Author's Note: My first story! I hope you enjoy it. Just note though, that being a journal, this isn't so much a story in which things happen, it's more like a reflection on things which have happened. I hope you read ahead, in any case.
I don't know much about you, except that you're reading this, somewhere, hopefully far away. Likewise, you know nothing about me, except that I wrote this. The difference between you and I, however, is that by the time you are done reading this, you will know me quite well, whereas I will still not know you at all.
I cannot quite say what came over me to pen this to you, except that it was a compulsion which gripped me around the chest, crushing my sternum and tearing my diaphragm. I felt that if I did not begin to write immediately, then I would burst apart on the spot, heart exploding out of my chest and landing in a bloody, pumping pulp in the darkest corner of the room, leaving walls and floor and furniture flecked with shreds of flesh, lung tissue and shards of bone. With the beginning of this letter, already some of the pressure has ceased and I can feel that I am able to breathe again. I am relieved to say that I do not think that my imminent explosion is threat any longer.
My writing desk is cold. My pen is cold. My paper is so cold it almost feels damp, and the ink seeps through its pores as though it is human skin. But I am hot, positively feverish, and my pen flies across the page, leaving spidery trails in its wake. If you squint, they look like words. Forgive me, I have always had terrible penmanship; if schoolteachers were allowed to rap my knuckles for it, I'm certain they would have. Perhaps then I would have put in effort to improve it, but as it stands, it is as it is, scrawling and hardly legible, but writing nonetheless. I rather like my messy handwriting; it meant that keeping my writings private was possible without having to take security measures. I need not copy Leonardo da Vinci's habit of writing backwards to conceal my secrets, my writing itself is an almost undecipherable code. But I hope you are able to read it. If you can, then you are the one; this letter was meant to find you.
I say letter, but really, this is the beginning of a journal; a documented history of my life from this day until the day that I reach the final page. Here, neatly bound up in leather will be the story of my life, my year, my month - my however much time it takes me to fill these leaves. Thankfully, there are many pages here. I shall not be finished in a hurry, or so I hope. With my tendency to ramble nonsensically, it might all be over within a few weeks. This shall then be a snapshot of my life, rather than the entire story. Well, this is already the middle of the story of my life. I use the term "middle" loosely; I am but 17. I could be at the very beginning of my life. I could very well be in the middle of my life, should I happen to meet Death at the age of 34. I could even be at the very end of my life; I may have an accident tomorrow, or I may contract a fatal illness, or I may get bitten by a poisonous spider, or I may be murdered. Or I may choose to end my own life. All are possibilities; but not all are probabilities.
You may think, 'What a macabre child!' and to you, I say, "Yes, I am! But thinking about one's own death does not make one macabre; it makes one aware of one's own mortality." I cannot see how this is a bad thing. Too often I think humans overlook the fact that they may die tomorrow, or in the next instant, and they let pass too many opportunities, thinking that they will come again. One day, those opportunities will stop coming. One day, you will die. Realising one's mortality makes one more likely to want to start living. It is the best form of self motivation, or so I find.
Or, you may be thinking, "What kind of 17 year old girl writes in such a formal style, in this day and age? This is the 21st century!" Well, I reassure you, my friend, I do not always write as such, and I most certainly do not speak as such. Outwardly, I am as much like next girl as could be. Should a group of possible candidates be lined up, and you were asked to choose the writer of this journal based entirely on what you have learned so far about them by reading this, I assure you that I would not be the one you chose. By the end of this, you could easily single me out in a crowd, but from what I have written so far, you would not make the correct choice.
Let me help you. My name is Quinn Fabray. As I have told you, I am 17 years of age, to be 18 in September. A legal adult - it's a terrifying thought. I feel that I am incompetent to be a teenager, much less an adult. But I shall get used to it soon enough; life is a continuous cycle of things to get used to, is it not? First, you get used to people crooning at you as a baby, then you get used to sitting, then crawling, then walking. You get used to falling down, then used to getting back up again. You get used to feeding yourself, going to the toilet by yourself, dressing yourself, tying your own shoelaces. You get used to reading on your own, you get used to writing your own name, you get used to writing other words. You get used to being told what to do, you get used to learning, you get used to growing taller. You get used to wanting things, you get used to not always getting them. You get used to fights, you get used to arguments, you get used to compromises, you get used to negotiations. You get used to changing schools, you get used to changing friends. You get used to changing bodies, changing attitudes, changing wants. You get used to peer pressure, you get used to the loss of your childhood, you get used to not growing any more. You get used to not being the same person you always where, you get used to other people changing. You get used to their attitudes, their decisions, their quirks. You get used to growing older, you get used to new ideas so quickly that they soon become old ideas. You get used to living. You get used to getting used to things. Even you now, reading this, got used to the phrase "you get used to" and were probably even slightly surprised at a sentence not beginning with it. But now, with this being the second without using that phrase, you're used to not seeing it anymore. Is that not right? Life's a chain of getting used to things, the only difference for different people is where the different links happen in their lives. But I digress.
I am a high school student in Lima, Ohio, where I was once a cheerleader, but abandoned that sport to instead pursue my passion for music by focusing solely on my participation in our school's Glee Club. Glee Club, in case you are unaware, my dear friend, is a show choir. Fellow students and I gather during the afternoons to sing together, sometimes as a group, sometimes on our own. We are constantly challenged, either by our teacher, Mr Shuester, who hands us assignments, or by the songs we choose or are chosen for us, where we must work to hit particular notes. I must say that it is sometimes difficult and the other members of the club are sometimes utterly irritating, but end results are worth any of those obstacles.
Our club, New Directions, competes at Regionals each year, and if we place, are fortunate enough to receive an invitation to Sectionals, and then, should we be good enough to progress, we go through to Nationals. This past year, we worked hard enough to earn us a position at the Nationals competition, held in the grand city of New York. I must say, it was strange that one of the highest points of the year took place during my most emotional low of the year. Shall we put it down to life's ironies?
Why was it a low point? Boy troubles. Quite typical reasons for a 17 year old, as I'm sure you're aware. Unfortunately, it was nothing more spectacular than this. Sorry to disappoint. I'm afraid I may disappoint on numerous occasions, so I ask now for forgiveness from you, loyal reader. My stupidity sometimes astounds even myself. But I'm sure you can find it within your heart to forgive a poor girl who's tread a hard road. I should hope so, anyway. If you cannot, then I implore you to stop reading now; my story was not written to be read by you, oh heartless creature. It was only ever meant for those who carry compassion in their hearts and forgiveness in their souls. Should you be lacking in either, then I politely ask you to close this book, gently so as to not shake loose the pages which I'm certain will only be held to the spine by a single thread by the time I reach the end of this journal, and then proceed to your local park, where I again politely ask you this time to leave this book on a park bench where someone else may find it; hopefully, this time the right person. Thank you, I appreciate your cooperation and your time.
Still here? Why then, you must be a compassionate, forgiving person. For this, I laud you! It is difficult to find someone like you in the world. It would also help if you were kind and open hearted, as well as patient and slow to anger. These are traits which you will find become helpful in reading about this life of mine. If you don't believe you possess enough patience or anger management to continue, I will kindly ask you to dispose of this book as aforementioned, leaving it on a park bench so that it may find its way into another's hands. I'm sorry, my story is not for you either.
If you are still reading by this point, then I can only assume that you are the one: the one this story was meant to be read by. Already I shall beg your forgiveness again, this time for forcing you to read all of the above and asking you to question your personality. I wholeheartedly apologise. Also, I offer you a magnitude of gratitude for still being here. We are about to embark on an adventure, you and I, through days perilous and nights of reprieve, through high school days and emotional trauma. Are you ready to experience the journey with me? Are you sure? Yes? Well then, turn the page and proceed with caution, for this story is not all rainbows and butterflies.