x. every time that you're not next to me
Quinn slows as soon as she spots the hulking figure leaning by the lamppost - her lamppost. The outline looks vaguely familiar and stirs within her that certain discomfort only a woman is capable of; that instinct, honed by eons of XX chromosomes that have come before the Fabray line was a single cell, which tells her to turn around and run as fast and as far as she can and by all of the angels and devils in this world and the next, Quinn Fabray, do not turn around.
Unfortunately, the last time Quinn gave in to the animal in her blood she ended up pregnant. So she turns up the volume of rationalization, ignoring the way the beast within her shrieks ever-louder with each step forward that she takes. (whatever, Fabray, you've stood here for countless nights and nothing's happened. gonna miss out on a couple hundred easy just because you're getting frightened at the sight of some guy— you see guys all the time, men more intimidating than this one, it's in your line of work. probably just some kid loitering here or a drunk celebrating five o'clock on the dot, or maybe some junkie that you'll need to nudge out of the way. weak— you've always been weak— no more! you've faced worse, far worse—
run
much much worse, you've lived a life without bacon—
think humor is gonna revive you when you're just another statistic on the evening news? run!
shut up, Fabray, shut up, you're not scared—
RUN
and even if this is the last hour I have on this earth, what do I have left to lose—)
Karofsky turns around and Quinn stands anchored to the spot as if the sidewalk beneath her heels had abruptly claimed her legs as its own.
The strange thing is that he isn't even looking at her. For all intents and purposes, he hasn't even noticed her presence. What he's doing it looking down at his open palms, lips moving silently; Karofsky appeared for all the world like some street evangelical succumbing to a fit, some mad holy man supplicating with hands before him and mouth speaking in tongues unknown to the human ear.
Finally, Quinn catches the glimmer of his eyes. He slowly raises his gaze to hers and in the time it takes him to do so, Quinn can feel civilizations rise and fall.
"Hello, Quinn."
(run you stupid bitch run run RUN)
But she remains rooted in place; her muscles pay no more attention to her than they do the drift of algae in the Pacific Ocean. The commands her brain screams are irrelevant - she is the young rabbit, paralyzed by the unyielding, unblinking gaze of the massive serpent before her. Too afraid to do anything but continue staring at him, the panicked screams of her mind quickly give way to one forlorn question: (how?)
Karofsky tips his hands forward. Quinn's eyes need only the fraction of a second to touch the manuscript cover, recognize the ducks lined up in a neat little row, and whatever scant molecules of hope she had for a tolerable resolution promptly snuff out of existence.
"I thought you'd hit rock bottom when you let Finn - or was it Puck, I can't remember - knock you up. How the mighty have fallen, and all that. But you have a talent for digging yourself deeper, Fabray, as I found out when Brittany forgot about this little prize... she was trying to get a drink from the water fountain and you know as well as I do that she can't multitask. Now what I'm really starting to wonder, Fabray—"
"No." He didn't even have to bother with the little monologue - she knew what he wanted; she knew from the moment his eyes met hers. It was something that needed no spoken language to express.
"—is exactly how low you can go."
"No."
"You're a hooker, Fabray." His voice rises with each epithet he throws her way. "A whore. A slut. I don't care if you enjoy it or not, but if you can give it up to Hudson and Puckerman for free then—"
"No."
"You're acting like you have a choice in the matter."
"There's not enough money in the world—"
"I wasn't planning on paying, whore." A large hand on her shoulder snaps Quinn out of her paralyzed state; her muscles tighten but then light explodes from behind her eyes as she's thrown up against the side of a building. She's going to feel every single one of her vertebrae tomorrow but right now it's all dull pain, all a muted roar as Quinn sags to one side - and is caught and held in place by the bulk of Karofsky's body.
The animal that Quinn had so carelessly dismissed, the one that had worried and nibbled at her ear before being rudely rejected – the one she'd muzzled and kenneled and kept at bay - now springs to life. Her fingernails seek flesh; they have but to move a few inches before finding it - they latch on, grip, tear. Her teeth find purchase on Karofsky's neck, sawing at the skin, seeking the blood beneath.
After all, Quinn Fabray still has her pride.
"Goddamn bitch!"
— and now Quinn's on her hands and knees, shuddering from a backhand that's immobilized the entire right side of her face. The blow was so violent that she doesn't even register pain; all Quinn knows is the distinct taste of vomit at the back of her throat, and then the feeling of rude hands grabbing her, lifting, lifting, and then her bruised cheek finding the unsympathetic coarseness of brick as Karofsky shoves her face-first into the side of the building. His breath is hot and heavy with promises of pain beyond description when he finally speaks: "You made me bleed. You're going to pay that back, slut."
There's something beneath his voice that hints at the truth of the matter, and Quinn realizes it well: the quick, multicolored photon of panic. It's not the sex - well, it's never just the sex - but Karofsky is scared. He's scared and he needs to prove something and he needs her in order to accomplish that; he needs control and he needs power and he needs Quinn Fabray's body - given willingly... or not.
Thick fingers shove under her skirt and the light in Quinn's eyes flickers—
(— fingers on the back of her neck, circling around, and Quinn coughs into the pillow. the man behind her grunts and his hand shifts; she can feel fingertips skimming along her scalp, threading through her hair. he's not considerate but he's not aggressive either so Quinn watches the wall with listless eyes, waiting for the inevitable outcome.
the man places his hand down on the mattress in front of her face, and she can see the gold of his wedding ring sparkling at her.
— bites back a hiss, swallows a sob. she hates this, hates it— out of everything she's ever done this one never gets any better. she'd even raised the price three times, hoping to drive him off, but he was insistent and he was rich and Quinn barely had enough time to check that he'd wrapped it up before he's behind her, inside her, and he doesn't even have the courtesy to let her adjust before he's thrusting violently, erratically.
one of his hands drops between her legs in a fashion too practiced to only ever have been fantasy. a few seconds pass, that hand realizes there's nothing but empty space, and the abrupt rage in his movements, the fury with which he defiles her, makes Quinn's brain foggy with anguish.
it's the only time she's ever gone temporarily unconscious; when bits of reality start returning to her, she can hear the last thing he utters before finishing: he moans a name - a man's name.
— not supposed to be like this; women are supposed to be her respite, her relief. this is anything but - it's Quinn's face twisting in unspoken pain, it's her being crucified from the inside out. the nails are too long - they're scratching, scraping, and the single nerve cell of Quinn's brain able to distance itself from this indescribable torment wonders if the woman is trying to render her sterile or give her some sort of primitive vaginectomy. Quinn won't break her two rules - she won't cry and she won't scream - but she can twist her spine, ball her hands into fists that tear at the bedsheets as this woman tears her from within.
she has to know. she has to know she's hurting Quinn, that this is unbearable. frantic eyes meet the steady gaze of a stranger...
... and Quinn knows what despair is, for she sees that the woman not only knows she's hurting Quinn - she's enjoying it.
— but all of these encounters, every last single one of them, they'd at least been
consensual)
— and she stares out at the horizon. There's still cerulean at the edge of the atmosphere; the barest hint of orange where sky meets land.
Too early for her champion to come. Calls to Romeo's cell phone go directly to voice mail, texts to Tristram go unanswered, e-mails to Lancelot returned with a perfunctory away message. Too early for Rachel to— too early for— for—
Rachel—
Rachel—
(she watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.)