Hello! It's been a while. What can I say? I've finally left prison, otherwise known as high school. My time looks set to be free for the next little while. Reasons I will not abandon this story: a) I actually know how to write well now b) I am free to write whenever I choose c) I suffer a little from SAD, so lots of inspiration, trust me.
I've always wanted to write about this subject, because Quinn so obviously has post natal depression to some degree. I know it's a tough subject for some of you, so if you have any issues, let me know, okay?
Glee is owned by Ryan Murphy or Fox or something. Not me, anyhow. There'd be a lot more continuity and a lot more Naya/Hemo screen time if that were the case.
It was a tepid winter evening when Quinn decided to take her own life.
The timing seemed fitting: a quick scan of her diary and page after page of checks she had scribbled like a prisoner marked the many days since she had last set eyes on her baby (pink, the first time she was taken away from her; blue, since the day they were reunited – black, the days since she lost her for good). A glance into the bathroom cabinet showed the stockpiling had been a success. Most importantly, it had been 27 hours since Quinn had last slept, 41 since she had attempted to play the piano, 68 since the Golden Girls reruns had ended, 93 since she had read all the books in the house, and 216 hours since she had last shown her face at McKinley High.
So the moment was optimal, she decided.
Quinn had chosen pills. The excruciating pain to come was poetic, in a way; the time she would suffer would be repentance enough.
And so this is how she settled her life – a clean room, a tidy desk upon which sat a letter addressed to her daughter, a white gown to finally rest in; her short hair once more brushed straight, her bible by her side.
Thus, the moment came.
There was no swelling crescendo. It was the quiet climax of her life, he feet perched precariously on the edge of the gaping, monstrous abyss, shuffling ever closer to jump. As Quinn sat on her bed, she noted the lack of music – nothing but her own quiet voice, humming a melancholy and meaningless tune in the still and silent air; no weeping, no one to rock her to sleep – all in all, a lacklustre end to a mediocre life. Not with a bang but a whimper. Quickly, she opened the clear orange bottle and tipped it full into her mouth, sending a few blue and red pills scattering across the wooden floor. The water took care of the rest.
Finally, peace.
Quinn lay down on her made up bed, rosary wrapped tightly around her wrist, and turned for one last look at her daughter. A blurry photo taken from a cell phone was encased in a simple silver frame upon the nightstand. With a resigned sigh and once last straightening of her nightgown, she closed her eyes and drifted away.