A/N: This story deals with mature subject matter. Subjects addressed are dissociative identity disorder, (non-graphic) abuse, and attempted suicide. Please read at your own discretion.
"John Milton once wrote," Dr. Alan said, looking out at the class over the rims of his glasses, "that 'the mind can make a heaven out of hell or a hell out of heaven.' Who can explain the meaning of this statement, and the significance it has on how we, as readers, approach a poem?"
Before he had even finished speaking, the hand had shot up. The hand that rose every time the professor asked a question. The hand that belonged to the girl in the front row, dead center. The girl with dark brown curly hair, an obnoxiously loud voice, and a distinct lack of height.
Quinn sighed and rested her cheek on her hand, glancing towards the world outside and tuning out the animated voice that was now talking a mile a minute. It had rained earlier; she'd woken up before dawn broke, as soon as the first drops had hit her windowpane and she'd felt herself tense. But the thunder and lightning had mercifully stayed in the heavens, and now the sun was shining. She longed to be out in it again, and soon the voice that was speaking so insistently had faded into an annoying buzz in her ears.
The attendance sheet found her way in front of her, and Quinn quickly scrawled her signature next to her place on the roster before passing it on to the guy seated next to her.
Quinn C. Lopez
The mind, she thought idly, fingers drumming soundlessly on the open poetry book in front of her, pages full of Milton and terms like "peculiar diction," "irregular rhythm," and "inversion of the natural order of words and phrases."
Inversion of the natural order.
If her life were a poem, Quinn considered romantically, that phrase would be an accurate description of her own mind. A perfect explanation for why, every time the weather outside took a turn for the worse, she would "wake up" on the floor of the hall closet, her thumb wet and wrinkled with saliva and indentations of front teeth.
But her life wasn't a poem, and if the explanation still remained somewhat mystical in the medical and psychological worlds, the terms were far more scientific.
Dissociative. Switching. Alters.
Dr. Alan's voice brought Quinn back into focus.
"Thank you," she heard him say drily to the girl, who had thankfully, finally quit speaking. "You've made a fair and valid assessment, but please, next time, wait until you are called upon before launching into such an involved response."
She smirked, the upturn tick of her lips growing wider into a grin as the girl at the front of the class actually huffed her indignation, folding her arms across her chest like a petulant five year old. Then it was time for Dr. Alan to pass out the graded exams from last week, and Quinn noted with no small amount of pride that she'd gotten a hundred. Again.
"Don't forget," he called as Quinn stood up and stowed her books in her messenger bag, shouldering it, "Come to class next week ready to accept your pairing for the presentation assignment."
The class responded with a collective grumble, echoing how Quinn felt. She hated group assignments, but all that floated away as she walked down the hall, stepped outside, and lifted her face to the sky, letting the warmth of the sun wash over her.
God, she loathed rain.
She loved days like this, sunny and peaceful, when she could stroll the blocks from campus back to the apartment, lazy and slow. By the time she'd make it home her clothes would be wet with sweat and sticking to her, honey blonde hair plastered to her eyelids and making vision hazy… but she didn't care. On days like today, she didn't have to obsessively check the weather report on her iPhone, calculating at what time she needed to be safe inside four walls before it happened. She could walk along and window shop, smile at babies in strollers, take off her shoes and cut through the park, feeling the grass bite against her toes.
On days like today, Quinn Lopez was free. And after twelve years, freedom had come to mean everything, because she had so very little of it.
The first time it happened (well, that she remembered), she was eight years old.
"Forecast for this evening calls for more of the same – thunderstorms and a rain accumulation of two inches or more while Hurricane Ida makes its way across land. Expect heavy rain, lots of hail, and the power company is already warning that there may be some significant outages as the weather continues to worsen."
It took her five tries to pick up her crayon before Quinn realized that her hands were trembling. A set of small tan fingers reached over and plucked the blue one from the box, pressing it into Quinn's palm, before Santana's concentration returned to her own picture, a small pink tongue darting out of her mouth as she focused.
Quinn smiled but it disappeared as a particularly loud clap of thunder reverberated through the house, rattling the windows and the china in Mama's cabinet.
After that… everything got a little hazy, until Santana's voice spoke to her.
"Quinn?"
The house was silent. Her back hurt, and everything was dark, except for a small sliver of light. Quinn glanced up and saw Santana standing above her, hands tucked into her shorts pockets and looking down at her with a strange expression on her face.
That's when Quinn realized.
She was on the floor, inside the closet of her sister's bedroom.
She swallowed hard around the thumb in her mouth, then pulled it away and glanced at the indentations her teeth had made.
Santana pulled the door open wider and sat down next to her. Those same tan fingers were in Quinn's hair now, brushing sweaty tendrils away from her eyes.
"You were scared, weren't you?"
Quinn nodded. She was scared. But she didn't think it was the storm anymore.
She learned when she was sixteen that the idea of humans using only 10 percent of their brain was a myth. Now that she was twenty, Quinn was pretty sure her brain was 90% fucked up. Dr. Jones had laughed the first time Quinn had said that, but her smile had disappeared when she'd realized that her client was dead serious.
"I'm broken," she said with a shrug.
Dr. Jones' pen hesitated, poised over her notepad. "Why would you say that?"
Quinn shrugged again. "What would you call it? Broken, damaged, fucked up… My brain is Swiss cheese."
Her therapist quirked an eyebrow at her. "Is that an official diagnosis?" she asked mildly, but she was smiling, letting Quinn know she was joking while at the same time taking her seriously.
Quinn glared at her. "I have two… people living inside my head that are not me. What would you call it?"
Dr. Jones leaned forward and met Quinn's gaze. "I think that's where you're wrong. They are you."
She reached the park in record time, even though she was taking what could probably be called a leisurely stroll through the city, in no real hurry to get home. She sat down on a bench and rested her head against its back, sighing into the sun.
There were days when it wasn't bad. She was only taking 2 classes at NYU – American literature and poetry and poetics, but some days even that seemed to be too much. But others were calm, casual; some days she could almost forget that there was a constant battle in her mind, raging just underneath the surface. She could remember that she was a college student in New York City: prone to not studying when she should but still making As; totally obsessed with caramel macchiatos from the Starbucks down the street; and with an unhealthy love for horror movies that was probably more Santana's fault than her own. She wanted bacon with everything – including ice cream, which had made Santana turn a lovely shade of green before she'd excused herself from the table. She was insecure about her looks sometimes, and bemoaned the fact that she would never have enough money for a pair of Manolo Blahniks.
Quinn Celeste Lopez was your typical, every day college student.
Who sometimes lost entire chunks of days from her memory.
Days where she felt like a ghost, standing outside her body as she watched herself… do things. Most times she really didn't remember; things just floated in and out of her consciousness like snippets of a film reel: the roughness of the carpet on the floor of the closet scratching against her cheek; cartoons loud and frantic on the television; Santana's eyes, wide and brown and worried, like they always were, like they had been for the last 12 years. There were other things that were harder to remember, things that she was pretty sure she was glad that stayed in the farthest recesses of her mind.
Weight and heat and the saltiness of beer, steady thump of music in a club. A boy, tall and dark and too fucking close, shock registering on his face as he stumbled across the floor and up against the wall, in disbelief that a little blonde girl who weighed 120 pounds soaking wet now had his friends laughing their asses off at him.
And always, always there was the warmth of Santana's hand in hers, the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of Santana's frustrated breathing wafting around their heads in the darkness of two a.m., as Quinn's sister led her home without a word. Sometimes Quinn realized where she was as soon as her head hit the pillows, and she managed a soft "Thanks," causing Santana to just grin gently at her.
Most nights, though, she wouldn't remember any of it until dawn peeked its rays into her bedroom.
And even then, it was just little snatches of memory, like a crossword puzzle with not enough clues.
Quinn opened her eyes when something knocked against her foot; she glanced down as the little boy seized up his soccer ball and shot her a blinding smile before running off to rejoin his friends. She grinned softly, watching as they started up a game absent of any rules and any real goals, just a group of kids running around and laughing. They were probably around seven, she surmised.
The age she'd been, the night she entered into the Lopez household, with one hand in that of a detached social worker, and the other clinging tightly to a teddy bear.
Her legs dangled off the edge of the cot as Quinn Fabray sat up and looked around.
The lady police officer had stayed with her, holding her hand and whispering soothing things to her while also talking to the doctor who had really cold hands. But she had slipped out for a drink of water, and now Quinn was alone.
She whimpered and hugged her arms tightly to herself, squeezing her eyes against the tears.
The door creaked and someone wearing a blue suit, a man, came inside the room, holding a stuffed toy in his hands.
"Hi, there," he said pleasantly. He sat on the little rolling stool and scooted closer to Quinn, who scrambled backwards to the middle of the cot.
The strange man nodded at her, his lips tightening in sympathy. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out something and opened it, holding it out to her. The gold badge glinted and shone in the harsh overhead lights of the hospital room.
"You want to hold it?" he said, his voice kind and even. She glanced up at him and chewed her lower lip. "It's okay, sweetheart, you can hold it if you want to."
Quinn reached out and fisted her tiny fingers around the badge, looking at it. She shuffled forward again, ignoring the ache of her bottom and the back of her legs, and kept glancing from the badge to the man in the blue suit.
"Never talk to the police, Quinnie," Daddy said. "They'll take you away from us, pretty girl. You don't want to be a bad girl and get daddy in trouble, do you?"
She was a bad girl… but he just seemed so nice.
As she ran her fingers along the dips and curves of the badge, lips mouthing "two oh seven," the man spoke again.
"Would you like a present?"
Quinn's eyes shot up and she stared at him in fear.
Daddy always gave her presents.
She didn't want a present.
It was almost as if the man knew this, because he brought the teddy bear closer, sitting it on his knee and making it wave at Quinn. She giggled a little in spite of herself, and he smiled.
"You can have it, sweetheart," he said. "We always give little girls teddy bears for being so brave."
She tilted her head at him, brow furrowed.
She was brave?
The man held the teddy bear out to her.
"I think he likes you," he said with a smile. "I think he'd like to help make you feel better."
She hesitated, but one hand was already holding the badge out to him while her other was reaching for the teddy bear. Fingers closed around softness, and she brought the bear to her chest, hugging it close.
The man patted her knee, briefly, then tucked his badge back into his pocket and continued to watch her, sadness in his eyes. They were blue, she noticed. Like mommy's.
Where was mommy? Why wasn't she here? Did she think Quinn was a bad girl, too?
"What's your name?" Quinn asked in a tiny voice.
The man seemed surprised, and he cleared his throat. "Colley," he said quietly. "My name is Detective Colley."
Quinn nodded, the teddy bear tucked under her chin, and she buried her face in its soft fur as the tears flowed.
"Colley," she murmured. "My Colley."
Quinn stood and brushed off her jeans, shouldering her messenger bag once more and again setting off for home. From the park it was a less than five minute walk, and she was hungry, so she quickened her pace and didn't slow until she turned the key in the lock.
"Hey?" she called out.
"Yo," was the response, and she smiled.
Santana was sitting on the couch tipping back a beer. She had somehow managed to score a fake ID somewhere, much to Quinn's chagrin… but then again she had one in her wallet as well. Her sister's eyes, framed in black wire-rimmed reading glasses, were drifting back and forth from the news on the television and her statistics book, open in front of her on the coffee table.
Quinn walked down the hall to her room and stowed her bag underneath her desk before slipping out of her shoes and changing into a pair of Santana's old William McKinley High School cheerleading sweats and a tee-shirt from NYU. Coming back into the living room and flopping down on the couch, she nudged the Latina with her shoulder.
"How's it going, big sis?"
"Two months, Q," Santana muttered, chewing absently on her pen as she stared down at her textbook. "Big sis by two whole months. Let it go."
"Nope," Quinn shook her head. "I'll never forgive you for being badass for a whole two months before me."
Santana smirked. "It's a talent, babe. Some of us have it, some of us…" She glanced over, surveying her sister meaningfully. "Clearly don't."
Quinn rolled her eyes and bumped her shoulder with Santana's again. "Want me to fix dinner tonight, since I couldn't last night?"
Santana shrugged, still focusing on a stats problem, and swearing under her breath at it. "Your call. You up for it?"
It was only four words, but Quinn knew it was Santana's usual way of asking so much.
Are you okay? How'd your day go? Did you switch? Do I need to kick anyone's ass?
(Because if there was something Santana was always up for, it was kicking someone's ass.)
"I'm up for it," Quinn answered, resting her head briefly on Santana's shoulder.
The Latina responded by lightly kissing the crown of her blonde curls.
"Then what the hell are you waiting for? I'm fucking starved."
Quinn rolled her eyes again and stood up, making her way to the kitchen. "Chicken and rice all right?"
Santana waved her hand in absent agreement, muttering softly to herself again as she still studied her book.
Quinn smiled as she pulled the ingredients out of the cupboard and fridge, balancing everything in her arms as she thought about the last twelve years living with the tornado that was Santana Lopez. More than once she and Santana had been confused for girlfriends, owing to the tan skin and dark hair contrasted against the pale blonde. This had only resulted in Santana and Quinn collapsing into each other with giggles each time, because, as Santana said, "I love you, Q, but yuck."
It was a curious dynamic, one that had been in place since Quinn was seven and had stepped out of a black car with a government license plate.
The social worker's name was Andrea, she had told Quinn. The little girl had just nodded and allowed the woman to buckle her into the booster in the back seat. She clutched her arms tightly around Colley and tried not to look at the small bag that held some of her clothes.
She missed her mommy. Why wasn't mommy coming to get her, to take her home?
She needed to hug daddy, to tell her she was sorry for being a bad girl.
She knew daddy would be mad. He would spank her. But she wanted to go home.
Home to her pink room. Her soft bed with the pink lacy ruffles, the rows upon rows of dolls and fancy china figurines that daddy wouldn't let her touch. Bare pink walls, decorated only with a big picture of Jesus above her bed.
Jesus didn't like bad girls, either.
Quinn would have started to cry, but she was distracted by Andrea speaking softly to someone on the phone as she navigated the car through the dark Lima streets. The little girl watching her strained to hear, but the social worker's voice was too low.
The car ride seemed to take a long time, and Quinn realized she had to go to the bathroom. She crossed her legs and squirmed a little, whimpering. Andrea glanced at her in the rearview mirror and smiled.
"Almost there, sweetheart," she said easily. "Just hang on."
And only thirty seconds later, Quinn felt the car turn and then stop. Andrea turned off the car and stepped out, coming around to open the back passenger door. She smiled reassuringly down at Quinn, unbuckled the seatbelt, and lifted the little girl off the booster.
Quinn wavered when her feet touched the cement of the sidewalk in front of the large yellow house. It wasn't as big as her house, but it was pretty, she thought, and all the lights were on. A woman was waiting on the front porch and Quinn squeezed Colley bear tighter, one thumb finding its way into her mouth.
Andrea took her hand and held it gently, Quinn's little "Going to Grandma's" suitcase in her other hand as they walked up the sidewalk towards the house. The lady on the front porch had darker skin than Quinn, she noticed, and her black hair was pulled into a pony tail. Her brown eyes were sparkling kindly though, and Quinn realized she liked her.
She stopped when Andrea did, little Mary Jane-clad feet scuffling against the wood floor of the porch. She stared at the lace around her ankles as Andrea spoke.
"Mrs. Lopez, I'm sorry to be here on such short notice."
"It's fine," the other woman – Mrs. Lopez? – said, and her voice was gentle. "Sometimes little girls can't wait, can they?" There was a shuffling, and Quinn backed up when she found herself suddenly face to face with Mrs. Lopez.
"What's your name?" she asked, smiling at her.
Quinn looked up at Andrea, who nodded encouragingly.
She took her thumb out of her mouth. "Quinn Celeste Fabray," she recited, just like mommy had taught her.
Mrs. Lopez stood up and took her hand. "Well, Quinn, you're going to stay with us for a little while, okay?"
"I can't go home?" Quinn squeaked, eyes wide.
Mrs. Lopez's stared down at her with a sad look on her face, like Detective Colley's. She shook her head.
"Not right now, honey."
"But I wanna go home!" Quinn dug her heels into the porch floor when Mrs. Lopez tried to walk her inside the house. "I want my daddy! Mommy!"
"Is she going to cry like this all the time?"
The voice startled her, and Quinn stared at the little girl in the doorway, framed by the light coming from inside the house.
"Santana," Mrs. Lopez scolded, "Be nice. Go back inside until I call you."
She was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, a ketchup stain on the front. Her black hair was swept back from her face and fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She stared at Santana with dark eyes.
"You don't have to be afraid, you know," she said with a shrug. "We don't bite. Well, except for Miguel, but he's a year old, and he doesn't really have teeth so it doesn't hurt anyway."
"Santana!" Mrs. Lopez said, sighing with exasperation at her daughter while Andrea just laughed.
Santana pursed her lips and moved to go back inside the house, when Quinn spoke up.
"I need to use the bathroom."
"Hey, this one's potty trained, Mama."
"Santana Maria Lopez! Take Quinn inside and show her to the bathroom, before I take your Game Boy away. Now!"
"Fine," the little girl dragged out slowly, then reached out her hand and took Quinn's, tugging her.
Quinn glanced back at the two women. Sensing her fear, Mrs. Lopez squatted down and put a hand on her shoulder.
"It's okay to be scared," she said quietly. "But you're going to be all right. Santana will help take care of you, won't you, Santana?" She looked pointedly at her daughter.
Santana glanced at her mother, then at the frightened little girl who stood next to her wearing a light yellow sundress and lacy ankle socks with white patented leather shoes.
She nodded. "Yeah," she said, and drew herself up as tall as she could, speaking proudly with her chin jutted in the air.
"I'll take care of you."
The dinner finished, Quinn made up two plates and carried them both into the living room, setting Santana's on top of her textbook.
"I have to finish this problem," she grunted.
"You have to eat," Quinn countered, sitting next to her and handing Santana a fork.
"Yes, wifey."
"Ew. I mean, I know I'm hot, but ew."
"You wish you were as hot as this."
"Eat your damn dinner."
Santana smirked and pulled off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose before sighing and picking up her plate, propping her feet against the coffee table.
"You work too hard," Quinn said softly, feeling the old twinge of guilt prick her somewhere deep inside.
She hadn't been able to hold down a job. Santana had worked two, at the clinic and then at the Starbucks down the street on the weekends, plus carrying a full 15-hour load of classes at NYU, until her grades had started to suffer and their parents had forced her to quit one of the jobs. She'd stuck with the clinic, since she was studying to be a pediatric nurse anyway.
"Don't start," Santana said around a mouthful of chicken. She got up to grab two bottles of water from the fridge, handing Quinn one as she sat down again.
"I just wish I could—"
"Yeah, well, you can't." There was no malice in Santana's voice, just the same casual matter-of-fact way of speaking to Quinn that she'd cultivated since they were seven years old.
Once Quinn was finished in the bathroom, she washed her hands and wiped them on the towel, then opened the door to the bathroom. She jumped a little, seeing Santana leaning against the far wall with her hands shoved in her pockets.
"My sister Anna is at college," Santana said. "And you'll meet my brothers Juan and Carlos, and baby Miguel, later on. But you'll stay in Anna's room while you're here."
Quinn shook her head, curls bobbing against her shoulders. "I won't be here long."
Santana's eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. "I think you'll be here forever."
"I'm going home," Quinn said stubbornly.
Santana offered her a crooked smile. "I've got a secret. Wanna know what it is?"
She wasn't sure she liked this little girl with her dirty clothes and her grubby face, but Quinn was 7 years old and she wanted to know a secret.
She nodded.
Santana Lopez crossed the floor and leaned into her ear. "We're going to be sisters someday. You just wait."
"Doesn't stop me from wanting to," Quinn sighed, stabbing the chicken with her fork.
Santana rolled her eyes. "Someday, Q."
"And in the meantime you'll keep taking care of me."
Her voice was soft, a little sorrowful, regretting.
Santana poked her in the side and Quinn giggled, batting her hand away.
"I promised, Q."
Quinn nodded, turning back to her dinner.
She'd promised.