A/N- Happy Christmas Eve, this is just something I wrote on a plane. Title and style from 'Invisible Monsters Remix' by Chuck Palahniuck
Jump to a road. It's mid morning in New York city and a woman- twenty something this time- with a choppy blonde haircut is standing on the sidewalk yelling at a redhead. The redhead is in the road shouting all sorts of things about how You don't talk to me anymore, and You never introduce me to your friends, and the blonde throws her hands up in exasperation and yells, Would you get out of the road, you're going to be hit by a fucking Buick! And the redhead laughs and shouts And now you're swearing at me!
The blonde rolls her eyes and turns around to walk back towards the apartment building that they've run out of. She throws her hands up in the air in defeat, Fine, then leave! she yells, I'll go get your stuff.
Jump to the redhead's eyes narrowing because she never thought that the blonde would respond like this. Jump to her chasing after the blonde with shouting, Wait baby we can work this out!
Jump to a hospital.
It's a big one, in a city. Jump to a girl- broken this time- actually did get hit by a car. But it wasn't a Buick, it was a semi truck. Jump to wheelchairs and months of physical therapy. Jump to a teenager sitting in her bed working on an essay, and not realizing that her laptop was overheating until she took it off her legs and saw that they were flushed pink. Jump to her punching the unfeeling offending limbs until she falls back against the pillows defeated.
There's a brunette here too, she's the best friend, and she's not here exactly right now. But she's here later when the girl is angry with herself, angry with the world, angry with God. While she still doesn't know how to reconcile the last one, she helps with the first two.
Jump to a miracle and walkers and a cane, jump to years of feeling twinges in her spine when the weather gets cold.
Jump forwards, a different hospital, a different car wreck, the same girl. But she wasn't the one hit this time.
Jump to a bathroom in the big hospital, the girl- standing this time- looking in the mirror. The girl- uninjured this time- staring at her reflection and practicing the words over and over again.
I'm sorry Mrs. Terrence, your daughter Samantha died today. She says this sentence over and over again until her voice doesn't shake, then she straightens her coat, and checks her hair- not choppy anymore- and goes out into the waiting room where she knows immediately which woman she is looking for.
Jump back to a high school. Jump to Ohio, a small town, small school. Jump to a football field where girls in short skirts are balancing on top of each other like dominoes. Jump to the girl on top- young this time- flexing her core and praying to God that skipping lunch for the last month will pay off.
Jump to the bathroom, still at the high school. The one on the second floor in the math wing, the one where she first found her gag reflex and learned that it's easier when you're standing up. Jump to a headache, a migraine really. Because the girl still hasn't learned that she needs to drink more water when she's doing this to herself. She hasn't learned that she can't expect to be able to keep tearing her body apart at the seams and not see the effects of it somewhere.
Jump forwards to an apartment. It's mid morning in New York city and a woman with a short blonde haircut- happy this time- is laying in a cocoon of soft white sheets. She tangles her legs with the brunette by her side, and lets a lazy smile drift across her face. She's still naked, and so is the brunette, but she doesn't give a damn. She softly traces the skin of her companion along a hard jaw, down a slender neck, dipping into a delicate collar bone.
Jump to three words. The three words that she's said so many times over, the three words that she's been afraid to say so many times, the three words she hasn't heard enough. She traces those three words into the brunette's collar bone until the woman rolls over and snuggles closer into the blonde's side.
Her nose scrunches into an adorable smile, and she mumbles out hardly coherently, Go back to bed Quinn, it's too early.
Sorry babe.
The brunette rolls her eyes, It's alright. And Quinn?
Yeah?
I love you too.
Jump back to a dorm room. It's small and it's Connecticut and it's falling apart at the edges. And in the middle too because someone's punched the wall. Jump to the middle of the night, and another fight- real this time. Jump to shouting and clenching hands and words that burn and two people who have gotten far too good at hurting others.
Jump to knuckles bruised and bleeding, dusted with drywall. There's two people in the room and now they've both frozen because now the world has changed. Now they can never go back, and nothing can be the same again because one of them has to admit that she isn't enough to fix this, and the other one has to admit that she needs help. Jump to an empty bottle of wine and a voicemail apology and I'm so sorry Rachel, I'm trying. I swear to God I'm trying.
Jump to medical school and a psych rotation. Jump to a young boy who wanted so badly to fit that he tore himself apart at the seams. Jump to a med student who understands, who hid scars under layers and knows how it feels to need to cut your way out. She works the night rotation and one evening when she is doing rounds she sees him still awake.
She goes into his room apprehensively, she has to say something but she doesn't know what. She wastes time looking at his vitals until he is looking at her questionably. Then she cracks, It gets better you know.
He gazes at her skeptically, What would you know about it?
Trust me kid, it gets better, she said.
Walk slowly- don't jump this time- down the hall up the stairs, and get a referral for a therapist. Walk to unpacking family issues, and body image issues, and learn that there's a difference between being disordered and having a disorder. Walk to healing and learning that it really does get better.
Jump forward to a wedding- a woman in white and a man in a tux. Jump to a crowded reception full of children playing at grown up. Jump to high school classmates all older all pretending that they're more put together than they are, pretending that they know what they're doing with their lives by now, pretending that friends their age getting marries doesn't scare the hell out of them.
Jump to running into an old high school crush.
Jump to awkward smiles and greetings and, You look like you're doing well. And a, Yeah, I've been doing better. Jump to staying in touch, and to regular texts and an agreement to meet for coffee sometime soon. There's another silence, not awkward this time, and the blonde- older and healing this time- finishes her drink and orders a seltzer water. She is older and she has learned, and her knuckles have healed, and they don't have drywall on them anymore.
Jump to a small girl- you this time. You're young and you're small, and your glasses won't stay perched on the bridge of your nose where you want them. You're young and you're still trying to figure out where you fit in this world because you are still Lucy, and Lucy doesn't fit into any of the nice pretty molds that your mother and your sister have left for you.
Jump to a teenager- still you- sitting under the heavy arm of a boy you were never interested, staring at the girl you've always wanted but know you can't have. Jump to the bathroom mirror, smudged and disgusting and you wonder vaguely when it was cleaned for the last time. You don't really care about that though, you're too busy scrutinizing the bags under your eyes and waiting for the shoes beneath the last stall to leave so you'll be alone.
It's taking forever and you know that this girl must be waiting for you to leave, but you will not cave in. You stalk over and knock on the door, You better have fallen in considering how long it's taking you in that stall weirdo. It's not the most creative thing you've ever said, but you can feel the weight of the fries you stole off of Finn's tray at lunch in your stomach, and it's making you sick.
It takes a minute, but the stall door swings open to reveal a terrible sweater with little dogs on it and a pair of all too familiar brown eyes. Now you really do feel sick.
Jump to a young adult- still you- away from home for the first time in a dorm room.
Jump to crying into a brand new fancy Crate and Barrel comforter on your first night alone aside from your roommate. Jump to three years later, you've been accepted to medical school, you're in a relationship with the girl you've always wanted, and some days the world is too fast, too close, and some days it feels like you're barely keeping it together.
Jump to an argument one night in your dorm, you've got the same Crate and Barrel comforter on your be that you've had since freshman year. You aren't the first one to raise your voice, but when she does, you do too. It goes back and forth for a while and someone pounds on your door, but you ignore it because all you can see is red and there are bombs going off in your head and you just need it to stop.
Jump to shooting pain and everything is clear and your holding your fist, blood on your knuckles, and Rachel is watching you like you're a wild animal she's trying not to frighten. Jump to her grabbing her coat and storming out, you try to stop her, and she pauses in the doorway. She doesn't look at you when she says, I can't do this anymore Quinn.
Jump to years later. Jump to an apartment and a residency at an amazing hospital, jump to the wrong relationship with the wrong woman. Jump to an argument in the middle of the road, a redhead- not you this time- shouting all sorts of nonsense trying to cause drama. Jump to a blonde- this one's you- giving up, giving in, saying, I can't do this anymore.
Jump to a different relationship. The right one with the right girl this time. Jump to early mornings in bed and late nights on the town. Jump to sitting front row at her opening night shows and to sending flowers when surgeries and work pull you in the opposite direction. Jump to moving in together, living together. Jump to a wedding, small and informal and two white dresses and close friends and family.
Jump to a happy ending.
A/N- Let me know what you thought, this was a super experimental thing with the style so feedback is really appreciated.