"How are you doing?"
Oh, Finn. Stupid, stupid, naive Finn. My beautiful Finn. Only he would see a girl in the hallways that gave birth to his best friend's kid while he was dating her, and only he would walk right up to her and smile and say hi. Only he would ask how she was doing.
"Not so well, actually. They say it's postpartum depression." Not that it makes a difference, Finn. After all, I felt like crap before.
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." And he does look sorry to hear it.
"Finn!"
I look over. That loud mouthed Rachel Berry. I force my lips into a smile, and turn my head towards her unnaturally.
"Oh, hi Rachel. Nice to see you." The words sound phony even to my own ears. Rachel doesn't bother to smile back. In fact, she doesn't even try to put on the same facade I'm trying too.
"Quinn." She says flatly. "I see you got out of the hospital." She doesn't sound too thrilled. Perhaps she wanted me to die from blood loss? I can't exactly blame her. I'm wishing I'd died from blood loss myself.
"Yeah." There really isn't anything else to say to that. So I keep on forcing my smile.
"That's great." The tone in her voice tells me that she doesn't think it's great. "Come on, Finn, I have something I want to show you."
Don't you see I was talking here you bitch? I was talking, and not to you, so I guess that's why you thought it was so irrelevant. Get over yourself why don't you, and stand over there! I was talking! To him! SO WAIT!
"Sure thing Rachel. See you later, Quinn."
"Bye." I wave towards him as he walks away with Rachel, both of them hand in hand, and I break. Something in me just cracks like glass, and I feel like throwing up. Tears sting at my eyes and I feel so off, so wrong, so worthless.
The doctor told me it was postpartum depression. She told me to think about something happy. She told me to think about something happy. I don't have anything happy to think about anymore. I don't have anything happy left.
I rudely shove my way past a few people and walk into the bathroom. I throw myself into a stall and lock it behind me, and just barely manage to sit down on the toilet lid before I begin to cry.
The doctor told me about this too. She told me that it was a symptom. Yeah right. It wasn't a symptom. It wasn't a disease. I was feeling like crap, because I probably was crap. Quinn Fabray - finally realized how much of a peice of shit she is.
I cry harder, and pull my knees to my chest. I know I'm in here for a while, because I can hear the first bell ring. I force myself to stop crying. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hands and leave the stall.
Obviously I'm having some beautiful luck, because nobody is standing there waiting for me to humiliate me. Even if I deserve it. And I do. So badly.
I drag myself to the mirror. Great. I smeared my mascara. Now I look like one of those stupid Goths. Or worse, a stupid Punk. For a while I used to think that Puck was a Goth, because of the mohawk. Thinking back on it, it's funny. But if I think about Puck, I'll start to cry again, so I stop.
I wipe the makeup off of my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. I've begun to let my hair hang without the ponytail now. I don't want to be the Quinn I used to be anymore. I don't want to be that Quinn. I hate cherrio Quinn. I hate all of those stupid cherrios now. Brittnay, Santanna...especially Santanna, who's been going out of her way to be a bitch to me ever since my pregancy became obvious.
I leave the bathroom, not caring how hideous I look without makeup.
"Hey, Quinn."
I turn around, and it's Santanna. Speak of the devil. Brittnay is standing behind her, like how they both used to stand behind me.
"Why do you follow her, Brittnay? She's even more of a bitch than I was."
"Is." Santanna corrects.
"As you like it." I say, waving her off.
"Look, preggo, we don't have time for this. We have to get to class. If you're lucky, maybe our History teacher can take the time out of his schedule to knock you up again."
Santanna is truly a master. My swiftness and bitchiness combined with her tone and facial expression really hit for a knock out punch. I felt like I was dying.
"Shut the fuck up, Santanna." I spit out, unable to think of a real comeback.
"Ooo, looks like Quinn is losing her touch, huh Brittnay?"
"Yep." Brittnay gives me an apologetic look. "She sure is."
Bitch.
Bitch.
"Well we all know you're the only one who's really that interested in our math teacher, Brittnay. After all, if you relied on academics alone to pass semester tests, you wouldn't have made it past middle grade." I snap.
"You don't have to be so mean, Quinn." Brittnay whines.
"Yeah. You're worse than you were before. Come on Brittnay. Let's leave Quinn to go find someone else to mate with. Who knows, if you've got a real luck streak today Quinn, you might be able to beg Karofsky into doing it with you."
The thought repulses me more than words.
"Goddamn it, Santanna! Just shut up!" I yell. I am seriously running out of any sort of comeback at this point, and I can feel my treacherous eyes brimming with tears.
"Uh oh, she's gonna cry now. Who knew Quinn could get her feelings hurt so easily."
"Yeah, who knew, huh Santanna?"
"Damn you." I say to them darkly, and spin on my heels to walk away.
"Wow, I wonder who you'll blame this time? Maybe you'll tell us that wheelchair boy is really the father! You can never really know with Quinn Fabray!"
That one hits me deep, and I feel a tear dripping down my face. Goddamn, now isn't the time to be crying. Now Isn't the time for that.
But I am, and I begin running down the hallway, throwing myself past anyone who pauses to glance at me. The hell with it. The hell with it. I've made up my mind now. If I'm going to be known as Quinn the Slut for the rest of my time here, I might as well throw myself off the top of the goddamn buildling. Which really doesn't sound that bad.
I'm headed for the stairs when I bump into someone, and intend on ignoring them and running past. And I almost do, but I lose my balance on the last minute and trip. My books fly from my grasp and lay on the floor, and I hit the hard tile with a thud.
I'm so stupid I can't even manage to get to the top of the goddamned building?
"Oh, sorry about that. Let me help you."
But I don't want help. I don't intend on getting up from the floor. I don't intend on getting up from where I belong. Because that's all I am - some shit on the bottom of somebody's shoe.
So I lay limply on the floor for a while, and I feel somebody trying to pull me to my feet.
"You actually have to put effort into standing up, you know."
I look over to a slightly irritated face. It's that Hummel boy. Both of us are surprised to see eachother, because he nearly drops me.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Santanna smirking at me from down the hallway.
Goddamn. As if things can get worse. The last thing I need if I ever want to patch up my popularity is to be seen anywhere near Kurt Hummel.
But at the moment, I could give a flaming hell about my goddamned popularity.
So, I let him help me up.
"Thanks." I manage to say. Tilting my head downwards in a feeble attempt to hide my pathetic tears.
"Quinn? You look...different."
No shit, Sherlock.
His high pitched drawl annoys me, but it's also kind of funny. But the last thing I want to do is start laughing obnoxiously. I don't need to scare him away.
"Oh, yeah. I guess I do." It's all I can think of to say, and I stare down at myself. I know my face looks like crap, my clothes already looked like crap, and I felt like crap too. I'm the real deal now. "I guess I do."
"Hn." It's not much of a reply, but it's better than just walking away. I bend down and begin to pick up my books, and he starts to do the same.
"You might want to get to class." I say.
"I knocked into you. It'd be rude not to help you pick up your things."
I don't point out that I had been the one to wildly crash into him, because I know it'll probably just be a waste of my breath. Besides, it's not really a bad thing to have somebody near you that's not calling you crap.
And then it happens in almost one wave. I turn around to pick up one of my pencils that has fallen onto the floor as well. I look up and see Karofsky walking towards us. Obviously my brain isn't working as fast as it usually does, because I don't see the large cup in his hands until it's too late.
"H-hey," I find myself saying. "Look out for that - "
Look out look out
It's too late. I hear a splash and Karofsky and Aizmo are walking down the hallway like it's nothing. Nothing at all. And now I'm on the other side. And now I see why it sucks. And now I really do feel like a bitch for having laughed before. Up close it looks so much worse.
It's the shock I think that does it. Eyes wide, face pale, mouth open.
And it's worse, because it was kind of poured on him instead of splashed into his face.
I don't say anything. We both stand up, and I drop my books.
I don't know what to say. I really don't.
"I'm sorry."
It's all I can think to say. Even though no family or pets have recently died, I know he still feels like crap and now I know how that feels more than ever. Now I say it and I'm surprised at how much feeling is into my voice as I say the simple words "I'm sorry" and I really mean it and somehow wish that I could talk louder or faster or push someone out of the way or something.
I almost wish it had been me. Because I deserve it. He doesn't.
"I'm really, really, sorry."
He stares back at me like I'm speaking in another language. I stare back at him, and it's almost like I am.
"It happens all the time. No problem. See you later."
He turns around to walk towards the boys' bathrooms, and I suddenly feel so sick. It happens all the time. I know it does. I know it happens all the time. And I used to watch. I used to giggle - no, I used to laugh. I used to think it was funny and cute and good.
I'm so fucking stupid.
And I'm so goddamned sorry.
I'm so sorry.
But no matter how much I think about it, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself.