Disclaimer: I own nothing. Characters belong to the one and only Ryan Murphy.

Trigger Warning: There is talk of suicide in this chapter.

Looking through the waiting area window, obviously waiting for my therapy session, I can't help but think back to what occurred during my first session.

Dr. Hernandez reclines in his chair, hands folded on his lap, and looks at me carefully. I can't tell if he's waiting for me to say something or if he's thinking. Hopefully it's the latter of the two. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No, not really, Doctor. I can understand why my friends and family would be concerned about my mental state, but I can assure you, Doctor, that I am perfectly fine."

Elbows on his knees, he leans forward and says, "Rachel…. You tried to kill yourself. You-"

"I did no such thing, Dr. Hernandez. I was cooking dinner a-and the knife simply…slipped out of my hand. This is all just a huge misunderstanding, so if you would so kindly call my fathers to come and get me, we can all forget about this little mishap." What is he writing on his notepad? Stop that.

"Rachel," he says with a sigh. Don't sigh like that! Now is not the time for sighing, now is the time for me to leave! "You did try to commit suicide. You weren't cooking, you had a mental breakdown. The knife didn't slip from your hand, you purposefully cut your wrist."

What? No, I didn't. I would never do such a thing.

"Yes you did, Rachel." I said that out loud?

"Well I-I didn't mean-I just... Now what? Am I going to be put in a mental hospital? Is that what this place is," I ask. I can't believe I tried to kill myself. At least I know why I have gauze wrapped around my left wrist. Holding my wrist to my chest I ask, "wh-why did I do this?" Don't you dare cry Rachel Berry, keep it together.

With a hand on my shoulder, and a sad smile, he holds my gaze and says, "That's what we're going to figure out, Rachel."

It's my first week here at Holton Rehabilitation, and…it's interesting. I think Orange County has to be the most peaceful city in the U.S. though. I love it here. Well, not Holton, but California. It's so beautiful here, what with the thousands of palm trees, the clear blue sky, and the Pacific Ocean right there! Who wouldn't love it here? But my heart belongs to the Big Apple. I miss my city. I won't be back until December. That's six months away! I just want to go home. Maybe I can get out early for good behavior. Good behavior. This isn't a prison, Rachel, geez. Well it feels like it.

"Rachel," I look up to find Dr. Hernandez looking at me with a smile, "you ready?"

Holton requires its patients to keep a journal about their time here, like a diary. I've turned my journal into a sketchbook. There's nothing wrong with the idea of journal keeping, but I've already done that shit. I've kept several journals throughout my 25 years of life. From being filled with names of crushes and bad school days, to being filled with calorie intake. I don't need another journal.

I had another session with Dr. H. today. We talked about my dream… and Rachel. He told me not think too much of the dream, and to let go of the past. I guess he has a point, I mean… he is the doctor after all. He also said that Rachel sounded like a lovely girl. I told him he was wrong. She's more than lovely. She's wonderful. H, and I probably talked about her for a good half hour.

"She seems to be of great importance to you, Quinn. We're the two of you good friends?"

With a chuckle I tell him, "kind of."

"Kind of? How can two people be 'kind of' friends? I mean, the way you speak of her, you make it seem as though you possibly had romantic feelings for her."

Oh dammit, Quinn. You can't keep your big gay mouth shut can you? "Like I said, H, we were kind of friends. We had-have a lot of history together."

He sits back in his chair, with a half-smile. "Care to share, Quinn? Maybe this history you have with Rachel could somehow be connected to your addiction."Uh oh. You just crossed the line, buddy.

"Rachel has nothing to do with my love for cocaine," I stand up abruptly, fists clenched at my sides. "Can we be done now?"

"Yes, we're done for the day. It seems I may have gone too far too soon. My apologies," he says with an outstretched arm. I shake his hand, and leave to sulk anywhere but in front of him.

So here I am, soaking up the sun in the garden, and drawing to my heart's content. I thought a nap and some fresh air would help clear my head after my session with Dr. H. It wasn't terrible, it was just painful. Talking about Rachel isn't painful, I could talk about her all day; it's our history, that's the painful part. There will always be a part of me that will never truly forgive myself for the things I've done to her. I was a monster… I still am. Oh my god, what happened to the sun? I look up to see… oh great, it's...Addison? "You're in my light. Could you, ya know, move?"

"I need your help," she tells me with a blank expression. What?

"I'm not in the mood. Leave me alone." I look back to my sketch. She better go before I get up and help her move.

"No. I need your help. You're the only one who can help me." And apparently my legs are a chair for her.

Sunglasses off, glaring at her, "I said, I'm not in the mood. Now get off of me and leave." She's glaring right back at me. God, she reminds me of Santana. They couldn't look anymore different though. Addison is petite, has naturally curly red hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and she is just covered in freckles. She's kind of cute.

Arms crossed, chin up, she says she'll leave me alone if I help her. Total bullshit. But I tell her fine in hopes that she'll keep her word. She drags me to her room, which is four doors away from mine, and points at the door. "You brought me up here to show me your door," I say more than question. It's been less than five minutes and the girl has already managed to irritate the hell outta me.

"It's locked, and I don't have my key." The fuck I look like? A janitor or something?

"Well where is it," I ask with an exasperated sigh. "Why didn't you get the spare from the dude at the front desk? You don't need me."

"I heard you could pick locks, and thought you could help me out, shitface." Oh. Well then.

"You heard right." I kneel down, and pull a bobby pin out from my hair. I haven't done this in years. The last lock I picked was to Russell's safe. I was back in Lima for Thanksgiving break, and ended up owing money to some people. He wouldn't lend me the money, so I had to get it myself. It wasn't that tough of a lock. And neither is this one. This one's a piece of cake. A few twists and turns and, "bam," I stand up, and brush off the "dirt" on my knees. "You're welcome."

"Wow. Thanks, Quinn," she says patting me on the back. Gurl, you best get your hands off of me. God, I just sounded like Satan. Addison faces me with a devious smile, and proceeds to shut the door on my face. Seriously? Whatever, I'm getting cheese fries.

"At Holton, there is a requirement that all patients keep a journal of their time here. So here is yours," I take the journal from his hands. It's way too plain for my taste. Hopefully I can find something to decorate it with. Maybe they have a crafts room stocked with bedazzlers. "You may fill the journal with anything, but you must have at least one entry a day. Dr. Anya Davis will skim through your journal after each group meeting to see if there is an entry. You may also drop the book off in my office, if you ever wish for me to take a look at it. Okay?"

"Okay, Doctor."

After talking with Dr. Hernandez, I head back to my prison cell-I mean…room, and decide to write in my first journal entry.

Journal Entry #1:

Therapy with Dr. Hernandez wasn't too bad. We'll have to meet twice a week for the time I am here, which seems ridiculous. It is ridiculous that I'm even here. I don't need therapy, and I don't need help. I didn't mean to hurt myself.. it was an accident. But I guess it doesn't look that way to others. Especially to dad and daddy. They brought me to Holton after my stay at the hospital. According to Dr. Hernandez, Kurt found me on the kitchen floor unconscious and covered in blood. He tried to wake me, but I didn't respond. Wrapping my wrist in a dish towel, he called 911, then my fathers. The doctors at the hospital said I had lost a lot of blood, and that I was lucky to be alive. I didn't feel lucky. I don't feel lucky. Moving on now. Dr. Hernandez also told me some rules that are enforced at Holton: visitor privilege depends upon progress made, phone calls and letters are screened, check-ups are every 30 minutes, and romantic relations with other patients is strictly prohibited. Basically, I get no privacy, or contact from the outside world for six months. Oh dear Barbra. How am I going to survive this?

-R. Berry