The first time it happens, it's pure anger. A lecherous man had made passes at Quinn the whole evening, rubbing his greasy hands across his mustache and asking if he could order Quinn instead one of the drinks.
She ends up all winks and grins, letting him follow her to her car, undressing him in the kitchen, sinking the knife into his chest. The blood pools around her fingers and flesh under her fingernails and she lets him slump to the ground, pulling the blade out and wiping it on his shirt.
Where would usually be panic was instead a sick sense of humour. 'I bet you'd love this, you sick ass,' she mutters, not unaware of the irony as she carves out a slice of his leg, curiously balances it on her knife, before tentatively placing it on an oil flecked pan.
The next time, it's pure curiosity. The man had been devoured, and Quinn wanted to see more. She finds a woman screaming at people to repent, as if speaking from the xenophobic text book. Quinn resists cringing as she reaches back to her past, pulling the good Christian daughter with both hands to the forefront. Promising tea and bible discussion.
Even the second time, it's easier, and soon the oven sizzles away.
After that, she stops thinking about it, and notes it down in a small green notepad, cryptically, as to hide her true intentions. It wouldn't do, really, to be caught out.
The only obvious star may be the small one on her uniform, but Rachel knows she's more than that, really.
It'll just take a while to prove it. That's what she reminded herself as she carried too hot plates to customers, receiving an awkward thanks or a sheepish grin in return. Customers were rarely rude, and when they were, a sharp glare quelled them. It's one of the few victories she gets.
Sidling into the kitchen, she placed dirty plates next to the sink, before declaring her break to Gunther and heading to the tiny back room the employees called rest.
'You seem done already.' Rachel said to Dani, the eyeliner clad waitress who was, as always, fiddling with the tiny tuning pegs of her guitar.
'I've had to play that song 3 times today. Already.' Dani bemoaned, thwacking her head back against the soft notice board.
They refused to speak of the song, for it was rumoured if they did, it would awaken a horde of customers heavily amused by their own jokes, begging to hear it sung.
'I'm so sorry,' Rachel murmured, tenderly placing an arm around Dani's shoulders. They smiled at each other, and didn't speak again, listening to the quiet chords Dani magicked up with the strings.
All too soon, Gunther's voice rang through the diner, and they got back to work, singing their hearts out and almost enjoying themselves.
They walked halfway home together before splitting apart. Rachel promised to tell Kurt, her cynical yet kind flat mate, hi, and waved Dani away.
Kurt was out when Rachel got to the flat, a small note stating he was at Blaine's place for the weekend. Rachel smiled at it, a small smile, held back by guilty jealousy.
She stripped free of the uniform and dropped it into the laundry basket, before running a bath. Sinking into the pink bubbles, she rested the back of her head on the green plastic and her body against the hot base of it. Closing her eyes. Focusing on pushing away her emotions and letting her senses rush in to fill the gulf.
The city was quiet tonight. All she heard was the drips from the leaky tap, and the occasional car on the street below.
She could smell soaps and shampoos, all rich and sensuous. The rain outside, drifting through the window.
She could taste toothpaste from before the bath, the steam of the water.
A cold breeze brushed over her arms, breaking them out into gooseflesh, whilst her body was surrounded by heat and comforting water.
Opening her eyes, the old bathroom met them, new shower head nestled between 30-year-old tiles and taps.
It wasn't glamourous. It wasn't even the boho aesthetic she'd hoped for. But really, it had become home for her.
It had been a month since Quinn had eaten. She'd had food, of course, but her larder had run dry of that which she loved.
Time to change that.
She drove the large car, cloaked in darkness, through the streets to the park, leaving it in the smaller car park no-one used. Her boots were soft on the spring grass, and she was careful to avoid stepping on any sticks. The morning light lit up her dark brown coat, the strands of blonde peeking out from under an oversized maroon beanie.
Even if she didn't find anyone, it wasn't a waste. The walk was pleasant to justify itself, with the gentle breeze playing through the air, moist soil rich with life. Quinn felt connected, as she brushed dew away from her shoulders.
There. A woman, around her own age, brown hair, reading on a bench. On the Line, some history book, that she seemed intently focused on, enough that Quinn could get close enough to read the blurb.
'Broadway, huh? Aren't we a bit far away from New York for that?'
Quinn would have laughed at Rachel's jump of shock if It wasn't for her frankly alarmingly fast recovery rate.
'Though we may be physically far from it, I personally believe one's passions should never be bound by such trivial things as the laws of physics.'
'Oh? Do tell.'
Rachel's brow furrowed for a moment, and she studied Quinn, before her face went neutral again. 'I'm not sure why you're so interested, but I shall indulge you. Many playwrights have written their scrips far away from the theatre itself. Some took years to be performed. And you find many actresses who only get the chance to express their powerful talent long after they originally planned.'
For the first time in a long while, Quinn was thrown. People were rarely so passionate. She wondered, fleetingly, whether the stranger was so passionate about anything else, but filed that away for possible future reference.
'What's your name, then, theatre nut I've just met?'
'Rachel Barbra Berry. And yours, curious albeit harmless seeming stranger?'
'Quinn.' Harmless? Oh sure, I'll go with that. 'This is strange, but, I go to a literature discussion group, I think you'd enjoy it.' That wasn't a lie. 'I can drive you there?' That was.
The rope dug into Rachel's ankles as she opened her eyes, immediately shutting them against the bright whiteness.
She was still wearing her shirt and skirt, but her coat and shoes lay in the corner of the room. She was on a raised surface of some kind, a cold metal something beneath her. The only noise was the sharp shing of knife on stone.