So the next chapter isn't done yet, but I figured I'd put this up because I'm leaving on Thursday and will be gone on vacation for the rest of the week. No updates till August! Enjoy Quinn for now.

Carnage

Quinn

.

"I am locked into the mirror and there is no door out."

- Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

.

Usually, Quinn lies awake at night and wonders what happened.

She doesn't even know why she did it, except maybe she was sick of being good and perfect even though she really wasn't. She was sick of being expected to fulfill her parents' lives with something they could never reach themselves. She wanted to do the unexpected.

That didn't include being forced to sleep on her back for nine months.

She's slept on her stomach ever since she was a kid. It's the only way she can fall asleep. Now, she can't. She lies there all night staring at the ceiling, at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars Noah's little sister has stuck up there. She watches them until they stop glowing, and then she stares at the clock, at the nine year old sleeping in the other bed.

Usually at this point, it's around midnight and she's starting to go insane. So she grabs a sharpie and locks herself in the bathroom, holding out her arm.

She started writing on herself the night her parents kicked her out. Quinn doesn't know why, exactly, and she doesn't like to think about what it could lead to, the other forms of writing she could do. But it reminds her of what she is.

A disappointment. A screw up. A failure.

She mostly writes on her left arm because it's easiest. When she runs out of room, she uses her right arm, and she's gotten surprisingly good at writing with her non-dominant hand. On a few rare occasions, she's had to move down to her legs, but usually the shower washes away enough ink to leave space on her upper body.

She never writes on her stomach. It doesn't seem right. Her baby didn't ask for this. She did.

This is her fault, not her unborn child's.

Of course, writing all over herself means hiding it. She can't just waltz into school with ink all over her. Quinn makes sure she always wears long sleeves or sweatshirts. It would be a problem if someone suddenly realized what she's doing. What would she even say? There isn't really an explanation. No one would believe she writes insults on herself for fun. Hearts and swirls, maybe, but profanities? They wouldn't buy it. If she doesn't understand it, why would they?

She can't explain it if she doesn't understand.

Luckily, no one's really asked. They all just figure she's a little down because her parents kicked her out and Finn won't look at her. Not to mention she's living with Puck, which isn't exactly easy. He might've knocked her up, but he's not her boyfriend. They've called it quits on "making it work" for the time being, all too obvious from Santana's ponytail bouncing down the hallway to Noah's room when Mrs. Puckerman isn't home. She's only living there because she doesn't have anywhere else to go.

It's surreal, knowing this is her last resort, that she really as no other option. Before, she took her life for granted. She took her own bed, her popularity, and her parents for granted. Then again, no one ever really sees what they have until it's gone.

This is just another lesson. Another punishment.

Quinn doesn't like to be in the house when Puck is with Santana or any other girl. Usually she walks down the street to the park and sits on a swing, gently rocking back and forth. It reminds her of the night she slept with him, the way it felt, how for the tiniest moment she wondered "what if this is a mistake?" before pushing it away. She wonders if people like Santana ever think about those things. If they ever wonder if they'll end up alone on a playground, just them and their unborn fetus.

Probably not. She can't imagine too many people think about that. It's a bit pathetic.

She's pathetic.

It's thoughts like this that make her feel bad. There aren't any other words for it, just… bad. Despite its simplicity, it seems to sum everything up perfectly. For some reason, when she feels bad, she needs to see it.

She rolls up her sleeve to her elbow. The words slut and idiot are still there, faded. The permanent marker comes out of her pocket, gripped tightly in her fingers. Slowly, she writes, the word nestled in between the other two. Pathetic.

It's there. It's real. She can look at it all she wants and know it's true because it's right there, staining her arm black.

She pulls her sleeve back down with the words out of view, wiping her eyes for tears that aren't there. For some reason, she doesn't really cry anymore. She doesn't feel much of anything. Everything is just empty, even though her stomach grows bigger every day. It feels like there's no point in anything she does. How can there be a point if there's no hope? No way to fix anything? Nothing to believe…

She used to be able to pray about things. Whenever she was confused or scared, she could pray and then everything would feel better, somehow. It was like if no one else was listening, at least someone was, even if she couldn't see them. At least someone cared.

But now? How could anyone care? How could anyone care about someone like her?

The only reason she's still going is because of the baby.

At first, that fact scared her. She's over it now. She's stopped being concerned about much of anything. She's stopped feeling. It hurts too much to feel. It's become much easier to stay up all night and sleep all day.

Quinn sits awake on the swings, simply listening to silence. Everyone is at home in bed. She wonders if anyone is still awake. What could they be doing? What happens during the night when it's safe to let your secrets out? Are the other people who can't sleep just like her? Do they have as much guilt? Shame? Rejection? Somehow, she doubts anyone could feel like she does. How anyone could sit up all night staring at nothing?

It's a way of self-torture, almost. She sits at the playground, thinking… one day, Beth could play on this playground. She could climb across the monkey bars and bounce up and down on the see-saw. If she was keeping her.

But Quinn isn't keeping her. She can't raise a baby. Even though she's sure this was meant to be a lifelong punishment, she doesn't have to keep her. People are allowed to give away their children and never look back.

She probably will look back, though. Even though she hates it, she thinks she'll probably look back a lot. She'll wonder what Beth looks like and how she does in school and when she gets her first kiss. She'll wonder if she feels safe and listened to, unlike she did. She'll wonder if her new family will talk about their problems, unlike her family.

If Beth gets pregnant, will her new father kick her out? Will her new mother ignore it and not even care?

Quinn knows she wouldn't do that. Puck wouldn't either. They'd just tell her everything would be okay, and support her…

If only she wanted her. Will she ask about that one day, too? Why Quinn didn't want her? She hopes she won't take it personally. Quinn realizes she doesn't want much of anything anymore, including a baby or a working relationship with the father. She just wants to be left alone.

Most of the time, anyway. Except when it comes to Rachel Berry. She has no idea why. She never even liked the girl before. Maybe it's because she knows she's hurting herself. Well, she doesn't know. She has a hunch, but it's not like it's inconspicuous. Quinn heard Rachel throwing up. Something is obviously going on.

But why does she care? What is it about Rachel that pulls her out of the water, wake up, and actually do something?

Maybe it's because she remembers what it's like. She remembers weighing herself constantly, having a tantrum if she gained a pound. She remembers constant dieting and facing humiliation at Cheerios practice. She remembers feeling disgusting every time she looked in the mirror, dissecting every part of her. She remembers the pangs of a growling stomach, and the way it felt to blackout and fall to the floor. Waking up to worried eyes, and having to say nothingswrong, everythingsfine, thanksforasking, I'mnothungry.

She wants to help her, help someone, before it's too late. The same way it's too late for her.

She stands up from the swings, walking over to the colored metal structure. She climbs the steps to the bridge, leaning over and staring at the wood-chip ground.

Will Beth ever throw up like Rachel or starve like she used to?

Will she ever be left alone on a playground to drown in her thoughts?

Will she ever forgive her?

… will anyone ever forgive her?

Everyday, Quinn wishes she could step back in time and stop herself. She never would've invited Puck over. She would've ignored those two extra pounds on the scale and eaten a burger instead of her usual salad. She would've called Finn and told him she loved him. She would've thought about what the hell she was doing and said no.

She would've had sex with someone she really loved, when she was completely sure, instead of with someone she would only come to love in the future, someone who didn't seem to love her now.

What if Noah never loves her like he says he does? What if no one ever loves her, not her parents or any boys or her daughter?

No, not her daughter. Daughter doesn't describe it correctly. A daughter is someone who is yours. Beth isn't hers. She is someone else's.

Having a child makes her a mother, not a mom. She is not the mother of a daughter. Right now, all she is, is a vessel for a thing. A child she doesn't know and will never know. All because she chose the wrong choice, and now she's doomed to this hell.

Quinn crosses the bridge and climbs to the highest slide. It twists three times before it reaches the bottom. She wishes she could enjoy playgrounds like she used to. That she could slide down slides and not think about what could have been.

She rolls up her sleeves, revealing words. Idiot, slut, pathetic, whore, stupid, dumbass. She grips the handlebars, slowly sitting down to the entrance of the slide. The moonlight shines of the plastic, illuminating her way down.

Quinn used to wish she could slide all the time. She wanted to slide so fast, it was like she was flying, with someone there to catch her at the bottom.

Now she still wishes for that freedom, that innocence, that safety. It's just in a different form. Instead of being laced with childhood fairytales, it is tinged with grime. With the sick blood of reality, with the fact that she's just another statistic. Another girl gone wrong.

She closes her eyes and pushes off. Quinn zooms down the slide, and in an instant she finds herself sitting at the bottom.

If only her fall from grace had been so effortless.

Slowly, she stands up, hands resting on her abdomen. On the horizon, there is a light gray tinge to the sky. It's probably around four am. People will be waking up soon.

She rolls down her sleeves and slips quietly inside the house that is not her home. Upstairs in the bathroom she lets her dread take hold of her and swallows two sleeping pills. Crawling back into bed, she waits for the drugs to do their job. There's no way she's going to school today.