You curse at your want, your need to settle, just to gain some form of company, or assurance, if you please.
You're alone and you don't need to meet or exceed anyone's expectations anymore. You're your own person, damn it.
Pour all your efforts into your books just so that you don't slip up, or do another stupid thing like vie for the school's attention or sleep with Puck. You love the guy dearly, you do, yet you wish that both of you had enough sense and less raging hormones at that point. You think, maybe if you're smart enough, you'll leave this sinkhole of memories that you don't belong to.
You could be Indiana Jones, you muse. You've completed the adventure; climbing to the top, crashing way down and finding yourself drifting in the social pyramid.
Drawing a shaky puff, you relish the way smoke burns into your lungs. It's not a habit, but you carry a pack around just in case. Your eyes roll back in your head and you will for the biting heat to pervade your heart.
No man is an island. You wince.
The idea of being a drifting doesn't exactly disgust or terrify you, but you're too tired to try. You're too many people and none of them. A good Christian girl, a pregnant teenager, head Cheerio, a failed daughter, a failed mother, a skank, a handicap.
It's a whole lot of crazy that even Rachel Berry wouldn't be able to tackle.
You exhale, watching the smoke swirl into your vision. It burns your eyes; it's nice. It's better than the stark clarity that leaves you devastatingly cold.
You're out of ideas, out of energy. You're too tired to move. To blink. To will your body to listen.
You read a lot. Rather, Lucy read a lot, but that was back when you were friendless. You snort, not a lot has changed. Words come to you easily, and you're thankful for that. You've lived through the words before and around you, but it doesn't fulfill. You want to write now. You want to create. If only that of a dream.
Squaring your shoulders, you bite off the pen's cap and grip your pen. Drawing another breath as your heart races, you will it to fill you just enough energy for a thought. You want to tell a story, but no other ears are around.
Letting out a growl of frustration, you roughly toss the pen away. Glaring at the blank page, you try to intimidate it into churning out a myriad of words - your words, for you to read and clear your head of the nothingness that dwells in you. A mirthless laugh escapes your lips and your eyes widen. You feel moisture on your cheeks, so you glance up.
Clear blue skies and not a fucking cloud in sight.
At this point, you're grateful for any emotion, anything, so long as you don't have to will yourself to feel. It has been too exhausting.
You're absolutely drained. Schuester's words echo but you know he's wrong. You've been there for them, for glee, one way or another. You were head Cheerio for god's sake. Dealing and helping is what you do.
You remember feeling like a worn out, thrown out couch, sofa, or bed. For people to rest on, to lie, to fuck. Whatever. They leave, you decay, your frame breaks and you fall. Who holds you after you've held them? Better yet, who cares?
The Glee kids, you remember the most. You've confronted Mercedes' insecurities with her. Provided what you could for Sam and his family. Help Puck study. Kept Santana and Brittany's secret. You don't deny it, you were selfish at each point but you're only human, who doesn't want to know what's in for them if they lend a hand? You were just trying, you're still trying, to make sure they don't mess up as royally as you do. You even pushed Rachel along, making are that you remember her dream even if she derails.
It hits you hard when you realize that they don't need you anymore. It's strange, empty nest syndrome at such a young age. Mulling over the fact that you won't ever be able to make it up to Beth, ever. It gnaws on you and you wonder if you were actually important enough to make a difference in their lives. Sure, you were popular, so what? It's textbook psychology, Daddy issues, they'd shrug you off. But you think that bastard may have a point. You were never wanted anyway.
Laying on the grass, your eyes rest on the drifting cloud as Rachel's voice comfort you.
"You're the prettiest girl I've met Quinn but...you're a lot more than that."
"Do you not understand what you mean to me?"
Your heart lurches at the cruel irony. The one you tormented the most comes back to reaffirm your greatest fears.
Your presence, your worth.
You remember the intensity in her yes, the way she looks past your walls and into your best-kept secrets. Her defiance against you, how she stood up to you, as well as the giant Slushie mountain you ordered on her. You remember cowering in the bathroom, gripping the sink until your knuckles turned white. Guilt washed over you again and again as you gasp in fear, knowing it wasn't half as bad as the humiliation you put her through. You remember looking into your eyes and seeing the wild panic, chanting, "You're popular, it's fine." so many times, thinking it was enough.
It never was, nor will it ever be.
Karma (in the form of a huge angry truck), hit you as soon as you started to repent. You won't tell a soul, but you welcomed the collision in that moment. Thinking naïvely, that you'll be absolved- rubbish, you snort, accepting the punishment from hell rather than spending endless days waiting for death. It'll be your last ticket out, you remember thinking.
No god would be that forgiving, they returned with your personal brand of hell. You could almost hear them mock you as you pushed yourself to take that one fucking step in PT. Like remnant glass shards splintering your veins, that's how you felt.
Of course you'd fight to regain control, how could you note? You said you wouldn't mind being a drifter, not an invalid. You'd run (ha!) out of this godforsaken town if you stood any chance.
Stubbing your third bud along the roadside, you push yourself off the ground and trudge back.
It still isn't home.
You sigh.
So you wait again.
This time, it's for the days to end before you embark on Yale.
New York, New Haven, New friendships, New life.
It's the cheesiest motto you've ever thought of, but you think it fits.
The wait is lighter and more tolerable because things are finally looking up.
Waiting, you figure, is punishment for your impatient youth.
Of all the people you meet, you remember trying, in that moment, to right many wrongs. You're not buying your way out of guilt, no. You're trying to create new ways to seek her forgiveness. It took you weeks to save up just so that you could buy those Metro North passes. You figure that since your paths are clearly intertwined, she'll inevitably end up in your future. Scratch that, you want to be in her future.
It's love that you yearn to feel, acceptance by the right people.
You've taken the first step and reached out, and so you wait for her move.
You don't wait aimlessly now. You're waiting for chance.