I'm not particularly happy with this piece. I feel like there's more story here, something more to tell but I haven't quite figured out what it is yet. So, I'm posting this to see what kind of reaction it gets and see perhaps where you all would like to see it go (I have two possible ideas but one seems almost too much for me to write). I'm never sure if I'm writing Quinn corectly so I hope I did her justice with this one. Reviews on this would be wonderful. Enjoy!
She's beautiful.
Pale white skin and dark brown hair, blue eyes hiding underneath her eyelids. I'm sure those won't stay. Supposedly all babies are born with blue eyes. I wonder if that's where the color got its name.
She has ten fingers, ten toes, two arms, and two legs. She's perfect; a perfect bundle born into a broken mess.
Everyone at McKinley High School will know her; might not know her name, probably won't know her by looking at her, but they'll all know of her.
The bastard child of Quinn Fabray (when they say my name they'll probably snicker or role their eyes) and Noah Puckerman (they'll gasp when they hear his name because for the longest time he wasn't the father). She'll never escape that title at McKinley High.
She rests against my chest, eyes shut, her hair messy, and hands balled up into fists. She looks like him. That fact alone makes me feel better, makes all this a little easier.
Soon, she'll start crying and a nurse will tell me I need to feed her. That's the last thing I'll do for her before I give her away.
Nobody knows she's here and it's almost better this way. They don't have the option of getting attached like I already have.
The guilt is already creeping into my deflated stomach.
At 3:07 pm on March 29th, my little girl is officially one day old. I kiss her forehead softly and breathe in deep, trying to commit her smell to my memory.
I blink rapidly to keep my tears at bay when the nurse comes in, expectant parents of my daughter behind her.
I fake a smile and pass the baby to her mom.
My heart feels like it's been ripped out of my chest.
At 4:07 pm on March 29th, I sit alone in a bleak hospital room. My blonde hair is dirty with sweat, my chest leaking milk that was produced for nothing. My body hurts and I'm so tired and I absently reach for the cross that's laid against my chest since I was 11. It's not there. I gave it to the little girl I gave birth to yesterday. The girl I'm not allowed to call my daughter.
I sniff to myself, bringing my hands up to my face. I rest my head in my hands as the tears start before I can stop them.
I walk the halls of my high school one week later.
Everyone's chatting with their friends at their lockers about how great spring break was.
When I pass them, nobody notices.
When I pass Puck, he grabs my arm and suddenly everyone realizes I'm not as big as when I left.
Noah Puckerman is the big man on campus. He's a football star, notorious badass (the title still held even after he joined New Directions), and the guy that every girl wanted to sleep with (all the hot ones already have). To put it simply, he's a man's man who acts like he's the shit.
Today, Noah Puckerman screams at me in the middle of the hallway. He calls me a bitch and a liar and I expected these insults. He has every right to be mad at me. I gave away his daughter.
(He doesn't see that I did this for him, that I did it for all three of us. We can't raise a baby. I'm not stupid; I know that love isn't enough of a reason to keep someone. One day though, he'll thank me because this would have ruined our lives.
She already ruined mine.)
But then, something happens. He starts choking on his words and tears start pouring down his red face. He asks how I could do it. How I could be so heartless and just give her away without even letting him see her and hold her, just once.
I wish he would stop crying and start yelling at me again. It'd be so much easier if he was mad; I can't handle him being completely heartbroken.
I take a step forward, reaching out to touch him, comfort him.
He quickly steps back.
He shakes his head and wipes away his tears with his arm. He opens his mouth, almost says something more but stops.
"I don't know who you are."
He walks away.
I have to run to the nearest bathroom. I throw up until it's nothing but dry heaves and my throat burns.
Tears are flowing down my cheeks at an alarming rate.
I can't breathe. I can't swallow.
I feel like I'm dying slowly.
Feedback, please?