Disclaimer: Don't own glee or any of its characters.

A/N: Another cheater piece, because I felt like writing something angsty. Another chapter of That Which I Have Loved is coming soon, so be sure you all check out that. :)

Start to Finish

TheSilentPen

Lots of interesting things seem to happen in your life.

When you're in third grade you win the science fair for the first time, and it makes you incredibly happy (despite the fact that you're much younger than most kids that win, and that means that you're pretty much considered a nerd) and then you repeat in fourth grade to go to county.

In eighth grade you get the Drum Major title after your friends force you to go after school, seeing as you can throw a mace around extremely well for a little midget like yourself.

But you're not much different from the average outcast kid.

I mean, you don't try to ostracize yourself. Who would want to be left alone, want to be avoided by everyone else like a regular social pariah?

So what if you dress a little shabbier than the average girl, in jeans and baggy tees along with some rundown pullovers, hoodies, and some black converse. So what if you're a little too smart for your own good because you have a college reading level in elementary school, win the heart of every teacher you meet, and are extremely loved all throughout middle school by the faculty?

That doesn't mean that you don't want friends.

That doesn't mean that you want to be alone.

So when eighth grade rolls around and your best friend, Jesse St. James leaves you to go audition for a performing arts school in Idyllwild, California (you hear about it from your little slums all the way in sleepy Lima, Ohio) you decide that maybe it's good to fit in a little more.

So you try not to act like Rachel Berry, the super mega nerd so that you can get some friends.

And maybe you won't have to hang out alone when the band flies out to Disney World during the Spring…

But it seems that whether or not you want it, people will pay attention to you despite the fact that you're a huge nerd.

Because you're the frickin' Drum Major. And whoever's friends with the DRUM MAJOR is off free on punishments and doesn't need to worry about waiting in lines based on seniority, since the Drum Major is the Jesus of the Band (never mind the fact that you have two gay days and are a devout Jew, the Jesus reference is from your other friend, Noah).

So you get a group of about eight friends and they seem to love you a lot.

And you just hope, hope and pray that they really care for you as much as they claim or seem to.

Because you don't know if you can take anymore lies.

It's about the beginning of the school year when a new girl flies in from Los Angeles, California and introduces herself to the band as a flute player.

Her name's Quinn Fabray, and she's really pretty.

Her hair is a nice golden hue, falling languidly down dainty, lean shoulders and blending perfectly with skin so pale, one might mistake it for fine alabaster. The girl's features are almost like those you see of Aphrodite in those Greek mythology books that you covet to yourself—fair, chiseled, and smoothed to perfection. And those eyes set behind a pale fringe of lashes…

The first thing that you seem to find yourself drawn to are those shocking hazel eyes that pierce at you, seeing right through your own unattractive brown and calling out every single falsity you've ever done.

That stare makes you feel unsettled and naked. It startles you in a way that no one's eyes ever have before.

It's cold and hard.

Yet soft and warm.

But you ignore her and quickly immerse yourself in the much more important job of leading the band. You and your friends are a team, working together to find every single weakness and fault within the band, and you have no time to give introductions to the new girl.

She'll just have to adapt herself.

But as time passes, you find that Quinn Fabray spends her time doing more than just playing her instrument like a good bandie.

She stares at you.

Whenever you step up to the podium, gloves on, baton aloft and ready to conduct the latest piece in the absence of your Director, you find that smoldering hazel gaze sweeping up and down your form like a hungry animal.

Even when you're sitting down, tuning up your Flute, you can feel her staring back at you.

And you really don't understand why in the world Quinn Fabray, the new girl who you've never spoken to before, is pinning with you with that intense emerald stare.

So you do the best you can to ignore it, chalking it up to the fact that she's probably just curious about the Drum Major. After all, you aren't exactly the most social Drum Major in the world, at least, not outside your group of friends.

Perhaps the Drum Major at her old school had been a bit more social.

One day as you're coming out of your science class after deciding to study advanced stoichiometry (your 8th grade teacher has decided to teach you personally, after all, she's a huge chem wiz) during your lunchtime, you see that flag football jerk Dave Karofsky cornering the new girl against the side of the school, jabbing an angry finger in her face and grinning as she trembled.

And you feel yourself get angry, because not long ago, when you were down at the bottom of the food chain like Quinn, you were in the same position.

So you roll up the sleeves of your plaid shirt and yell at the brute.

"HEY, KAROFSKY!"

He turns to look at you, eyes wide with fear (you stepped on his foot when he spilled water all over your sheet music purposely), quickly hidden behind a mask of indifference.

"What you want, Berry? Can't mind your own business?"

"The last I checked," you fold your arms, "any person in the band being bullied is my business. Step off."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll be telling the whole school about how I found a picture of a shirtless Finn Hudson from the locker rooms on your phone."

And Karofsky blanches before, like the oaf he is, he tries to attack you with his big meaty paws.

And you laugh as you dodge out of the way before solidly throwing a trained punch straight into his nose, sending blood gushing onto your fingers and wetting your face.

The idiot screams curses at you, stumbling off in some direction while you stand before the wide-eyed new girl, drenched in bits of blood on your hands and face.

You smile, holding out your much cleaner hand to the girl to hoist her up.

She accepts timidly, and the two of you walk to the band room, where you establish somewhat of a friendship.

From that day forward, Quinn Fabray is everywhere in your life. Walking with you from class to class, smiling at your stupid Youtube videos (from the scary little lad dance to Charlie the Unicorn), and sitting next to you and helping you suit up in your uniform during competitions.

And those stupid stares continue. In fact, they increase in intensity.

And now it really unnerves you.

Because now you know Quinn. Smart (she's way better at math than you, for some unknown reason), kind (always shares her killer cookies with you), and just stubborn (she refuses to date Puck after three months of him begging fervently) Quinn.

And you know that her staring means something, but you learn to ignore it, because you'd rather not think what you think it is.

Because you notice how her gaze is soft. How her hugs linger for a bit longer than they should for 'friends.' How her eyes become misted over with anger and hurt when you even mention a crush you've had on a boy for a while.

You're not dumb.

But you wish what you saw didn't add up to the conclusion that Quinn Fabray loved you and needed you.

Because you need her, but as a friend and supporter.

So one day, when you walk into Jazz Band after running some errands for Mr. Schue, and you see Quinn Fabray, Alto Sax strapped on, playing a delicate solo to the gentle crooning of the rest of the Jazz band to the popular tune When I Fall in Love, during lunch, staring at you adoringly, you just about want to die.

She pulls you outside, behind the band room after the performance, clasping your hands and staring into your eyes with a shy little smile.

"Rachel," she brings your knuckles gently to your lips, and you TRY not to flinch away so you can't cause anymore pain than you already will, "I love you so much…"

"I used to pray when was little, Rachel… Pray that God would send me an angel to guide me and my music. Someone to light my life, someone I could love… and I know that I am very blessed that he answered my prayers."

Quinn looks at you so happily that it makes your heart break into a million pieces, and you wish that she didn't feel this way about you, but there's really nothing else that you can do.

"Quinn… I-."

Before you can say anything, she tacks her lips onto yours gently, running her fingers through your hair as you stare, shocked, onto her serene face.

You quickly push her away, chest heaving and eyes wild and panicked.

"Quinn… I don't love you."

And at this, you see her break, her eyes become hazy and her smile remains, false and untrue.

"…B-but… I don't understand…"

"Quinn…"

"I-I…"

"Quinn."

"Y-you're my angel…"

"Quinn…"

She falls to her knees, losing her composure and sending out heaving sobs. You can't say anything, you're afraid that you'll hurt her even more.

So you turn on your heels and let her to yourself.

The rest of the year, Quinn Fabray doesn't look at you.

At least, when you're looking.

You can still feel her staring longingly at your face as you polish your flute keys. Staring in jealousy as you split your breakfast pancakes with your good friend Finn (something that you two would do almost daily).

She wants you, you know.

One day, during the summer between eighth and freshman year, she shows up at your house, knocking on your door and asking if you can talk in your room.

She's strangely silent, and you wonder what's wrong, and even ask her so out loud.

She looks at you intensely for a moment, before striding forward and capturing your unwilling lips in a heavy kiss.

Just as before, you pull away as quickly as you can, wiping your lips and spewing angrily at her. You ask her, beg her to move on and find someone who will return her feelings. Someone who won't hurt her like you did.

But she falls to her knees, much like that day she confessed, and begs you for an open relationship. Begs for you to date her, even if it means that you're a secret couple and you can date whoever you wish while you see her as you please.

But you spit out a no, because you never would do anything like that to anyone. It's an absurd deal, and you're not about to take part in it.

But she begs at your feet more. She calls you everyday for the rest of the summer, she sends you letters and leaves to tearish voicemail. Begging and begging.

So you grant it.

And your relationship, secret or not, is anything but perfect.

Quinn is very possessive, and even though she agreed that you could both see other people, that doesn't stop her from getting jealous when you simply press a friendly kiss to the cheek of a guy friend.

So she takes to holding you down and marking you on the neck with vicious nips that force you to wear makeup to cover the bruising.

You, on the other hand, can't seem to find enough hours in the day for her.

You have volunteer hours a lot of the time, working with mentally disabled children and foster children who need older kids to look up to and help them with homework.

You teach karate down at the orphanage on your weekends, and you rarely have time in between all that because you've got Flute lessons.

But soon you two find a happy medium, and suddenly, you find yourself in a committed relationship because you do like Quinn Fabray quite a lot.

You've given up a considerable amount of volunteer and work time to appease her, and she's tried to drop the possessiveness down to an acceptable level.

So you two are happy for about a year, in an official, God to honest relationship that you're both quite happy and proud of. You both spend ungodly amounts of time together, celebrate monthiversaries, and share every little pain and secret known to mankind.

One day, you start to hear ugly rumors drifting around the band room.

Quinn's been having sex with someone and loves them very much, and it's not you.

But you shake them off, because you love Quinn too much to question her judgment. It's another one of the compromises you've worked out in your relationship. Nothing is true unless the other confirms or confesses it.

But when you mention it to Quinn, laughing heavily, you see that it makes her face paler.

And you close your mouth, face contorted in pain.

"You didn't,"you whisper.

And she shakes her head softly. "I never slept with… with him. But I… I do like him."

You feel your heart break a little at that, yet you clasp her hand reassuringly and smile faintly. "We'll work through it then."

But she becomes more distant. Fighting becomes a frequent occasion. She ruins your birthday by calling you 'a time obsessed little volunteer kissup' and slamming the door in the middle of cake time.

You think that maybe you did something wrong. That maybe you're still not spending enough time with her. So you drive over to her house, pull out the spare key, and let yourself in.

You hear the shower running, and smile, because that's usually how you find her most of the time. You know that she probably isn't expecting you, but you know that she won't be mad with you for showing up out of the blue. She's always loved it.

But you look at her computer screen and find something rather odd… An IM conversation, not with you, and it says:

'SuzieQ says: I love you.'

You instantly recognize the other stupid screename (Naaviboy84) as that of the new pretty boy Trumpet Captain, Sam Evans. The one that everyone says that she loves and sleeps with.

The one that you thought she wasn't seeing.

"Rachel…."

You turn your gaze on her, and she's just standing there, wrapped in nothing but a towel, looking at you, eyes wide in horror.

Your eyes harden in anger. "What the fuck, Quinn Fabray."

"R-Rachel, b-baby, I-I can-."

"How the Hell could you do this to me?"

"It's not what it-."

"Like Hell it isn't!"

You send slam the laptop cover down in rage, tears dripping down your face in hot streams. "If you didn't want me anymore, you should've just said something…"

"Rachel, it's only for appearance."

"Fuck, appearance? APPEARANCE, Quinn Fabray?" you grab a handful of your dark, brunette locks, pulling on them in anguish. "You don't tell someone you love them for appearance, Fabray!"

You feel so hurt, like a hot iron is pushing its way slowly through your chest right over your heart. You know that you just have to get out of there, one way or another, before you go crazy. That's the only thing your mind is focused on right now.

"Rachel… baby…"

"Don't you BABY me, you slut," you growl, stomping over through the door, shoving her aside and throwing on your hoodie as you run down the stairs.

You hear her run after you, pulling on your arm and begging you not to leave her. To give her time to explain about everything that's going on.

You're too blinded with anger and pain to hear. The girl that you didn't want to love… the girl that you now love so much has hurt you so badly.

It's only after a particularly hard tug at your arm as you try to walk through her front door that you finally snap, wheeling on her and yelling furiously.

"Leave me alone, you damn slut!" you snarl, and there's so much hatred in your voice, you don't think it's even you again. "We're THROUGH!"

You run to your car, ignoring her screams and cries.

You drive home without crying, staring blankly at every stretch of road.

Yet when you pull into your driveway, you pull the key out of the ignition and you just cry, leaning your head against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking heavily.

You feel around in your pockets, taking out the small velvet box and clenching it tightly between your fingers as you sob.

It was a promise ring. A promise that someday she'd be yours…

That all you two would need was each other.

But now…

Now you too have no future together, only bitterness.

There's nothing that you can do anymore. Nothing that can change the fact that she said she loved someone else.

So you have to move on…

Because once you finish something, it can never start again.