Jar of Hearts

It all started with a jar.

Quinn knew from the start that it couldn't be a box. She hated boxes. She hated all small, dark spaces. Just thinking of them started to take away her breath, suffocating her, trapping her. Lima was like a box: small, inescapable, a personal prison.

Jars were different. Jars were clear, and a cell with a view is better than nothing. Best of all, there were tons in the attic, probably from Frannie's jam-making phase. Only she could make that hobby look elegant and classy. Perfect little Frannie, with her perfect husband, and her perfect life.

But that was beside the point now.

Now.

Now wasn't the problem for Quinn. The problem was tomorrow, and the next day, and the years to come trapped in Ohio Purgatory.

But just for a moment, she had now.

Sunlight streamed through the containers, which were all lined up one after another on the windowsill, like glass soldiers, armed for battle. They were almost pretty, if you looked past the memories they contained. Or maybe it was the memories that made them beautiful in the first place.

Quinn had started storing away her most prized possessions shortly after she had lost the title of Prom Queen. She had come home that night, alone, and looked down at the clutter of things on her dresser. Normally, the room was very neat, everything just so, but like life, a lot of things just… Built up. On top of it all was a plastic tiara, a cheap thing that Quinn had kept for years, since before she transferred, back when she was Lucy. Far too often, she would come home from school in tears, the echoes of schoolyard taunts still ringing in her ears, and put the silver crown on her head to feel important, to feel pretty. No one would dare insult a queen. No one would call her that horrid name. Sometimes Lucy would keep the diadem on for hours and simply gaze into her vanity mirror, imagining what it would be like to be loved by everyone.

Sometimes Quinn would do the same thing.

For an awful minute, that night after prom, she did just that. She stared into the eyes of the reflected girl that had lost again, the girl that had slapped Rachel Berry. A few more tears had rolled down her cheeks, worthless crying over a worthless crown.

Then she tore it out of her golden hair and snapped the wretched thing in half. With shaking hands, Quinn sweeped the pieces into one of the containers, half smiling in hysterical relief. Over the next six months, she continued trapping her memories in these glasses, beginning their slow accumulation upon the ledge.

Their build up was inevitable.

Smoothing out her dress in preparation, Quinn tentatively reached out and grabbed the first jar.