The next morning was a Monday. Like most teenagers, I hate Mondays. They are the beginning of a week that is sure to drag on forever and be filled with every reminder that there is such a thing as hell. For me, that reminder starts when I look in the mirror once again.
I avoid the mirror as long as possible, getting dressed and ready without sparing a glance. But then, as the last part of my routine, I need to put on my makeup. Because Russel Fabray surely wouldn't let his daughter leave the house without it.
Upon getting to school, more little reminders that my life was achingly perfect were all around me. My popular friends joining me at my side, even if they talked in such ways that my father would not approve of.
"Hey Q, Lord Tubbington ate San's shoelaces," Brittany greeted me brightly. I gave her a tight-lipped smile, not because I didn't want to hear what she was saying, but just because I couldn't take my eyes off of another distraction down the hall. A distraction that currently tossed dark glossy hair over her shoulder as she opened her locker
I received a punch in the arm, and without looking, said, "Hey, S." She was the only one who could come up to me and do that to me. Santana was quite possibly the only one who understood a fraction of what went on inside my head, though she was often misguided.
"You planning another attack on Manhands?" Santana questioned, noticing who was on the receiving end of my distracted staring.
I had to remind myself of who I was. "Yeah. I'm thinking it's been too long since Berry's gotten a slushie facial," I said with a sneer. The hateful tone came so easily that I almost believed it. It can be easy to buy your own lies.
"Yeah, her skin is looking a little less than fresh," Santana agreed. I couldn't disagree more, of course.
The three of us continued walking down the hall, getting closer to the object of our evil scheming. I spotted Karofsky, who was ever-prepared, and he removed a cherry red slushie from his backpack. God knows he wasn't planning on eating it, so I briefly wondered if he was psychic. He gave me a shit-eating grin before prepping his good throwing arm and tossing the slushie in Rachel's face for a perfect, nailed, shot.
Her face was hardly shocked. In fact, she looked more so resigned than anything else, but at the edge of her eyes I still saw a hint of tears. I gave her a cold smile, one that I had perfected, and kept walking.
I said nothing, no taunt, no insult, because it wasn't needed. This was just another day, just another one of the many attacks I'd orchestrated against her. Santana and Brittany walked on either side of me, and we started toward our respective home rooms.
But, as always, I felt a wave of something closely resembling nausea in the pit of my stomach. This time it was stronger, probably because I'd allowed myself to think far too much the night before. I excused myself from the other two-thirds of the Unholy Trinity and made my way to the bathroom.
Once inside a stall, I simply sat on the toilet and breathed. I had to calm myself down, recreate that image that I strove for. The bathroom was empty, so I didn't have anything to worry about in here.
I thought about the expression Rachel had on her face as she withstood another trial of cruelty. It had been so… expectant. Broken. Like she had come to school that day just waiting for the attack to happen.
I couldn't get much farther in my musings before I heard the sound of footsteps entering the bathroom. I cursed under my breath and told myself that I should be getting to class anyway instead of hiding out in the bathroom. I flushed the toilet and pushed open the stall door, heading over to the sink.
I froze before turning the faucet. The girl who had entered the bathroom was none other than Rachel Berry.
The slushie had really done a number on her. She had red mush on her face, in her hair, and dripping down the front of her shirt. She also had a plastic bag in her hand with, from what I could see through it since it was slightly transparent, an extra set of clothes. Just another sign of how prepared she was for this.
I managed to turn the faucet on and squeeze some soap on my hands before my staring became awkward. Well, more awkward than being stuck in the same room alone with the person you'd just ordered receive a slushie in the face.
Rachel didn't even seem to notice me at first until I shut off the sink. When she finally did, she froze, halfway through wiping the red mush off her face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but for once in her damn life, it seemed that Rachel Berry didn't know what to say. I wasn't exactly sure what I could possibly say to fill the silence. Sorry? Yeah, that would ruin my HBIC look. Red goes with your outfit? Okay, I probably should, but my mouth was not cooperating.
Instead, I rushed past her as fast as I could, not bothering to dry my hands first. Before I got out of sight, Rachel gave me a weak smile.
On my way to my first class, I wondered how, after everything, she could smile at me.
My first class was spent marveling at just how odd the whole situation was. I had been brutalizing that girl since practically the first day we'd both walked through the McKinley front doors. Just a minute before, I had ordered Karofsky to slam her in the face with a cherry flavored mess. She was, in short, miserable both long-term and short-term because of me, but instead of yelling at me, hitting me, or even just ignoring me, she smiled. What the hell?
It took me a full five minutes to realize that the soft feeling I felt hitting me on the back of my head was a relentless pelting of bits of eraser. I turned my head enough that I could shoot a glare at Santana.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Santana asked. "I mean, I know that science makes me want to vomit on babies, but you're zoning out like a zombie. Usually you're busy making sure no one beats your grade."
So very eloquent of her. "I know I'll ace this next quiz, S. And nothing's wrong with me," I assured her.
"Like hell there isn't," she muttered. Cue another glare, the kind that could cut through stainless steel. That was a trait I hadn't, surprisingly, picked up from my father, but from my mom. She had that look patented.
"Whoa there, tigress," Santana reacted. She stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the drone of science.
Each molecule is bonded together with ionic bonds…
I tried to lift my own spirits by playing a game I'd play with Santana sometimes while bored in class. Take one letter and change it in a sentence to make it funnier.
Each molecule is bonded together with ionic bongs…
It didn't help. Santana had scooted over surreptitiously to the seat next to me to get a better look at the girl. Of course, she'd had to threaten the boy that sat there into moving to her previous one, but if making threats was an art, color Santana an artist.
"One minute you're fine, ordering slushie attacks like normal, and then you come back from the bathroom all lost-looking," Santana pressed. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, wondering why I had to pick an unnervingly perceptive best friend.
"San, if you don't shut up, I won't give you any of my English notes for the next week," I said through gritted teeth. Unfortunately, we both knew I was bluffing. Santana was smart, smarter than most people gave her credit for, but she just hated our English teacher, so she didn't take notes on principle. I gave her my notes so she could still pass, but if I stopped, Santana could just as easily take her own. Therefore, my bluff was empty.
"Bullshit, Fabray," Santana pointed out. I sighed. It had been worth a shot. "Look, you know I'm gonna figure out what this is, right? You can't hide anything from me."
I wished she was wrong.
That day I went home to my house with its white walls and high ceilings and carefully arranged paintings. Not one of them was even slightly inspired. Each one seemed as exact and precise as the rest of the house. No way would Russel Fabray bring any impressionist or abstract paintings into his house- no, only realist era works would suit his house.
I pass my dad, but he is on his cell phone in the middle of a heated business deal. He gives me a curt nod as a greeting and I return it. That's as far as our normal after school communication goes. I don't cross paths with my mom on my way to my room.
Once I get there, I shut the door behind me and drag my backpack to my desk, pulling out my homework. I didn't have anything planned with Santana or Brittany, so my only companion for the rest of the day would be homework.
Before going to sleep, I think about my day. I broke protocol inadvertently by running into Rachel in the bathroom. That wasn't how things were supposed to happen. I was supposed to harass her and then distance myself from her, at least recently, because I couldn't stand to feel the weight of what I was doing after. If I watched her face with that sad light for too long, I might just suffocate.
I'm sick of bearing the guilt. I'm tired of being the one everyone rightfully blames for the path of destruction I leave behind me.
And just like that, I make a decision.
Slowly, I would have to work up to change, change for the better.
A/N: I have decided to continue this, clearly. I just can't get this story out of my head. Please review so I know how this is going or what to change or just anything really.