I don't own em.
Author's Note: Spoiler's Up through New York and this is definitely AU in some ways. Quinn's dad is dead and she has other issues as well. Faberry, eventually. A bit dark, but real life, people. Please enjoy and review. Thanks to all who have read " I feel you." I will be updating that story soon. I just needed to get this out.
Just Another Story, Chapter 1
The voices in my head own me. They recite bad poetry, that which does not rhyme or even reason. I've listened to them my entire life. They are always there, pulsating, darkly. They overshadow my own even though I know my voice is also there, throbbing, drowning, desperately trying to claw its way to the surface. I open my mouth to speak, but it is not my true thoughts, my true feelings. Those things belong to others. Never to me.
For I am not allowed to speak my mind, I am only allowed to reiterate that which the voices tell me. My body is not my own. My actions are only for the benefit of others. I have been trained, you see. I have been trained by life to know my place and to know which actions are most pleasing and those which are not pleasing at all. Aren't we all? By the way, just so you know, I'm really not schizophrenic. I'm just perpetually fucked.
He looks at me. Disgusted. I am also disgusted because I know he's right. He is more right that he even knows. He's such a boy. So innocent in so many ways. So trusting. He trusts that I will say and do the right things. The things he thinks I will say and do, but I can't. Not this time, even if it isn't pleasing or right or good. I am so tired. So incredibly tired of all of this bullshit. I'm tired of being the puppet.
Even though he doesn't realize it, Finn pulls the strings. He pulls them. My mother pulls them. Santana. Coach Sylvester. The girls in the hallway who look at me with jealousy; they all want to be me. Why? If they only knew. The boys in the gym; I notice their looks. They want me. They wouldn't if they knew the heart of me.
"Do you even feel anything, anymore?" Finn asks me. I just look at him blankly. Tears form. I can't help it.
Do I? Do I feel anything anymore? I say something flip and leave the truck, tears streaming. He probably thinks he knows why I'm crying. He has no idea. I've never let anyone in. Even those who think they're "in." They aren't. I've known Santana my entire life and she doesn't even know the beginning of it, or maybe she does. Maybe she knows more than I even want to admit to myself.
We made out once. I was drunk. Brittany was out of town. Santana was depressed. It didn't make for a good combination. It ended with her sobbing into my chest, me being sexually frustrated and then crying along with her. Tequila and Quinn definitely do not mix. We ignored each other for a week afterward. One day, during Cheerio's practice, she just came up and slugged me on the shoulder, hard. I growled at her, pissed. Then I caught her eye and the corners of my mouth started to turn up, she started giggling and I followed. Yeah, we're just fine. Just fine. Santana and I.
My heels click sharply on the concrete sidewalk in front of the funeral home. I go back to the bathroom and pull out my cell phone to call . . . who? Everyone has left now. Mom can't come get me and, hell, Dad's dead, so he definitely can't come get me. Who in the hell am I going to call? Fuck it, I'll deal with that later, right now I have to fix my face. Yeah. Can't have anyone seeing Quinn Fabray actually crying, can we? The funeral was one thing. That made sense. But now? It's over. No one would possibly think I'd be that upset over the funeral. I mean, I hate that Coach Sylvester lost her sister, but honestly? I didn't even know her sister.
I'm looking into the mirror. It's scary. My mascara makes me look like a wounded raccoon. I pull a towel from the dispenser and wet it. I slide it beneath my eyes. The cool water shocks my senses, pulling a not-so-pleasant thought from my memory.
She's sitting there, grinning evilly at me. Her eyes are cold. It's one of those days and I can't do anything about it. As much as I want to help her, as much as I want to care, I can't do anything about the situation she's in and she hates me for that reason and that reason alone.
"Mom, you should just take your painkiller," I beg.
"I can't Quinn. It makes me physically sick. I don't feel like myself when I take them."
"Mom, please," I say. She's already sick. The pain wracks her body and she can't, or won't, do anything about it but she expects me to produce some miracle from my back pocket; the perfect "answer" to her pain. It's impossible. Even the doctors can't do that. Please God, let me find a way to fix this!
"You need to call them Quinn! You need to call them now!"
"Mom, I have to go to school and they've already told you. You have to stay in bed, take your medicine and do your physical therapy. I can't do it for you. They can't do it for you! Please, Mom!"
"Oh, you think I'm not working hard enough?" she says, sarcastically, with a hint of malice. "I try so damn hard, day after day and it just keeps getting worse. I'm never going to walk again. I just want to die Quinn. This is no way to live."
Mom had a stroke several years ago and it has been all downhill since then. She's wheelchair bound now but it's not all due to her condition, some of it is due to her stubbornness. At least, that's how I see it.
When she was first diagnosed the doctors thought she would make a quick comeback if she took physical therapy, but she refused. She said it "hurt" too much. My mother was never a weak woman. I couldn't understand it. Therapy, no matter what kind it is, always hurts. She's had several surgeries now and each time she has one, she always seems to get worse instead of better. I'm her sole caretaker. She won't allow me to bring someone into the house, except for her friends. Her friends are few and far between now. They have disappeared in the wind. No one wants to suffer the wrath of Judy Fabray. These days it's all anger. Anger and pain.
For God's sake, I'm only 17! I have school. I have Cheerios. I have Glee. I have, a life? I wish. No, I have Mom. God, I feel like such a bitch.
She was always this way, even before she had the stroke. Now, she's just . . . well, worse. Mom was always high maintenance, even before the stroke. She always had her hair and makeup done "just so." She had her jewelry. She had her clothes - racks of them. Seriously. It was like we lived in fucking Macys. Mom is now and has always been a major diva. She truly rivals Rachel Berry, the little hobbit that she is.
She looks at me, her dark hazel eyes shrinking to pinpoints like they always do when she is livid. "You don't give a fuck about me," she spits.
I'm taken aback. Aren't I a good daughter? Can I help it that I have to go to school? It's state mandated, for God's sake! "Mom, I love . . . " I don't even get a chance to get it out of my mouth.
There is a water glass in her hand. She looks at me as if I am shit on the bottom of her shoe, if she could get one on her swollen feet. It's like I'm in a movie, a horror movie. She takes the glass, slings it back and then forward, the water hitting my face in a wave. Alright, minute wave. It's not like it was a tsunami; it was an eight ounce water glass, for the love of all things holy. But to my heart it felt like I had just suffered through a hurricane, naked, pinned to a telephone pole. This was my Mommy. MY MOMMY. How could she do this to me?
I instantly started crying and, for some odd reason, started to apologize. To Her. Why? This was NOT my fault. "I'll call Mom. I'll call," I say, completely devastated.
And . . . she breaks. The mother I've always had, good or bad, diva or not, surfaces. She starts crying. "Oh God, Quinny. I'm so sorry baby. I love you so much. I don't mean it."
I know, down deep, she doesn't. But, I can't help but hate her a little and that makes me feel guilty. I hate what she has taken away from me. Mom was my best friend for years. I'll always remember our Sunday drives when I was young. We'd cruise in the country and sing "Jimmy Crack Corn" at the top of our lungs until we went so fast that I could hardly breathe. Sometimes we could just look at each other, know what the other was thinking, and break out into gales of laughter. Not anymore. Not now. Now I am drowning. Truly drowning and I don't know how to surface. There is no more "Jimmy Crack Corn." There are rare smiles. There is no mirth. There is only pain and darkness.
The bathroom door at the funeral parlor whisked open sharply, Quinn was drawn from her memories in a rush. Hazel eyes met light brown orbs. Heat commenced, at least in Quinn's mnd. She hated this bitch, didn't she?
Rachel stood before her, slightly subdued. "Quinn. You're still here. Why?" the singer whispered, shocked.
"Why are you still here, Stubbles?"
Rachel flinched at the apparently unappreciated nickname. "I was waiting for the paperwork. Coach Sylvester was but a puddle when she left and asked, well, demanded, me to handle it. I can't leave yet," she sighed.
Quinn advanced on the slight girl. "My boyfriend broke up with me today. It's your fault."
"Wha. . . " Rachel started.
"Your heard me, RuPaul. I guess he appreciates your man-hands more than he does the delicate hands bestowed upon me, for instance," the blonde continued, turning her hands to and fro in front of Rachel, as for emphasis. It was obvious that she was beyond pissed.
"I don't know why, Rachel, "she said pointedly,"but it's obvious that Finn wants to be with you more than he wants to be with me."
The blonde sighed. Her eyes were just plain tired.
Rachel was confused. "But, Quinn. I have absolutely no desire to be with Finn. Nor have I given him reason to think so. I have made it abundantly clear that I have no desire to be with anyone at the particular moment. I need to find out who I am, for a change."
Jealously was beyond what Quinn was feeling at the moment. How did Rachel Berry find the time to "find" herself? Why did she have this luxury? Why not Quinn? Quinn would have been more than happy to "find" herself, if she had a minute to realize exactly who she was, deep down .. If she had a minute to self-evaluate. If she had a minute to do anything other than her pathetic routine.
She despised Rachel in this moment. She wanted her life. She wanted …. Well, she didn't know exactly what she wanted for a second and then she realized. Her life, despite its turmoils, illusions and dejections, had led to this moment. This one moment in time. It could change her fate, for good or bad.
She focused in on the small diva, face twisted in an intent smile.
"Maybe you can help me, Rach?" she questioned.
The singer looked wary. She recognized subterfuge when she saw it. "What now?" she asked.
"No one knows," the blonde said, shyly.
Rachel quirked her head to the right, questioning.
"My mom…. "Quinn began.
"I thought your mom was recuperating well?" Rachel questioned.
"She puts up walls. Fronts, "Quinn answered.
Rachel saw the pain beneath the words. She was a very astute student. "It's too much for you, isn't it?" she questioned the ex-cheerio.
Quinn looked slightly embarrassed. "Yes," she sighed. Finally admitting it. "It is too much. Rach, I can't do this by myself anymore."
The diva quirked her head to the right, questioning.
"Look, she's wheel-chair bound, in constant pain, is stubborn, doesn't realize I have a life aside from her and won't listen to her doctors. What am I to do? I genuinely need some help," the blonde pleaded.
Rachel was really "listening" to Quinn. She saw the blonde for the first time and she felt something spark in the middle of her stomach. Quinn felt the spark too. She honed in on all that was Rachel. What it was, Quinn didn't really know as she saw the recognition in the brunette's face. Rachel just knew that she felt genuine for the blonde. She didn't know if it was pity or awe. Quinn pulled back.
"I'll help you," the diva said, genuinely.
Quinn looked at the small brunette, a little stunned. Someone was going to help her? Really?
The blonde sighed. Rachel actually grinned at her. Quinn felt the familiar tug of happiness at the corner of her mouth, but wouldn't give in to it. Instead she stood, stern. "Okay Rach, if you really want to help, first you will give me a ride home."
The small diva laughed and nodded in the affirmative.
"And you'll come over to my house at 6 a.m.," the blonde continued, hesitantly. The diva just nodded again. Quinn felt completely "over" this situation. What the hell, anyway? She put a stern face on and continued answering the singers' questions.
"Why can't I be mad at you?" the blonde questioned the girl with deep brown eyes.
"Because I'm adorable?" the diva answered, smugly.
The sides of Quinn's mouth answered involuntarily, quirking upward.
"Guess so," the blonde replied, blushing.
Rachel smiled. Oh my God, I admit it, I'm all for Quinn! What the diva didn't understand is that she had just gotten herself into a shitload of hard work and heartbreak.