I walk down the halls of William McKinley High School, head high, slightly amused at the way the students part like the red sea for me. I can feel the eyes staring at me as I passed, but too afraid to meet my own. I have a reputation to ruin someone's life if they so much as looked at me the wrong way. Some would say it wasn't my fault I'm like this; it was the way my father raised me. As I walk, I hear rather than see my 'best friend', Santana, fall in step with me.

"Hey."

I just ignore her. It was the type of friendship that wasn't a friendly one – we only put up with each other because it works that way. We're both popular, both smart and both cruel.

"Why weren't you at Cheerio's last night, Q?'

I ignore that as well. Maybe she might be beginning to care. I visibly shudder at the thought.

"You know Sue is going to kill you next time you don't show." Santana pointed out.

"Yeah. I know. Look, can you just drop it? I'm not in the mood." I replied. To avoid more questions I quickly open my locker and get the books I need for the next period. I avoid Santana's confused gaze and hurry to maths class.

"And now you subtract four and that equals….. anyone? Quinn? Quinn? Quinn?" The teacher drones on, in his signature monotone voice. "Huh? Oh, um, 65." I reply. Why does he always pick on me? Maybe because I always get A's. I'm a 'model student' in his eyes. "Good. Now, as I was saying, if you divide 65 by 3….." At this point he lost me again and I start daydreaming. I glance at the clock, noting that there was only five minutes left of school. About time. For some unknown reason it feels like forever before we get let out. As soon as the bell rings, there is a stream of students trying to get away from school as soon as possible. I head straight for Santana's car, where she is waiting for me. I can't wait until I'm old enough to drive and stop carpooling with Santana. I chuck my bag in the back and jump in the passenger seat. Santana starts the car and the car lurches forward. There are a few minutes of awkward silence, since I've obviously been avoiding her. She took a deep breath. "Look, whatever's happening, I want you to… to… talk." She said the word 'talk' as if it was venom. I could tell this was hard for her; she's not used to caring about a friend, much less me. "Since when have you started caring about me?" I say, a little too hastily. She glances at me. "Since you started avoiding me." Damn. I knew she was going to say that.

"Well maybe I was avoiding you for a reason."

"Maybe."

The car stops, and I look around, and realise that we're at my house. I get out and collect my bag without a word. I walk the path to my house, pausing only to check that Santana has gone. I quietly open the door and slip inside, careful not to slam the door. I slowly tiptoe up the stairs and into my room, relieved that my parents didn't hear me. I dump my bag on the floor and start my homework.

We're eating dinner, the one time I see my parents willingly. "Mum, can I go shopping with my friends on the weekend?" I ask. "No, your sister is coming over with that nice boy Michael." My mother replies. I stop eating, frozen with shock. No. This isn't happening. I thought she would be too busy for us; with her being famous and traveling the world. Now my father would see how successful she is and how stupid I am. "Quinn? Is something wrong?" My mother says, startling me. "N-no, nothings w-wrong" I stutter. Now she definitely knows something's up, but she decides to drop it. I quickly finish my dinner, and stand up. "I'm going to bed."

"Quinn." My father says. My heart shoots to my throat. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" He leads me into the kitchen. "When were you going to tell me about your B in science? Do you know how disappointing and embarrassing it is to have a failure in the family? Why can't you be more like your sister? She is famous, has a nice husband, and never once got a B!" I stand still, taking it all in. This was normal. Every time I would get something under an A, or even if I did the slightest thing wrong he would yell at me. "Go to your room. I don't want to see you tonight." He says. Fighting back tears, I quickly run into my room. I go straight to my dresser. I take out the tin in the back of the draw and open it. I take out the razor and sit on my bed. I lift my top, and remove the gauze bandage. I start cutting, starting lightly at first but then getting deeper. I gasp, and throw my head back. The pain isn't pain; more like a distant throbbing. I like it. It reminds me I'm still alive. I stop before the bleeding gets too heavy, and get a fresh gauze bandage and put it on my stomach. I would never cut my wrists – people would know. I put the razor back in the tin and put it in my dresser. Words can hurt, I know that. That's why I use them. I suddenly feel exhausted. I don't bother changing my clothes, I just lie down and as soon as I do I fall asleep.

Friday. One more day until my sister comes. One more day until the verbal abuse becomes more frequent, more vicious. I try to keep my head high as I walk, otherwise people would start to question my status in the school. I walk up to my locker and grab my history book. As I do, I think about what would happen if I ran away. Would they miss me? Would they even notice? Would they keep living their lives, oblivious to the fact that I left? Would my parents miss me? Probably not. I imagine what life would be like without parents like mine. Better, less stress, less pressure.

I survive the day. I don't want go home yet, I couldn't take it. I walk to the girl's bathroom, and into a cubicle. I sit on the floor, and take out the razor. This time I decide to cut my thighs. I start cutting. I sigh in relief; the pain is familiar, comforting even. It becomes addictive. All of a sudden I start to feel light-headed. I've gone too far. The bleeding becomes heavier and I panic. I grip the toilet seat and shakily get up with one hand pressed against my thigh. "Help" I say weakly. I unlock the door and stumble out of the bathroom. Is this how it's going to end, on the cold, unfriendly floors of a public school in Ohio that no one cares about? All of a sudden I hear music coming from a classroom. I blindly stagger towards it, and somehow push the door open. Through blurry eyes, I can see someone turning towards the door. A girl, I think. "Help. Help" I say again, almost whispering. I see her running towards me. Then darkness consumes my world.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Will she live?"

"I think so. The cut was on a main artery, but she was lucky you got to her when you did and called the ambulance."

I open my eyes. At first the brightness confuses me. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the light, and then I realise I'm a hospital. And none other than Rachael Berry, the midget that no one likes, the same person that I have teased and bullied and generally made her life a living hell, is sitting in the chair next to me. Why? Why would she care? "SHE'S AWAKE!" Rachael screams. "Oh, god. My head. What happened?" I moan. "Take it easy. You cut a main artery, and this young lady here saved you." The doctor said, waving his hand at Rachael. "I don't get it. Why did you save me?" I ask her. "Well, life is precious. You only get one chance, and I figured you haven't had that chance yet." She replies, casually. Wow, this kid is philosophical. "Thanks." I don't know what else to say. Thankfully the doctor starts talking. "Now, we need to get in touch of your parents." At this, my heart sank. Rachael must have seen the fear in my eyes so she took the doctor outside to talk to him in private. "Um, if you don't mind, and if you don't want to stay with your parents for whatever reason, I was wondering if you wanted to stay at my house until this gets sorted out?" Rachael blurts out when she walks back in. Was she serious? "But why? I've bullied you and generally made your life a living hell and this is how you treat me?" That sounded meaner out loud than in my head. "What I said before about the chance thing. But yeah, my offer still stands if you want to…." Rachael trailed off. I smiled. So this was what it was liked to be cared about.

"I'd love to."

Now I have my chance at life.