I always hated the way the glee writer's pushed away Quinn's emotions and thought everything would be better if they gave her a Yale acceptance letter, so this happened. I'd advise listening to the song mentioned below; it really is the basis of everything I've written here.
"The window sill looks really nice, right? You think twice about your life it probably happens at night, right?" – Twenty / One / Pilots (I'll be holding on to you)
She knows this isn't logical; this isn't what should be happening. This isn't who she is, despite popular belief, she's not insane, she doesn't want to end this. Any of it. She knows that she has more to give, somewhere, somehow but right now, it doesn't feel like it.
She's aware that she has a future in front of her, things to look forward to, places to see, things to live. But right now, in this moment all she can recall are things which brought her to where she is. Things that push her towards the edge.
She's tired of fighting, tired of wishing, waiting, being judged, judging others. Suddenly everything feels so inconsequential. Like everything else is just leading to this. This moment, do you fly or do you fall?
Standing there, cold as ice, shivering, just thinking. She's calm. She never thought it was possible to be in this position and be calm. She's perched on the ledge of a building for Christ's sake. But in some bizarre way, she's never felt more relaxed in her life. Which really is saying something about her life.
She almost laughs. Almost.
It really is a matter of thought though, isn't it? More so than action, anyway. The thought always overcomes the action. Isn't that they way it goes? You present the thought and the rest follows, the movement. The falling. This makes her creep out slight, her destroyed sneakers leaning out slightly over the edge of the building.
Feeling daring, she leans her balance forward slightly, waiting for a reaction, fear, adrenaline, anything but nothing comes. Nothing but the cold. Typical, the Ice Bitch feeling nothing but cold. It's fitting, really. She moves back slightly and begins to consider her surroundings. It's dark but there's still light mixing in with the dulling grey along the horizon, a light gold tinges the otherwise clouded sky.
It was a quiet place, Lima but right now, it wasn't quiet, it was blank, it's the only way she could think of describing it. Null. Void. Nothing fitted quite as well. It wasn't that her surroundings were silent, she's sure there's noise somewhere but if it's there, she certainly isn't paying attention to it.
She stops focusing on the blankness and tries to find something that could stand out from the fading background, she looks down, the streets are dark apart from the flickering of streetlamps. Bringing her eye line upwards she begins to examine her surroundings and that's when she spots it.
The church steeple is barely visible amongst the tops of roofs, it stands above them, only slightly. She recognizes it instantly. It's her old church. Her thoughts blend together, rolling into one.
Images of tight smiles, stiff handshakes, perfect facades, of mumbling preachers and that claustrophobic feeling she felt in the congregation. She thinks of roughly muttered compliments, hand moving up her body. She thinks of her flat stomach, bloating, of fear and dread, she thinks of her father's yelling, her mothers disappointment. She thinks of small perfectly formed hands reaching for her, she's sure she imagined that part though. She hears cars crashing and bones crushing, people crying, worried sobs.
Wondering where falling would lead her, she beings to twist her fingers, bending them uncomfortably, an old habit. Her Father had hated it. She thinks of her preacher's harsh words, by his standards, she was already living sin, impure and filthy for her feelings, her thoughts. Would this make her even more of an abomination to him? She doesn't particularly care. Her faith was personal to her, it was not reflected in conservative men with sneering glares it was her own. She has her faith, even now.
This doesn't stop the harsh words flooding into her head though. Things spat out by her Father while he inhaled his scotch, he had never heard her Father call her most of them, he didn't feel they needed to be applied for her. She wonders if he knew now would she hear him call her the names he reserved specifically for those who dared to flaunt their orientation in front of him. She almost cries as she realizes he would probably push her off the edge right now if he knew.
Her breathing speeds up and something catches in her throat. She looks down and sees that she's subconsciously moved forward to the edge again. She's close. Nearly there. She breathes deeply. Tries to clear her mind but it won't stop. Her train of thought begins to shift.
She thinks of smiles, real smiles of hugs and arms, securely around her, of linked pinkies and red uniforms, she sees small dimples and a child's impish grin. She hadn't imagined that part. She sees warm eyes, soft and welcoming. She can almost smell flowers and something she can't quite place, cinnamon maybe. And she hears laughing, full, powerful laughter and a voice. God, that voice. It seems to clear. So precise. She sees bathrooms and acceptance letters, small arms securely around her neck.
She looks down, breathing levelled and heart calming. She moves, feeling so incredibly light. Exhaling loudly as she begins to make her way towards the ladder at the other side of the roof. Her footsteps ring in her ears and she feels heat flush to her cheeks. She stops as she reaches the ladder and looks towards the ledge where she stood seconds ago.
She focuses on the light still mingling in the dark sky and allows herself to smallest of contented sighs.
Nothing was perfect and it probably never would be but she was willing to give herself time to see how close she could get.
After all, Quinn Fabray was nothing if not resilient.