The second chapter :) I just wanted to establish some of Quinn's background, delve a little into why she's like the way she is. I hope you enjoy it, thank you for reading, oh and, Happy St Georges day :D
I'm sat in the library on a free period when the last bell sounds. Thank God, I think to myself as I start to cram my stuff into my bag. I've been sitting here for an hour not doing my work like I'm supposed to but doodling all over my English book instead.
"That's really good," a quiet voice says, making me jump. The brunette girl stares down at s sketched image of William Shakespeare that I drew from the back of my Othello book. "Y'know, it would have been his 448th birthday today?" She informs me, slightly laughing.
I close my book and shove it in my bag with everything else. "Good to know," I reply sarcastically. I get up to leave and to my annoyance, I hear her scuffle after me.
"I saw who you were hanging out with at lunch break and I don't-" I turn around sharply, and glower at her.
"You don't think what? Don't think that those are the type of people I want to be around? Take a good look at me Man Hands." She flinches at her new nickname and starts to interrupt but I continue, "I'm just like them, so think again," I tell her, nearly yelling it in her face. She drops her gaze and rubs her arm in self-comfort and for a moment I wonder if she's going to cry. "Why do you even care?" I snap.
"I-I don't, it's just that you're new and principle Figgins asked me to-"
"Oh I don't believe this. He's made you into my personal guidance counsellor? Well," I start, "you can run on back to Figs and tell him to shove it. I'm perfectly happy hanging out with The Skanks- It's not like I'll be here long anyway."
"Why? Don't you care about your education or your future?" She asks, almost certainly already knowing the answer.
"Not anymore," I smirk as I leave her and the library behind.
I'm on my way home which is about a fifteen minute walk from McKinley and I'm thankful for the mild April weather. Least it's not raining, I think. I pull out my pack of cigarettes that are wedged in a hefty psychology text book. I spark the lighter and inhale as I'm instantly hit by a nicotine rush. I stumble but manage to steady myself.
I'm stood outside my front door, trying to figure out if my dad's home or not. I exhale steadily, unlock the door and walk in almost silently. The house is still and quiet and I feel a wave of relief wash over me.
I take no more than five steps towards the stairs when I hear my father's low grumble address me from the living room, "Quinn." It's not a question, it's a statement. I stay where I am and hear him manoeuvre out of the chair. Heavy footsteps plod their way towards me and already I catch a faint whiff of alcohol.
He comes into view. He's wearing a grubby T-shirt and tatty jeans. He's unshaven and his hair is wild and unkempt. I turn away from him in disgust but he cups my chin with his hand and forces me to look at him. His eyes look violent but somewhat amused.
"Answer me when I'm talking to you Quinn!" He spits. He pauses for a moment and looks me up and down whilst swaying on the spot. "Look at you, you're a disgrace. You think you look cool dressed like that?" He scoffs loudly. "Your mother would be ashamed of you if she was still alive, but you took care of that one didn't you Quinnie?" He says mocking me with my parent's favourite, old pet-name for me.
I glare at him as something hot begins to burn deep in the pit of my stomach and course its way to my head, making my cheeks flare. I hate it when he brings mom up and he damned well knows it. After all, he blames me for her death. I was the one driving that night, I was the one who lost control and crashed and I was the one who survived. He told me that he could and would never forgive me for that.
I phase out of the painful memories and focus my attention back on my swaying father, anger is surging throughout my body, igniting every hair, every nerve ending and makes my skin tingle with fury. "Yeah? Same could be said for you," I shout. "Look at you; you're a pathetic, old drun-"
A heavy fist connects with the left side of my face and cuts me off, sending me crashing into the stairs. I clutch my left cheek, already feeling it swell around my eye. That's going to bruise. I then stare back at my drunken father with apathy, trying to hide every emotion and every thought I'm enduring right now just so he can't get any satisfaction from my pain. His eyes are wild and unforgiving with no sign of remorse, why would they? This isn't the first time my father has hit me; sometimes I don't even have to open my mouth.
He opens his mouth and once again I'm flooded with the stench of methylated spirits. "Now get the fuck out of my sight," he slurs as I haul myself up and run upstairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I launch myself onto my bed and burry my head into my pillow, letting my tears turn the soft cotton damp.
It wasn't always like this. Back when my mom was alive, my dad never raised a hand to me and the only time he drank was a couple of beers on the odd Sunday evening. As for me? I was daddy's little girl. Long, flowing, blonde hair as opposed to my short, choppy, pink do. I was captain of the cheerleading squad; everyone looked up to me and admired me. I considered my life damn near perfect. I had everything a teenage girl could possibly want and then some, but after the crash, everything changed. Everything and everyone I'd once known no longer mattered to me. I was so angry at myself and at the world and I did everything I could to destroy all the good things in my life that I'd managed to build up.
The more my dad abused and blamed me, the more I took to abusing and blaming myself. First I thought drink would solve my problems, just like my old man, and I got expelled from my first school for strolling into class wasted. Bottle of vodka in my hand and everything. When I realised that alcohol just made things worse and topped it off with a killer headache, I began cutting. My stomach and shoulders are lined with pink scars and angry red cuts that haven't even begun to heal yet. I used to make fun of the kids that cut but I shortly realised why they did it. I found that it blocked out emotional pain and replaced it with physical pain, making me forget everything that had happened and how I felt if only for a few moments. I kept on wanting to forget so I kept on doing it. Cutting deeper when the emotional pain got worse.
I sit up, feeling tears slide hot down my cheeks, making the swelling around my eye and on my cheek sting slightly. I remember my promise not to self-harm anymore and fight the urge to do so. Instead, I distract myself by wiping my eyes, getting rid of my running makeup. I pull out a smoke and hang out of my window as the toxins ease my stress a little. I sigh to myself. Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance and another day closer to me getting the hell out of this way and as far away from my father as possible. A soft smile plays on my lips. Yeah, roll on tomorrow.