage, looking for a screwdriver in her daddy's tool kit, and she had seen it. Barely peeking out from under the pile of assorted tools, the glint of steel caught her eye, and she had pulled it out. She had known what a razor was, of course, but this was the first time she had seen one up close outside of the safety razors her mother had given her for shaving- Pretty good girls don't want to be hairy and look like boys, Quinn.

This, however...this was a far cry from the pastel pink one she was used to- it wasn't hidden away inside a casing, but was entirely visible to her curious eyes. Flipping the small blade around in her hand, she had eyed the sharpened edge warily. Unable to help herself and desperately curious to know how sharp it really was, she lined the razor up against the skin of her arm. Pressing down lightly, she drew the blade along the skin, wincing at the pull and sting as it barely sliced her. Pulling the razor away, she had looked down with a sort of detached wonder as a thin line of red blossomed against her pale skin, welling in the narrow cut.

That had been the first time she had hurt herself, and it had been motivated more out of curiosity than anything else. Her eleven year old self had yet to really discover and understand words like "cutter" and "self-harm". It had been simple curiosity, and that was that. She put a band-aid on it and nobody ever asked any questions.

When she was in eighth grade, she had been sitting with a classmate in biology when they started telling a story about their brother. She wasn't really part of the conversation, but she listened closely as the girl described how he and his friends used to play a game where they would rub an eraser over their skin until it was gone, last man standing won.

The idea of literally erasing her skin piqued her interest, and when she was locked in the safety of her bathroom later that night, she tried it. Just a small patch on her hand, rubbing quickly back and forth and watching with wonderment as a line of angry red appeared. It didn't hurt as she rubbed faster and faster, something which confused her, and when she stopped a few tiny droplets of blood sprang up where the eraser had rubbed a little deeper. There was a long moment of silence where she didn't feel much of anything other than that same detached interest she had felt the first time, but then she moved her hand ever so slightly and a wave of pain sprang up.

It wasn't unbearable- it was a sort of surface ache that was present but not debilitating, and she once again put a band-aid over it and was able to forget about it. The ache had faded into the background noise of her life by the next morning, and there wasn't even a scar when it was healed.

Her freshman year of high school was the year that changed everything.

She was walking along the sidewalk, glancing at the people walking past, when she saw him. He was pretty non-descript in appearance, short brown hair and brown eyes with a casual preppy look about him that seemed designed to reel in the ladies. There was nothing blatantly unusual about him, but the moment she saw him, Quinn felt her legs go weak and her stomach felt like it had dropped out of her body. She stumbled to a nearby tree, sinking down against it and trembling as sudden images overwhelmed her mind.

A mattress in a dark basement. A dark shape standing over her, pushing her down, ignoring her questions and the slight resistance she offered. His face, leering down at her, younger but still somehow the same.

"Everyone likes this, I promise."

Hurting and trying to run, making it halfway to the door before a rough hand grabbed her.

"Fucking cunt. Think you can get away from me?"

So small.

Watching herself from what felt like just around the corner of the room as he held her down and hurt her.

"Don't."

Watching as he pulled her on top of him and showed her what he wanted her to do.

"Please stop."

Watching as her body did things she never told it to do, and not understanding why this was happening.

"No."

Watching and waiting for it to be over in a dark basement room that smelled of stale fear and sounded like silent tears and gasping breaths.

"Please."

Watching and waiting for a savior who would never come.

With a jolt, she came back to herself, looking around frantically for those brown eyes that had promised so much hurt and darkness only moments before. Instead, she found only the eyes of strangers walking past, giving her a cursory glance before moving on with their lives.

She didn't know what had just happened, didn't understand it- all she knew was that she was shaking and cold and she just wanted to find somewhere to hide away from everyone and everything.

It had taken a moment to gather her strength and pull herself to her feet, but once she was standing she had started walking, then jogging, and soon enough was in a dead sprint, desperate to escape the images that were hovering at the edges of her mind.

She had reached her front door, entirely out of breath, and had unlocked the door hurriedly before slipping inside and dead-bolting it behind her. Taking the stairs to her room two at a time, she had locked her bedroom door and slid under the covers, pulling them up and over her head.

Lying there curled in a fetal position she had wished desperately for someone to hold her, to comfort her and tell her what had just happened and what it meant. The best she could come up with, though, was her stuffed lamb, which she grabbed and curled herself around. Her tears soaked the plush wool, and she squeezed it tighter.

She was so lost. Her life didn't feel like her own anymore. She didn't know what to think about what had happened. It had felt so real, but there was no way that had happened to her. She had to be making it up, or imagining it. Maybe she was just going crazy.

Going crazy seemed like the most likely option, but that was almost as bad because she knew her father would only see something broken that needed to be thrown in the trash.

But then- God, if she wasn't crazy, then it would be even worse. She had heard her whole life that girls only got what they were asking for, and if the things she had seen in her head were real ...there was no doubt in her mind that her father wouldn't hesitate in his judgment of her. She was a whore, a tramp, and she had obviously done something to make the man with the brown eyes think she wanted him to do those things to her. Why else would he have done it?

Squeezing her eyes closed as tight as they would go, she hugged her lamb fiercely and willed herself to sleep. She couldn't handle this. There was no way this was her life, because this? Was one big fucking mess.

One week later, Quinn was still lost, perhaps even more so than before. She was exhausted thanks to seven sleepless nights in a row, and she was at her wits end about what to do. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there, waiting for her with his fucking eyes and leering grin. No matter what she tried, she couldn't get him to leave her alone. It was her mind, for Christ's sake, but she seemed to have lost any say about what it focused on.

Dinner with her parents had been torturous, and she had held her breath the entire time, waiting for her father to casually glance at her and see what a whore she was. She had waited for the furious words and harsh hands, but they never came. Dinner came and went as it always did, and that was perhaps the most surprising thing of all.

She didn't understand how her life could be so completely different and yet so unchanged. She felt so broken and uglyon the inside, but everyone else still saw a girl who was pretty and happy and had everything she could ever want.

It felt wrongfor there to be such a disconnect, and after a week she was sick of it. She couldn't stand the way she was so changed on the inside while her outside remained the same, and in her desperation she had hit on an idea. She could make her outside match.

Fingers had scrabbled through drawers looking for a suitable eraser, and the moment she had found one, she felt her tension and pain lessen just a bit. She had lifted her shirt and started rubbing furiously along her ribcage, trying to erase everything that was bad and wrong and evil inside of her.

It didn't take long for a line of red to appear, just like the first time, but instead of stopping she rubbed faster, widening the mark. There was no pain, but as she watched her porcelain skin fade into red, she felt a small sense of satisfaction and relief. Stopping when she felt it was big enough, she waited for the pain to hit, and when it did she felt the last pieces of desperation and anxiety fall away.

She felt like she looked how she was supposed to. If she had done something horrible and sinful and wrong, then she deserved to have an exterior that was marred by sin just like her interior. And even if it didn't actually erase the turmoil inside of her, at least now she could feel like she was doing some sort of penance for her sins. Every time she moved and felt her side pull uncomfortably, she could know that she was atoning for everything she had done wrong.

This pain was deserved, and it comforted her to know that she could take back at least a modicum of control in her life.

By the time second semester sophomore year rolled around, Quinn was sporting a number of large, ugly scars on her stomach and ribs. They were an angry red and they stretched from side to side, roping around and trapping her further in her own personal hell.

She was president of the Celibacy Club, which provided a good cover as far as why she didn't have any boyfriends. In all honesty, she wasn't sure she could handle another person touching her, or kissing her, or doing much of anything, really.

She had come to terms with the fact that she most likely wasn't crazy and was instead just a garden-variety whore, as her father had so kindly put it the other night. That did not, however, mean that she was looking to give anyone additional ammunition to use against her should her whoring ways come to light.

Nobody knew anything, thankfully, and Quinn was hopeful that she could keep it that way forever. She was coping just fine on her own, had figured out a way to make things better, and she didn't see the point in telling anyone. She had made it this far without anyone else, and bringing other people in to the situation would only complicate things needlessly.

Her plan was foolproof.

Until suddenly it wasn't.

She was in the auditorium after school, looking for a notebook she had left during her drama class. As a cheerio she was guaranteed top standing in the social hierarchy, but there was no joy in cheerleading. Not with Sue Sylvester hanging over her and that constant ache in her side during practice.

Acting, on the other hand, gave her a way to escape from the pressures of being herself and living up to expectations. She could slip away and become someone else, and she loved that feeling of being free. It was just about the closest thing to happy she ever felt, and so she stuck with it even when all of the other Cheerios made fun of her for being such a geek.

Better that than a harlot or a whore or a slut.

She bent over to check under a chair, and when she straightened, Finn Hudson was standing in front of her. He was a football player, nice enough, and Quinn knew that he had a crush on her. He had asked her out no fewer than six times, and every time she had politely turned him down.

He was standing in front of her, a determined look on his face, and before she could even process what was happening she was pressed against the wall, his body trapping her. He kissed her harshly with what was probably meant to be passion, and Quinn felt herself floating away. She couldn't believe this was happening. She wanted so desperately to run or scream or do something,but it was like she was stuck on the outside of her body looking in, unable to do anything.

Finn seemed to take her silence and non-responsiveness as acceptance, and he pulled back briefly, a dopey grin on his face.

"I knew you liked me!"

He started kissing her again, and Quinn felt real terror boiling up in her as his hands made their way onto her body. He was groping clumsily, and she could feel herself screaming in protest inside the prison of her mind as he lifted the hem of her top, pulling it up. He pulled away long enough to look down at her, and she watched as his lip curled in surprise. Before he could do or say anything, however, a sharp voice cut through the silence.

"Is there a problem here?"

Finn's head whipped around at the sound, and he felt himself blanche when he saw Rachel Berry standing a few feet away. Backing off of Quinn hastily, he shook his head. "No, no problem. I was just leaving."

He turned, but not before giving Quinn a probing, wary look. She had a sinking feeling that nothing good could come of this interaction, but before she could think any farther, a soft voice distracted her.

"Quinn? Are you okay?"

Blinking fiercely to try to get herself to focus, she looked up and saw the tiny brunette watching her, concern clear in her eyes.

She knew Rachel mostly from drama, although they didn't really talk. Rachel was a force to be reckoned with, particularly if there was any singing involved, and Quinn had done her best to avoid initiating conflict. She liked drama, and it didn't seem worth it to jeopardize that just to poke fun at how over the top the little diva could be. At one point in time the other cheerios had tried to pick on Rachel, but with a little bit of prompting from Quinn they quickly decided to leave her alone and move on to bigger and better targets.

Trying to get her feet back under her, Quinn mumbled, "What are you still doing here, Rachel?"

Confused at the question, Rachel's brow furrowed as she replied, "I came back to look for some sheet music I left. I didn't...I didn't mean to interrupt, but it looked- youlooked- like you might not be entirely opposed to me alerting Finn to my presence before things went any farther. I...are you mad?"

Trying to work through what seemed like a lot of unnecessary words, Quinn slowly nodded. "Yeah, I'm...umm...thanks, Rachel."

She wasn't entirely sure what else to say- she didn't often talk with people, not after everything that had happened in the past year and a half. She left the social schmoozing to people like Santana Lopez, who was more than happy to talk for hours if it meant she got what she wanted. Quinn mentally crossed her fingers that Rachel's social skills were in better shape than her own, for both their sakes. This was awkward enough already.

Thankfully, Rachel seemed perfectly able to read Quinn's silent plea, and she sent her a hesitant smile. "I...I guess I should probably get going. I have a voice lesson tonight, so...yeah. If you need anything, though, let me know?"

It seemed pointless to tell Rachel she had no idea how to get ahold of her outside of school, so Quinn just gave her a thankful smile and nodded. Rachel seemed satisfied with her response and walked to the door, turning to give a small wave before leaving.

Exhaling a shaky breath, she leaned back against the wall and tried to get herself under control. It was time to head home if she didn't want to have to face an angry father on top of everything else.

The moment she stepped inside the door, she felt the tension blanketing her house, thick and oppressing. Quinn felt the first tendrils of fear creeping into her stomach as she walked into the entryway, looking around for either parent. Making her way farther into the house, she stopped short when she entered the den and found both parents sitting, clearly waiting for her.

"Quinn."

Her father's voice was slow, measured, and deadly quiet. Her mother was studiously avoiding her eyes, and Quinn felt her nervousness multiply exponentially. Glancing up to meet her father's eyes, she quickly dropped her gaze back to the carpet when he began speaking.

"I received an interesting phone call today, Quinn, from a young man by the name of Finn Hudson."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt herself begin to shut down. There was no way this was going to end well for her, and she tried to force the lump in her throat down.

"He was...how should I put this...quite concernedabout you. It seems that he saw a number of rather impressive scars."

Holding her breath as she waited for the unspoken words to come across, Quinn felt all the air leave her as he continued, "He said he saw those scars on your stomach."

Hazel eyes slipped closed as Quinn tried to brace herself for what she knew was coming, but she was still unprepared for the rough hands grabbing her by her shoulders and shaking.

Her father's tone was far less controlled and his volume had risen significantly as he spat, "I'm not sure what's worse, that he thinks he saw scars or that you've been whoring around with men who don't even attend a good Christian church!"

Suddenly he was gone, sitting calmly on the couch, in control once again.

"Well. First things first. Let's clear up this scar business. Lift your shirt, Quinn."

Dread stirred in her mind, and Quinn shook her head hurriedly. "I won't, Daddy."

The man glared at her, trying to bend her to his will through the sheer weight of his gaze, and Quinn felt herself shrinking. Still, the consequences of him seeing the scars were too terrifying to contemplate, and she shook her head resolutely.

"Quinnie, maybe you should do as your father says-"

Cutting her mom off with a sharp shake of her head, Quinn stood her ground. Her father growled dangerously at her continued defiance, and before she could blink he was in front of her again. She backed away quickly, but her back hit the wall, and he pressed forward, roughly grabbing the hem of her shirt and yanking it up. His lip curled back in disgust as he saw the angry red scars, and he backed away slowly.

He turned for a moment, and Quinn had a fleeting moment of hope that he was going to leave it be, but then he was turning, and his hand connected with the soft skin of her cheek with a resounding smack, his ring cutting the skin and sending her head spinning.

"How dare you?"

His voice was once again deadly soft, and Quinn felt a fresh spike of fear at the look in his eyes.

"How dare you? Your body is supposed to be a temple, not some dirty doormat that can be defiled! You- I thought we had raised you better than this, better than a life of sin-"

"Daddy, please-"

Her weak protest was cut off as a strong, meaty hand encircled her throat, effectively choking off the rest of what she had been trying to say.

"I'm not your Daddy any longer. You are not my daughter. Mydaughter would never whore herself out, or let herself become so disgustingly tainted. You- you-"

Gasping for air, Quinn struggled against her father's grip as he grew red and tried to find words to express his anger. Her fingers scrabbled against his hand, but his grip never loosened. Her frantic eyes found her mother's, but the older woman made no move to help, her lips tightly sealed against any and all protest at her husband's actions.

With a final squeeze, Quinn felt herself being shoved back, colliding roughly with the wall as her father turned his back on her for a second time.

"Get out."

The command was clear, with no attempt made to hide the threat carried in his words. Nearly falling as she pushed herself upright against the wall, Quinn stumbled to the door and outside into the bright daylight. She felt more than heard the door slam behind her, but it didn't even really register.

She felt light-headed and her head was still spinning. Reaching up to touch her cheek, she felt a twinge of concern when she brought her fingertips away with blood on them. Praying that it didn't look too bad, Quinn forced her feet to carry her away from her house and towards the Lima City Park. Half-falling onto a bench, she drew her knees up to her chest, leaning sideways against the high back.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real. There was no way that this was actually happening, it was too much. A sob caught in her throat, making it ache, and she idly wondered how much of a mess she looked. Maybe if she closed her eyes, everything would go away. Maybe things could go back to how they were a mere eight hours earlier, before all hell broke loose.

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Quinn forced her body to relax. Even if she couldn't wake up before all of this happened, at least she could escape into her dreams for a little while.

Awesome. So, tell me what you think! This will be undergoing revision, but I desperately need outside opinions on this, and so I'm putting it out there for you all! What worked, what didn't...let me know!