Warning: Rated M for abuse, vulgarity, racial remarks, and sexual themes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its associated characters. If I did, this is what Glee would be like. I also do not own AM 1420. I'm from Ohio; this radio station unfortunately exists.
Finally, I do not own Lady Gaga's song, "Bad Romance". Each chapter will be titled with part of the song's lyrics.
Mantra
Chapter one: I want your horror
Quinn gripped the steering wheel, her only root to reality that had yet to be severed. In the course of her drive home, her toes became numb, her legs turned to stone, and her torso tightened under the squeeze of an imaginary python.
She hastily pulled over the car for the fifth time since she left McKinley High. Ms. Pillsbury's soothing voice echoed in her head as she tried desperately to fend off her imminent panic attack, "Breathe in, breathe out. Think of your mantra, Quinn. Focus. Stay present and breathe." Heeding Ms. Pillsbury's advice, Quinn gasped as she trudged through her mental haze, and she silently repeated her mantra, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me! I can -"
Her shallow breaths eventually slowed to deeper, more stable respiration. Quinn slumped against the steering wheel. Her hand fiddled with her cell phone in her coat pocket. She could call her to come pick her up. She could call her and admit that she couldn't face her parents alone. That she needed her there to hold her hand while Quinn absorbed the tidal wave of rage from her soon-to-be dismayed parents. But that would require Quinn to allow her to help, which was certainly not going to happen. Quinn had demanded that she deal with just one problem on her own, so calling her girlfriend to swoop in and rescue her was out of the question (though her lover's Wonder Woman complex was undeniably adorable.) No, Quinn was a Fabray. She was proud. She was capable.
Unlike all of her relatives, however, Quinn refused to teeter on the edge of her crumbling foundation. She would not suppress her unhappiness like her mother, or her aunts, or her grandmother. Her composure had long ago been eroded by her repressed tribulations. That ended tonight. Tonight, she was going to tell her parents that she was in love with Santana Lopez.
Well, that was assuming that she didn't wrap her father's Cadillac around a telephone pole on the way home.
Quinn steeled herself before turning over the engine. Drivers passing by shot her judgmental glances. Quinn pondered the thoughts in their heads, "What business does a girl that young have driving that car?"
"There goes another Fabray, waving their wealth in our peasant faces."
"There's that bitch, Quinn. Probably on her way to spread it again – "
Quinn shook herself from her self-deprecating speculation. The longer she sat here, the longer it would be before she had revealed everything she had bottled up over the last year. She just wanted to confess and be finished with it. Sighing, she gingerly rolled off the curb and into the traffic.
Desperate to hear something other than the sound of her hammering heart, Quinn switched on the radio. Her father's favorite conservative radio station, AM 1420, blared out of the speakers, "Ladies and gentlemen," the radio personality announced, "it is my esteemed pleasure to welcome one of the greatest political minds of our time to today's show. Please welcome a man I personally admire… Karl Rove!"
"Fuck!" Quinn screeched as she quickly silenced the radio. She would make an attempt to borrow her mother's car from now on. Judy Fabray didn't care if Quinn changed the radio station. Hell, Judy wouldn't even notice. Russell Fabray, on the other hand, had a sixth sense. He always knew when Quinn switched the radio to something other than conservative political bullshit, even though she always changed it back to his precious AM 1420. He could tell exactly how much gas Quinn had frivolously wasted driving his car (even if she filled the tank before bringing it home.) Yes, Russell Fabray was a psychic. A sinister, fucking psychic, as well as utterly unreasonable. Once, he even berated Quinn for fogging up his Cadillac, because she breathed in it too much.
Quinn's mental laundry list of grievances against her father quieted the moment she rolled into her driveway (because if her suspicions were true, Russell would hear her negative thoughts, which would propel him into a tirade.) She wanted her father in as (neutral) pleasant a mood as possible, before she dropped her gargantuan, Sapphic, rainbow-tastic bomb on her unsuspecting, God-fearing parents.
Hold onto your Cheerios skirts; life was about to suck for Quinn Fabray.
Santana paced like a ravenous jaguar in a cage. Quinn hadn't called. She hadn't texted Santana. Nothing - not even a goddamn smoke signal! 6:30pm and she had heard nothing.
"Fuck a duck!" Santana hurled yet another wad of crumpled sheet music against her plum-colored bedroom wall. She wished she could release her pent-up frustration with an object heavier than paper, but then she would have to explain to her father, Julio, why and how she had embedded the kitchen knives in her wall… again.
She couldn't even yank on her hair, because then she'd rip out her newly-attached weave. The Universe had stripped Santana of all (destructive) effective ways to manage her anger. Not. Fucking. Fair.
Santana mumbled Ms. Pillsbury's advice over and over like a prayer, "Some things are out of your control, Santana. Quinn especially. Let go."
Santana lightly bounced up and down as she whispered quietly, "Let go. Let go. Just fucking let go."
Her sessions with Ms. Pillsbury were becoming more and more frequent these days. At first, Santana was entirely opposed to spewing her problems to anyone, especially to that germ phobic, sexually-challenged counselor.
Take that back, she was Santana Fucking Lopez . She did not have a single problem; everyone else had a problem because they weren't as fucking awesome as she was! The human race's inadequacies were not her fault or concern!
But after the third day of Quinn withholding sex, Santana relented. Now, in flustering situations such as these, Santana relied on the redheaded counselor's wisdom like oxygen.
"Dios, por favor, deja ella sea seguro." Santana could only stew in her concern, hoping that her prayer would be answered.
"I- I dddon't understand," Judy Fabray stuttered, her voice shaky and uneven.
"I'm gay, mom, okay? Just like I have pale skin," Quinn's eyes pleaded for her mother to understand. She had yet to even look her father in the eye. He stood stony-faced next to his seated wife. His knuckles were ghostly white where he gripped Judy's dining room chair.
"But… but you can't be," Judy argued, "What about Finn? And that sweet boy, Sam-"
"And that fucking Jew that knocked you up last year!" Russell snapped. "What was his name? Fuck? Fuckerman?"
"Puck, Daddy," Quinn whispered, "His name is Puck-"
"You really think I care what that dumbshit's name is?" Russell glowered at his daughter as he loomed menacingly over her. He gripped her arm forcefully; Quinn felt helplessly small under his constricting grasp. Judy just shook as she sucked in each breath, her eyes glued to the floor tiles.
"First that punk kike from Cincinnati, and now you're a degenerate? What have your mother and I done to deserve this disgusting behavior of yours, Quinn? Please, tell me! I want to hear this!"
"Daddy, my sexuality has nothing to do with you or Mom," Quinn tried to explain.
"Sexuality?" Russell roared, "Sexuality? You're a Christian, Quinn Elizabeth Fabray! You don't have a sexuality until you're married to a man! Oh right, you ruined that when you disgraced this household with your bastard child!" Russell grabbed an empty glass on the table and shattered it against the wall. "Stand up!" He demanded.
Quinn immediately obeyed.
"Who did this to you?" he interrogated. His eyes were spinning gears, trying to click together and decipher the mystery that was his daughter. Before Quinn could respond, his mind locked onto the obvious answer, "It happened in that locker room, didn't it?"
Quinn was speechless; she was unable to follow her father's bigoted train of thought.
"After Cheerios practice! You girls fornicated in the showers! Is that it, Quinn? Did you fuck every boy in school and now you're having orgies with the cheerleaders?"
"Russell!" Quinn's mother interjected, absolutely horrified at his accusations. "She's obviously sick! Stop screaming at her-"
"I am not sick, dammit!" Quinn shrieked, "And I am not sleeping with all the Cheerios. I haven't cheer leaded since last year! Maybe if you actually cared about my life you would know that-" Before Quinn could finish, her father struck her cheek, knocking her back into her seat. A stifling heaviness enveloped the room. Russell's eyes were black with rage. Judy did not speak again. Instead, she slinked over to the liquor cabinet in the next room and poured herself a colossal glass of red wine.
"Pour me a scotch!" Russell barked at his wife. He whipped back to Quinn, who at this point was wheezing, trying frantically to ward off another panic attack.
"Stop making that awful noise!" He ordered.
Quinn heaved as she hopelessly tried to inhale properly. Judy walked back into the dining room with a glass in each hand. Upon seeing Quinn, she promptly dropped them both and rushed to her daughter's side. "Quinn! Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
"What the devil is wrong with you, Judy?" Russell bellowed. "Clean this shit up!" He gestured wildly at the smashed glass and alcohol strewn across the floor.
"Look at her! Quinn's sick!" Judy retorted, "Forget the glass and call 911!"
Quinn dug her nails into her mother's blouse and shook her head violently. No police. No doctors. No explaining the ligature marks on her arm, and the swelling lump on her cheek, and the broken glass on the floor. Quinn's eyes brimmed over with tears as she silently begged her mother to abandon the idea of outside people.
Russell huffed. "Pathetic," He turned and dramatically stepped over the puddle of liquor and shattered glass and stormed up the stairs.
Quinn's wheezing turned into bawling as she clutched her mother. "Mommy, please…"
Judy held her while Quinn's body wracked with sobs. After what seemed like eons later, Quinn stilled in her mother's arms. Judy peeled herself away from her daughter to look Quinn in the eye. She hesitated before speaking. "Are you all right now, dearest?"
Quinn rubbed her eyes with her sleeve and gently nodded.
Judy looked down at the despondent girl before her. Her eyes glazed over as she walked out of the room to fetch herself another glass of wine. All love and concern drained from Judy's eyes.
Quinn recognized that expression. The spacey gaze her mother wears when she's reached her emotional limit, when she briefly comprehends that her husband is perdition personified and her family is in shambles.
Once she reentered the room, she hands Quinn a box of tissues. Quinn's tongue tripped over grateful words as she wiped her face. Judy took one more look at Quinn before she sipped her drink; the intoxicating liquid flushed her completely into apathy. Before leaving the room she called over her shoulder, "You ruined my blouse."
Santana would not fall asleep. A loving girlfriend would not sleep through Quinn's phone call. However, it was half passed eleven, and Santana had been up since 5:30am, brimming with anxiety as she repeatedly contemplated her girlfriend's impending conversation with the Fabrays. Being up nineteen hours was pushing this raven-haired girl's limit.
Her phone buzzed for exactly half a beat on the nightstand before Santana pressed it to her ear. "Quinn? Lock your bedroom door until I get there. I'm coming right now!"
"Don't bother," Quinn rasped, "I'm already here. Open your front door."
Santana's entire house flashed by her in a blur as she raced to let in Quinn. Fortunately, both of her parents were out of town, otherwise, she would have been "harshly disciplined" for running through the house in nothing but her black lingerie.
She flung the door open with such force that she nearly fell backwards. Quinn, on the other hand, did not flinch at the display or her girlfriend's appearance. She merely stepped inside, slung her duffle bag off of her shoulder, and dropped her suitcase with an audible "clunk."
Santana promptly pulled Quinn into a vice-like embrace and kissed her temple before the onslaught of questions spilled out of her mouth, "Babe, what happened? Did you drive yourself here? Whose car did you take? Please tell me you didn't take the Cadillac, because in this neighborhood, it'll be gone from the curb by morning-"
"Santana!" Quinn interrupted, "I didn't drive. I walked here."
Santana blinked in disbelief. "Quinn, it's practically three miles!"
"I needed to clear my head. The walk was cathartic." Quinn responded coolly.
"It's dark! This is Lima Heights Adjacent! Are you crazy? No, no you did not drive here. Where is your car?" Santana stuck her head out her door to peer into the darkness.
"Santana, get in here!" Quinn yanked her girlfriend back into the house by her bra strap. "I walked here. Got it? Fantastic. Now, are you going to argue with me, or are we going to cuddle in your bed? Because after the night I've had, I'd much prefer the latter."
Santana weighed both options; lack of sleep prevented the phrase "cuddle in your bed" from instantaneously registering.
Upon realizing her stupidity, Santana pulled Quinn toward the stairs by her wrist. The wrist that still bore Russell's purple finger marks underneath her shirt sleeve. Quinn bit her bottom lip to prevent a pained whimper from reaching Santana's ears. It was far too late to explain her injury and stop Santana from going on the warpath.
Santana delicately lifted Quinn's shirt from her body while Quinn feebly fumbled with the button of her jeans.
"Cariña, let me," Santana cooed.
Quinn sighed affectionately as Santana adroitly stripped her of all her clothes. Being undressed by her Latina never failed to brighten Quinn's mood. "The underwear," Quinn said playfully, "lose it."
Santana happily complied as she pulled off her bra and thong and led Quinn to their bed. Quinn lay on her side between Santana's legs. Santana wrapped her arms around her girlfriend as Quinn curled contently into her.
Santana brushed some of the blonde's hair away from her face as she kissed the paler girl's cheek. She could taste a salty film lingering from tears on Quinn's face. Frowning, Santana debated asking about the mammoth in the room.
"Cariña?"
"Yeah San?"
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Quinn exhaled sharply. "No, love," she answered, "not really."
Santana nodded and switched off her bedside lamp. She made no effort to inquire about the deep purple bruises on Quinn's wrist. Or the smudged foundation revealing a dark splotch on her cheek. That metaphorical pachyderm would have to wait until tomorrow.