To The Closet

Summary: Could it be that the world has destined them to orbit, this girl and her star, so that they may find each other in the dark? Pre-Season One.

Disclaimer: I do not own to the rights to Glee, any of its characters, or its plot devices.

"Don't you think it's about time you got yourself a boyfriend?" said Russell Fabray. "By the time your sister was a sophomore, she'd already gone through her age in men."

To his daughter, these words brought with them a guilt, as if it were somehow a fault, or weakness, of her own that caused this continual question to be brought up; that for some reason, at the age of sixteen, Quinn, Russell's second daughter, had breached a contract, destroyed some ethereal hope in her father's soul; that by not having a boyfriend she was somehow inadequate, undeserving of his love. And so befitting the oppressed and the oppressor, Quinn despised her father, the one who insisted upon destroying the semblance of unity her mother had worked so hard to build, only to have it broken down, again, by the tsunami of words spurting out of her father's mouth, as timely as Old Faithful, and as sulfurous, too; for this brief moment when all her vulnerabilities would so easily be exposed if it weren't for the fear Russell had instilled in his daughter's heart; so vile a thing it was, after all, to think, and believe, and feel differently than the one who sacrificed so much so that one may get far in life; make a name for oneself; step out of the death wheel of manual labor, canned food, and stove-heated bathwater.

"Quinn will start dating when she's ready," said her mother, while passing the salt shaker to her husband, "we just may have to wait a few years for that to happen."

Had she not been seated so soundly beneath her father's gaze, Quinn would have gotten up and hugged her mother dearly for all the reproach that was in her words, and, Quinn thought, looking at her father, seem to have put him in his place, despite the fact that I shall never be the one to stand up to him. There will be a day, her mother thought, in which I will not be able to defend my daughter; she will be left out in the world with this idea, this thought that such words are alright.

"The other parishioners are starting to talk! Besides, it's part of human nature, it's unhealthy to go this long without a relationship of some sort," Russell said with a slight hint of despair reaching his intonations, for he had long held the fear that his own wrongdoings would soon be next exposed, that in keeping the family off the radar, his skeletons, too, would remain untouched, hidden forever in that figurative closet. But eventually, all closets come to be full; he knew that, just as he knew that his daughter had little concern for what the church said of her behavior, despite outward appearances. But is anyone ever concerned with how their actions affect others around them? No, no one is more concerned about anyone than themselves: that is what drives people apart, after all.

"It's dinner time," said Quinn's mother, gesturing at the glittering table in an attempt to draw the conversation to a close, so that no one would take it to heart.

Quinn's mother, despite her fear of her husband, or perhaps through her understanding of the difficulties that arise when confronted with his unyielding ideas, always tried to come to her daughter's rescue, though this usually resulted in an argument, and unrest, both of which were certainly not asked for on this day where we are to give thanks for what we are about to receive. Amen.

"I am not ready for anything to happen," Quinn whispered to herself. She had found her voice, despite the terrible elements, and found it to be in what she had found herself in and through. And so by finding her voice, she had also seen herself losing it; she had seen herself give it up in favor of silence; she had seen herself give it up, yet it came back, and with vengeance, gushing all over her, as though she had digested something funny, or could not stomach cowardice. But what was this worth, in comparison to everything else? Am I the one to decide the fate of a family? In all things considered, a few more years will not make it a habit. She sighed, she lowered her head, acting the part to perfection of acquiescent servant prostrating oneself to the master's right; an act which required little false emotion along with will and control; all things which could be called upon unconsciously for all the times they were needed; and so getting in the act, she could not speak the truth, only the partial truth, of which she could bear to hear the argument against, and so shielding herself, she sighed and spoke mournfully,

I am not ready for anything to happen.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral;

I shall not be accused!

so as to ensure that her father caught all the syllables even in her state of impaired hearing. Russell was shocked to say the least; it was one thing to hear such blasphemous words out of the mouth of heathens, but another entirely to hear it from his own daughter's. There was simply no excuse for such insubordination! Russell was ready to launch himself at his wife for teaching such things to Quinn (and he had, indeed, braced his arms on the chair), when he caught sight of his daughter in his peripheral vision-the only way he could look at the problem-and noticed the dejected hang of her head; how her eyes seemed to have lost their tender look; everything about her was tensed for a beating with words, but why? Where did these feelings come from? He simply wanted his daughter to do right; and what rightness could be claimed to be in his words if it brought such a change in demeanor, such a despicable sadness in his daughter, such a thing should not be. But who would blame him for wishing his daughter the same happiness that he had gotten from marriage? He could not help that he also wanted to see this happiness emerge; wanted to see the way his daughter took up more than literature; and he could not change time, she was getting older each day, and each day bringing more questions from every end, each day with no change in his daughter, seemingly stuck in a stasis of thought and feeling and opinion, for she has remained as steadfast in this belief over the ages, if not the opposite of his own expectations, for one would have thought that the arguments would have turned more into a complaint of agreement by now, but his daughter would never change and he did not have time enough to change, so where does his happily ever after come in?

"This isn't a fairytale; I don't want a Prince Charming on a horse." Quinn knew what she wanted, but there was never an ending to those nightmares, merely a continuous tortuous trail that her father seemed all too glad to pave with good intentions and to force feed his American Dream down the throats of everyone else. What is it I miss? Will I ever find it, whatever it is? But Quinn could do nothing about the loss. (She was thinking how the stars sparkling so merrily in the sky were so very different from the lights in her eyes and how only some lights offered a chance for a reflection into the soul; and for that she was thankful.) She was unsure. She could just as easily abandon what she had concluded as her fate as she could continue with it; she had no one to tether her to, no one to lead her down one road or the other.

Be who you are and say what you feel. Be who you are and say what you feel. No matter the cause of repetition, Quinn could not say what she felt; she could not bear to disappoint her father; could not, now that she was so settled, now that she had set roots in the tale she had woven, in the fate she had defaulted on. If it had been any other time in her life, and if it had not been Christmas, and if her mother had not worked so hard at pleasing her father, she would have surely spoken. What lies. If he had had a son instead, if she had been brought differently into this world, then these worries need not be his. But he had a daughter and did not understand; he could not even fathom the thoughts in her head, so he gave up trying. But his God-how he loved Him- he knew His thoughts; knew of His dreams; knew of everything He wished for his daughter, for they were his own. He would put his own desires last; he would continue sacrificing for his family though they never thanked him for his efforts; he would do everything in his power to ensure his daughter's happiness, even if she didn't quite see its definition as he did, even if she had no care over what the parishioners were saying. He was powerless against their words; he could keep them abated no more than he could stop the deluge. The deluge of what? Of hatred or the Nile after two weeks of rain?

Quinn's mother would do everything in her power, but it would be as if she were doing nothing-her everything meant nothing- and like no other time in her life, she wanted to throw back the ties she had to her husband, her church, her faith; wanted to remove the leeches from her back; wanted to take out her anger in a physical way. I cannot; I shall not. But does she know? Can she tell I would do everything if only it would do something?

He will do nothing. She knew he would do nothing-he never did anything; he does not cut the meat (a jagged slice-not smooth enough for the table; more so, his plate); he does not speak; he will not move to protect his daughter and so she is left to believe his love is faulty. She loves him-she does-but sometimes she is not consciously aware, though it feels as though she is never aware; she feels like she is more than a mother because her husband will do nothing. Does he not see their struggle? A struggle against a belief so vile, yet one that must be respected, honored, and obeyed. He is not usually this contemptible, this concerned with the parishioners-she knows he has information they would all like to remain quiet, secrets everybody knows. But why, then, does he attack his own daughter with words? He must not see, for he could not, for no one would do that to their own kin. No one. Never. Slowly, so slowly, the negative words weigh her down, pulling, pulling, as if they had a physical weight; as if gravity were somehow affecting them; as if each word had a mass and was accelerating her towards the center of herself, her core, for she suddenly found herself out of breath, as though a hit had landed in her gut. She was only slightly aware of the table around her, her domestic duties there, as the waves tug the cargo of agony toward her once again, inescapable, tidal. A whisper of truth snuck past her tight lips,

And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach

Face the voices that overwhelm,

the terrible element,

so that only her daughter heard, a girl who needs someone standing next to her in this moment; some steadfast loyalty; a reminder of the world around her, so she does not sink farther into the depths of her eyes, into herself, so like her mother, a woman who almost drowned in the depths of her own desperation, in her drink, a woman whose life vest came with her daughter, who now needs her own lifesaver. Why won't her father offer her that? He is undoubtedly a man in every aspect save this. He lacks courage to question his own convictions, for he will certainly stand against his daughter to the last.

Works Referenced:

Three Women: Sylvia Plath

un-cited quote: Dr. Seuss