Cold.
That was the only tangible word that floated around in her nausea-stricken brain as she leaned over the clean white brightness, resting her cheek against the porcelain. The bathroom pass from Mr. Schuester lay next to her aching knee, which would later sport an impressive bruise from collapsing to the freezing linoleum just seconds before.
Someone flushed a few stalls away. A pair of Pradas tottered dangerously as the owner pulled up her jeans and click-clacked her way to the sink.
Quinn tried to silence her heaving breath.
Water rushed from the tap.
Suddenly, the liquid sound triggered her gag reflux, and Quinn's eyes burned as she witnessed her lunch again. The burning sensation in the back of her throat forced her to close her eyes, and she leaned her forehead against the toilet bowl.
The water had stopped, and Quinn noticed the shoes slamming over to the paper towels. She vaguely remembered owning a pair of heels similar to those at one point – her dog had chewed them up, so her parents bought her two new pairs.
She sat up, then leaned against the rim again. She ran French manicured nails over the barely visible bump that protruded from her cheerleading uniform. Disgusted, she closed her eyes. Quinn had taught herself how to be pristine, how to look down upon anyone who was less than her practiced perfection. And that was all right, wasn't it? People should know their place.
So where was she?
Judging people had been her profession, keeping her image up and her many admirers down.
Now, it was getting through sixth period. She rolled her head to the other side.
The movement caused her to heave again, this time weaker. She grabbed her abdomen, damning everyone in the world but herself. It was all their fault, whoever they were.
The shoes stopped on their way out. A carefully practiced voice bounced off the tiles.
"Freaking bulimic." The door closed.
As a trembling hand reached to flush the toilet, Quinn knew her place.