A/N: For some reason the end of this really scared me as I was writing it, but I have no idea why...anyway, sorry for the long wait, It took quite a while for me to get Quinn's perspective right. Still not sure if I've succeeded but here it is, the next installment.
And for those of you asking if this will be a Faberry story or wondering nonetheless...the answer is yes. Who would I be if I didn't have that planned all along :)
Thank you for reading, feedback totally welcome!
PART TWO: JUNE OF 1994
CHAPTER NINE:
QUINN FABRAY RACES FOR ALL STARS
1
Quinn Fabray stares at the AirPort of her MacBook Infinity, and counts the ascending bars over and over again. The computer is fairly new – the newest model, just released in September, with all of the features that someone with the appropriate monetary means could afford.
She stares at the blinking jet black cursor as it strobes in and out of visibility, mocking her with its inability to spell out all of the confusion currently jumbling around within her head.
WRITE!
She thinks.
WRITE!
Her lips whine.
She struggles to will her fingers to move across the nimble keys. The Airline Wi-Fi laughs at her inability to do even the most simple of tasks. She stares at the empty composition of her email, and sighs, letting her head thud back against the stiff headrest of her seat. The woman sitting next to her looks over for a moment and smiles weakly. Her French twist pinned immaculately to her pale head.
"You're Quinn Fabray, aren't you?" Quinn can tell that this woman is trying for discretion, but it's hushed and ambiguous in the stuffy air of the quiet cabin, and she's sure that everyone around them have probably heard by now. She simply smiles, shutting her laptop with a small click.
"My husband just loved you in 'Indigo.' You and that Russell Crowe, is he really that dreamy in real life? I've always wondered?" Quinn smiles again despite her growing headache and closes her eyes; she just wants this woman to shut up.
"Actually he's a jackass."
"Oh, are you sure? … He seems so lovely from magazines, and th –"
"Nope. Still a jackass."
"Hmmpf." The woman grumbles and sinks back into her seat, her eyes casting disapproving side-glances as she ruffles her scarf around her shoulders. Quinn lets a short smirk grace her lips as her eyes close with the peace of silence. And now that she is absent from the metal tube from which she currently resides, her mind whirs with all of the things she's managed to hide beneath the surface up until this resounding point. Her childhood and her adolescence, the reason why she's such a good dramatic actress in the first place – the best of her generation they say. She's already been nominated for six Oscars in the fifteen years since she began on this unfulfilling journey. She hasn't won yet…but they say that it is inevitable for stars like her. They've asked her, over and over again, especially in the beginning – how someone so young could understand so much pain. They asked if anything that she gave away on screen, resonated from real life fears and real life hatred. And she always gave a coy smile, and she would say: "method acting is an art, and it is hard to do – it is hard on the mind, the spirit, the body – but that is all it is…acting."
Lies.
All of it. Lies.
She realizes this now, as the murky froth of her past bubbles up into a thick rolling boil, threatening to spill over the edges of reason. It's like a flood and she remembers all of them. What they did. What they've done. She can see the lake by Griffith Park, and hands shooting out of the dark beneath the old burned down auditorium of William McKinley High School – a place she never had the grace to actually attend. And in this moment, as she sits in an airplane, soaring unto her impending doom – she realizes that all that has happened in her life, has simply been a means to an end. A line, drawn full circle at last. Beginning and ending in Lima, Ohio.
"Ma'am?"
"Hmm?" The stewardess is calm, a faint tint of lipstick smudged on one of her front teeth. She smiles widely as she motions to the IN FLIGHT button currently illuminated above the seat. Quinn looks up with a frown.
"I didn't press the button, it must be broken or something."
"It's perfectly all right ma'am, I can grab you anything you need."
"No, I don't need anything. I'm fine, it was a mistake."
"Are you sure? Coffee? Tea? Spirits?" Quinn quickly grows agitated, the old HBIC stony glare coming back after years and years of retirement. She's always had it, that fire – it was about time it began to rear it's ugly head – she reckons she'll need it.
"NO. I said I don't need anything." The stewardess smiles timidly and backs away, Quinn can hear the French twist of a woman next to her, muttering about her less than becoming attitude under her breath. Quinn is oddly pleased – although she shouldn't be. If she were coming back to her old life, her publicist would ream her alive for stunts like this. She doesn't particularly give a damn as of late though. And that's perfectly okay with her. She looks across the dimly lit aisle at the array of people sitting around her; all of them in different states of dress – none of them aware of the dangers that haunt them in the darkness - All of them oblivious to the evils that seek them in the night.
Quinn frowns at the thought, letting her eyes fall past her MacBook resting in her lap to the soles of Converse All Stars donning the feet of the gentleman directly across from her. He's asleep – with large noise cancelling headphones on his head, a faint shadow gracing his neck and chin. He's handsome, and casual – and if Quinn weren't refined – maybe she'd consider flirting with him a little if he were awake – in another lifetime perhaps. A lifetime when her sexuality weren't so goddamn Sapphic. She bites her lip at the ironies of her life – the leading men, the tabloids, the sex. All of it lies and petty fodder – if they all knew just how gay she really was…they'd probably shit bricks. She wants to laugh, but she reels it in, letting her thoughts jump and skip over the irrelevancies of her life – falling with a forced thud on the one thing that's really caught her attention amidst all of this disarray.
Black Converse All Stars.
High Tops.
Her hazel eyes swim with pools of green as she studies the gentleman's shoes – and she remembers that she once had a pair just like them…that summer. A pair that was almost identical. She remembers now, walking into Lloyd Frost's shoe store the month before the last week of class, 1994. Her mother, Judy had been petulant about a young lady's self presence and daintiness, and she wouldn't have it – no sir – no daughter of hers would be seen out in public gallivanting in hoodlum's sneakers. But as the thought had crossed her French-twisted mind, and her hand itched toward the pretty sandals the row over – Quinn could see it in her far away green eyes. The realization, that there was only one Fabray daughter left upon which to instill said vanities. The ire had burned away quickly as Mr. Frost stared between the remaining two Fabray women pitifully.
"Mrs. Fabray? We have a wonderful collection of summer sandals." And Quinn had watched as her mother collapsed within herself in the middle of that empty shoe store. She observed the varying doors and interlays of Judy Fabray's mind as they closed off one by one – leaving a hollow void where a body once stood. Quinn could hardly watch. Not like that.
"No – no, it's fine Lloyd, I'll have a pair of your All Stars, in your size 6. For Quinn." Quinn remembers them now, the white of the fresh rubber, the canvas inlay. The rubber toe gleaming beneath the fluorescent light – and she hadn't said anything. She hadn't commented on the way her mother's hands shook as she wrote out a paper check. She hadn't spoken when Mr. Frost bagged them up with a frown on his face. And when they had finally returned home from their excursion, it was to an empty house and a drunken father. Judy had excused herself to her bedroom, and Quinn had been left to try on her shoes in the silence of her sister's absence. She remembers walking the hardwood flooring, listening to the squeak of the rubber, and all she could really think about…was how forgotten she'd become. Her parents had finally checked out, and they'd left her far, far behind. Alone in her proverbial palace.
It had been at this particular moment in time, that Quinn Fabray actively decided to change her morose predicament. She hid the bottles from prying hands and glassy eyes. She picked up photographs that had been slammed face down on countertops, tilting them upward to perfection – wiping the smudges off of her younger sister's face. She remembered her.
For all of them.
She remembered.
And with that resolution, quickly came June of 1994, sweeping down on her like a heavy rain. Leaving her baby doll dresses and overall skirts behind, to be washed by her mother on one of her good days – Quinn had traded it all in for jean shorts, and tall socks. Short dungarees and tattered baseball caps that used to belong to her father. She let the immaculate beds of her pristine nails tarnish with mud and dirt from the riverbank behind the Lima Township Limits. She let the dirt and the air of summer, wash clean the dry sorrow seeping into her family life at home – cell by cell. Her Converse All Stars scuffed and scratched on her feet, marking the beginning of the end for all of them. Almost a week to the day from when Finn Hudson had set foot on their dismantled fort, did everything change. Like cogs set into a scheduled motion.
And the world as Quinn Fabray once knew it, fell away in flames of dust and dirt. Her feet pounding on hollowed pavement…
"Runn" she remembers them screaming into her hair…
"QUINN! Runnnnnn!"
She could beat lightening in those shoes.
Boy could she fly.
Run.
2
"Runnnn!"
Her breath shoots out in hot pants and spurts, and she can feel the sweat on her skin fall over the small crest of her upper lip, burning with a warm saltiness on her tongue. If she weren't so pre-occupied with winning, she may have cared. Young girls shouldn't be quite so reckless Quinnie! She shrugs off the layered expectations of her mother as her feet pound out one in front of the other. She can feel the thudding of feet behind her, gaining in purchase and she tucks a quick left, letting the gravel predict the drift of rubber on dirt. She skids in the ground on the bend, shaking her pursuer as the ball flies into her arms with steady accuracy. The football is light and rough in her arms as she cradles it, sprinting for the bushes toward the far end of the clearing - where sweatshirts outline the goalposts. Her feet connect, and faintly someone cheers – she can already hear Santana cursing her from behind, a slew of bad words on her too-quick-for-her-own-good tongue.
"That was horse-shit Fabray! I tapped you!"
"Bull-crap Satan!"
"Who you calling Satan, Fabreeze?"
Santana is close, her ponytail swaying behind her as her neck cocks with a special attitude reserved for a singular brand of annoyed aggravation—and Quinn smiles, not backing down in the slightest. They're only barely breaking double digits but she knows Santana Lopez all too well. She lets the ball tumble out from under her fingertips to bounce away on the uneven gravel, a slow grin spreading out across her face.
"I won fair and square, didn't I Finn?"
Finn sits over by the fort that they built less than a week ago. Some late Midwest rain knocked it out, and now all that's left are the falling rocks and sticks of the sub-par foundation. She watches him as he wipes sweat from his forehead with his free hand, a rosy hue spreading out across his cheeks as he catches his breath. They'd all been spending their days back here behind the Township limits. The forestry giving them an air of seclusion on the boring days, and they're right next to the outflow of the St. Evan, a small river bending nearby. Quinn and Brittany found this place two summers ago by accident, she had followed Brittany back here when the other girl had spotted a train of ducklings disappearing behind the underbrush. They've come back ever since, whenever the weather in Lima calls for it. And this is their spot – the three of them. Except, now Finn Hudson's joined the mix, and frankly…that isn't quite so bad. It helps that he's got a decent throwing arm.
"Yea, sure Quinn…" Santana takes this moment to turn, rounding on Finn with a fire in her dark eyes.
"Actually, Finn – maybe you'd like to do the five knuckle shuffle Hulk Hogan style with my fist." Finn's eyes go wide in a panic as he backs away.
"No, I'd rather not."
"No, I think you do." Santana manages to round on him quickly, her Fila's digging into the gravel as her ponytail sways. She has a smile on her face as she pounds her right fist into the palm of her left hand. It isn't until Brittany bounds in from the edge of the river with wild dandelions in her hands that the tension ebbs. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief – she was beginning to like Hudson after all.
"Hey everybody! I found flowers!" Finn stares between Santana and Brittany with a certain relief, but once he eyes the flowers in Brittany's hands he opens his mouth to disagree.
"But wait…aren't those weeds? My mom hates dandle –" He doesn't even finish before a fist is pounded into his shoulder, Santana has a scowl on her face and a confused Brittany approaching from behind her. Finn just sputters as Quinn watches the chaos unfold.
"Shut up Hudson!"
"Okay, okay, okay. Just don't hurt me!" with a hand to her palm Santana falls back to turn and look at the flowers that Brittany's brought her. Finn just stares at the two of them in mild horror, a hand clutching his bruised shoulder – Quinn takes this moment to feel sorry for the kid, at least a little bit. She walks up to him quietly.
"What's her problem?" Finn rasps, as he rubs at the sore flesh of his shoulder.
"Don't worry about Santana, at least she plays with you – that's more than most people." Finn frowns. "But I didn't do anything to her. She doesn't have to be so mean all the time." Quinn shrugs her shoulders and turns to look at her two friends, picking wild flowers by the edge of the river. When she turns back around, Finn's got a curious look on his face, and Quinn can't quite place it – almost like a cartoon – when the light bulb in their heads go off when they get some crazy idea. She knows that her assessment is right when a dopey smile crawls across his face.
"What?"
"I know it's just you guys out here, and it's your spot and all. But –" Finn hesitates, biting his bottom lip.
"Spit it out already."
"Like, it's just you guys here…and no offence but you're all …girls." Quinn raises her eyebrow in a glare and Finn quickly attempts to backtrack. "No – no, you guys are awesome girls, it's just that I'm the only dude – and a dude needs a bat cave, and like his sidekicks you know?"
"What are you talking about?"
"CanIbringmyfriendsNoahandSam?" He rushes out in a breath.
"Huh?"
"Noah Puckerman, and Sam Evans. They're my best friends, and I really think they'd love it out here. Plus they could help you out with the fort and stuff."
"You mean Puck and that weird kid whose always talking about X-Files and stuff?"
"Yea them."
"I'll think about it, will they be nice to Brittany?" Finn takes a moment to look over at the blonde in question, she's currently wrapped up in a smile as she stares up at the swirling clouds, Santana following her blue-eyed gaze overhead.
"Yep. I promise. Plus, Santana's super scary about Brittany, so I'll tell them to be cool."
"I guess."
3
By the next morning, Quinn stands in a medium sized bedroom that is suddenly much too big. The other side of the room is emptied and cleared away, a shadow where a small child's bed once rested, the bookshelves and toy chest empty. Quinn doesn't look that way anymore, she walks past the emptiness everyday with her eyes clenched shut and her breath held within her cheeks. They say it's bad luck to breathe when passing by a graveyard – and that's exactly what this room feels like. She hurries to the hall bathroom and sighs out the breath she'd been holding, watching her cheeks fall back to their normal elasticity. She has hair in her eyes, and it waves around her face un-brushed – she grabs for a scrunchie and pulls it into a ponytail, a small barrette clipped to keep her bangs in place.
"Lucille Quinn Elizabeth?" her mother trills brokenly from the other side of the hallway. "Is that you sweetie?" Quinn frowns, letting her small hands clench against the porcelain of the sink. She rolls her shoulders and exits the bathroom, walking quietly and deliberately to her parent's room at the far end of the long hallway. The door is half-ajar and she can smell the after odor of stale liquor and Chanel no. 5. Her mother lies cradled into herself beneath the white sheets; her father is all but disappeared.
"Yes, mom?"
"Sweetie, I've missed you." Judy's eyes are glassy and foggy from sleep, and maybe a Valium – Quinn's begun to notice them scattered around the house like kibbles. She smiles weakly and approaches the bed, pulling the frayed blonde hair away from her mother's far away eyes. She's much too young to have to deal with the shortcomings of this sort of life – and she knows this – but she does it anyway.
"Tell – Tell your sister to wake up, because we're having her favorite today for breakfast. Chocolate chip pancakes and Strawberry Nesquik…can you do that Quinnie?" Quinn looks at her mother's eyes – and perhaps this was the moment when she was certain that she'd lost her, at ten years old – the reality had finally, truly set it. Dark and regretful, burning like acid in her small chest.
"Yes mommy – I'll go get her, okay?"
"Okay, you be good now. She looks up to you so much Lucy Quinn…be good."
"I will, mommy." And with a half smile and a sigh, Judy falls back against the pillows to pull the sheets and covers over her sallow face. And Quinn just runs – she gets to the hall and bolts for the cupboard beneath the stairs for her rollerblades. She slings them over her shoulder and grabs for her converse, slipping them onto her feet without untying the checkered laces – and she runs. There are tears in her eyes and she doesn't realize this as her feet propel her to the edge of Fern Street, she books a right and keeps going, going, going – until she's out of breath and winded, right at the corner of Yellory Road, at the outskirts of the old softball field. And she just falls. Her knees scuffing in the dirt, it stings when the gravel digs in but she doesn't care – she just falls into the dirt, hoping that she could just disappear right into it…disappear forever. It hurts being the only one left who knows – the only Fabray to remember what life had been like with her in it. And nobody understands, they never could - and Quinn just misses her, like night misses day once the Sun rises … she misses everything about her. And she cries, burning a hole into the red tint of her cheeks – she cries, alone – and tired. She cries.
"Are you alright?" A voice behind her startles her and she flinches up and away from the gravel, she books a hard glare to her right to see a girl only a few steps away. All Mary Janes and knee socks and a pretty pleated skirt. Her eyes travel up, past a Lisa Frank t-shirt and into the brownest eyes she's ever seen – and she immediately knows who her intruder is…Rachel Berry. Quinn nods tiredly.
"You don't look alright. You…you're crying…"
"I'm fine." Quinn sits up and grimaces as she scans the bloody scrapes on her knees.
"Don't lie, Quinn." At this point Quinn looks up, her eyes narrowed. Her lips held in a steady line as she regards the brunette who's suddenly moved to sit down next to her in the dirt – she observes how Rachel Berry's small hands move to smooth out her skirt softly before taking a seat.
"You know my name? …Also, I wasn't lying, that's a mortal sin."
"Of course – everybody in Lima knows your name, plus we used to catch the bus together in first grade, I always sat behind you – and you wore a green ribbon in your hair almost every day." The girl extends her hand softly, a shy smile stretching her lips. "I'm Rachel Barbra Berry by the way, future Broadway extraordinaire." Quinn doesn't take her hand.
"I know who you are."
"Um, okay – but…you still haven't told me if you're alright." Quinn sighs and gets up from the ground, wiping the evidence of her tears away from her face with a glare and a heavy frown. "I said I'm fine."
"Quinn, I told you that you didn't have to lie – I find that I have a very natural keen sense of lie detection – I'm like a walking polygraph."
"I'm fine." Quinn expels in a rush, the fire burning beneath her skin. If she were being completely honest, she really doesn't want Rachel to go – something about her is so soothing, so calm. The smell of her hair, the bounce to her skirts – the immaculate trail of her painted fingernails - and Quinn turns her head away fighting a blush. She just needs to leave, she has fort business to attend to – and her mini breakdown and run in with Rachel Berry has made her unfashionably late. Fabray's are always nothing if not punctual, Quinnie!
"I'm sorry, I just – I have to go."
"It's perfectly alright Quinn. It was a pleasure running into you today. Have a wonderful summer." And then a thought strikes the blonde as she studies the collected face of Rachel Berry, eyes bright and inquisitive.
"What were you doing out here anyway, Berry?"
"Oh, just walking to go meet a few of my comrades for afternoon tea by the creek. This softball field is primarily a shortcut if you will." Quinn smiles faintly.
"You use a lot of words."
"So I've been told." Quinn doesn't respond, she just lets her eyes fall back up to the blazing horizon, her rollerblades digging into her shoulder blades.
"Are you going through the back-way, over by the end of the creek by the fence?"
"Why yes, I am."
"I guess we're going in the same direction, then." And Quinn just starts walking, a slow immaculate gait – her ponytail waving behind her as she moves forward through the old softball pitch – and after a moment of hesitation, she can hear the faint scuffle of Mary Janes on gravel, scurrying to catch up.
"What a wonderful coincidence!"
4
"What's she doing here?"
Quinn shrugs her shoulders and sets down her rollerblades by a wilting bush, letting them drop ungracefully. She turns to look at Santana who has a wonderful sneer on her face and a hammer in one of her hands. Brittany is smiling, and Finn just looks up and smiles from where he and Noah Puckerman are hammering nails into tree branches.
"We were just walking in the same direction." Quinn murmurs. Brittany is beaming now as she skips over to Rachel, wrapping her up in a tight hug. Santana digs her hammer into a tree trunk, whacking it back and forth repeatedly as she scowls.
"I was just stopping by, I have a standing appointment however…and should be going soon."
"Why does she talk like that? You sound like a more annoying version of Bill Nye the Science Guy, and I hate that show." Santana whacks the tree again and Brittany disconnects from Rachel to begin an impromptu dance beat whilst shouting the Bill Nye theme song. Bill, Bill, Bill Bill..Biiillll Nyeeee The Scienceeee Guyyyyy. Finn stops nailing tree branches for a moment to look up and smile at the brunette warmly – Quinn sees the glance – a small envious ripple passing through her stomach at the sight, she can't help her frown, and she has no idea why. Noah Puckerman takes a moment to look up and he smirks, showing off his red and black-banded braces – his hair, dark and thick - is unruly and messy on his head. A Star of David chain hangs from his neck, swinging back and forth atop his sweatshirt.
"Hey, JewBerry!"
"Hi, Noah." Rachel smiles. "My daddies and I have missed your company at temple lately." Noah smirks again, slinging a branch over his shoulder into some underbrush. "Temple's for ass-wipes, I have better stuff to do – like stealing Nerf Guns from Toys N' Things."
"Noah!" Rachel gasps, her eyes wide.
"I won't tell if you don't, babe." Quinn watches him wink, and she shivers. She has no idea where Noah Puckerman picked up his detestable language, and she's already growing sick of it –but he's got strong hands, and he can play touch football with the best of them at school – and if you ignore his horrible mouth, he isn't too bad. And so, she simply ignores him, it works out better for all of them that way.
Rachel grimaces at the boy's language and Quinn almost laughs at her face – it's almost cute in its uneasiness – and the Quinn stops – because why did that thought just cross her mind? She blushes prettily, hiding it skillfully by looking down and slinging a rock between her sneakers. From somewhere behind them, not too far off in the distance a shrill voice is heard through the thicket of trees – a high-pitched thing, followed by another – muffled by foliage and branches. There's something familiar about the sound, and Quinn can't quite place it. That is until she sees Rachel's face light up – and her feet begin to itch to move.
"Ah, it seems as though I should be going, it sounds like my friends have arrived."
"Stop being stupid, you don't have friends." Santana, all sneer and bite. Quinn slaps her slyly against the back of the head, her hammer falls to the ground with a thud.
"I do too have friends Santana…" Rachel worries her lip between her teeth but doesn't back away from her stance, she flits her bright eyes through the thicket of trees again, looking for more voices on the wind. "Like who, your collection of Cabbage Patch dolls? Those don't count." Quinn looks up at Rachel again and sees her eyes fall, her teeth biting her bottom lip again.
"We're friends…" Quinn whispers into the air around them - like a small halo in the summer breeze. Santana looks up disbelievingly and Quinn grunts out a shoulder shrug, dropping her hazel eyes to glance at anything else but the dark pupils currently boring into her accusingly. Rachel's lashes snap up at the unexpected display, a bright smile stretching across her face – so big the gaps in her molars are visible where her adult teeth haven't quite grown in yet – like pointed tips framing her smile – adorable really, in it's entirety.
"Whatever, Fabray." Santana grumbles, picking up her hammer and trading it in for a large wrench from the toolbox that sits over by the old fort – it probably belongs to Noah. And then the voices from before trill once again through the air, much closer now than before, and like a silhouette two bodies appear in the underbrush, ascending down into their already claimed plateau of fort-land. The boy is familiar – in a Beauty and the Beast collared t-shirt and pinstriped shorts that reach his legs mid thigh. His socks are white and immaculate, his feet rested in his boat shoes. The girl that's with him Quinn recognizes from swim class at the local pool. She has braids in her hair, an array of them – they all fall down to frame her face and neck with beautiful multicolored layered beads, they clack together as she walks.
"I told you Mercedes, Ariel is not as pretty as Belle. Belle is a classic beauty – with poise. I learned that word from stealing my aunt's old copies of Vogue."
"Vogue? What's that?"
"It's like the Bible, for clothes…I think."
Kurt Hummel, Quinn hums, her brain turning slowly as the two of them make their entrance – Santana is the first to notice, her feather's ruffled and her teeth bared – not all of her molars and incisors having grown in just yet.
"You can't be here losers!" She sneers. Kurt turns, to set eyes on the delicate mess that they've clearly just walked into – Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Noah Puckerman…with the exception of Finn Hudson and Rachel Berry – they've just walked unannounced into a Lion's den of sorts – with Lima Elementary's most renowned and regarded vixens.
"Um…we were just leaving…"
"No we weren't, we're here to hang out…with Rachel." The girl with the beads announces with an air of diva-tude that Quinn can surprisingly appreciate.
"See – Quinn this is why we can't hang out with losers like Berry, she's just gonna infect us with her loser cooties, and look…she already started." Santana grumbles angrily. But before she can continue her angered diatribe a voice rings out from the other side of the clearing, stilling their movements. And just like words falling on a downturned wind, the sound of snapping branches irks them all out of their seemingly small stand off – the sound of sneakers on deadened leaves, of teeth clicking together in the summer air - The smell of cheep cigarettes and tobacco, the swish of a Swiss army blade – Karofsky. He bounds through the opposite end of the clearing, the same direction from whence he came exactly a week ago. He has a cigarette in his mouth and Azimio Adams on his heels – his hair in a fresh cut. His teeth bared as he scans the young faces surrounding him, his lips quivering up into a sneer – one by one those dark eyes circle in a round, surveying his unsuspecting and ill prepared prey.
"Helloo cock-wipes…. dykes." He iterates, landing a heavy glance toward Santana – her fists clenching and twisting around a wrench which lays hidden between warm fingers, obscured behind a lithe back. David's eyes pass onward, he spots Noah, and then he sees Finn. His smile growing, flickering in the daylight.
"Hudson, should have known I'd find you here. We've been looking for you."
"You can't have him. He's our friend now." Quinn isn't sure when she became the voice of reason within their small band of misfits – she isn't even sure if they're a group enough to even call misfits to begin with. But they all have something in common, she's sure – a deep seeded hatred, and a fear of the large boy in denim trousers and a Sex Pistols t-shirt. She stands her ground as he approaches her, all smoke and fire in his burning eyes – the scab on her cheek is almost gone now – she watches as he eyes his handy work.
"Fabray…anyone ever tell you that you need to shut your rat trap? I'll do it for you if you like…kindly." He reaches out a meaty hand and snatches her by the arm, thick fingers pulsing into her skin, leaving white patches around the points of contact – it burns as he twists – his eyes blazing – she swears that for a second she sees a gleam of hatred so foul that she would recoil if she could – a familiarity so rank, that she can't bear to think of it's origin…she's seen things in those eyes before – in dreams and nightmares…they remind her of clowns and balloons…of drains and blonde hair floating on murky surfaces.
"Let her go!" It's a voice she doesn't expect, from a small body clad in knee socks and a pleated skirt, eyes dark and wide – her cheeks red…her hair flies around her face as she runs up, hands outstretched. She reaches for his arm to pull him off, and he launches sideways, hitting her with his elbow on her cheek – it'll leave a bruise, Quinn is sure. Rachel's eyes well up beautifully, but her resolve doesn't falter as she swings with his momentum. He gets her again, in the eye this time – the tears fall from their perches, unbridled. And before anyone can do anything else, a small tan hand rises and slaps the skin of his cheek with a resounding clack. The world stops all too suddenly, and Rachel realizes the gravity of the situation that she's just unearthed…he'll kill her. Quinn is sure. He'll kill her. There is no doubt. His hand releases Quinn's arm and she falls to the ground, beautifully horrific petal blossoms of bruises – five of them – already beginning to surface on her skin. And then Karofsky, approaching with his knife – straight for the beautiful girl with the tan skin and big eyes, the girl who is frozen in fear. Quinn pulls up and runs for her, all Converse and steady legs and apprehensive eyes - snatching her by the hand and pulling her back behind her.
"Let her GO!" Karofsky wails, moving forward like an animal – rabid.
"Run!" She screams. And like a stampede, sixteen pairs of feet bound through thickets of mud and dirt, down riverbanks and gravel pathways. Quinn and Rachel in the lead, Santana, Puckerman, Finn, Brittany, Kurt and Mercedes behind them…all of them running. Black converse jumping over rocks and beds of water, splashing through leaves and twigs…a pair of Mary Janes hot on their heels – keeping them company. And as sixteen pairs of sneakers branch out onto a Softball field deserted by children – the sounds of Karofsky and Azimio all but disappear as they all fall to the ground in varying states of unease and worry. Kurt looks the most shaken and Quinn has no idea why – the boy trembles with a fear she couldn't possibly imagine, his eyes holding secrets that she's sure won't be secret for very much longer. Rachel's left eye has already begin to bruise, a halo of purple and red surrounding the skin, tear tracks caked down her cheeks – and Quinn just wants to hug her – but she stops herself, not sure if that's appropriate. The essence of poise, Quinnie!
"We better find a new spot." She hears Finn wheeze from beside her, and she nods – all eyes on her it seems – the leader of this impromptu band of misfits.
"I know of a place." It's the girl with the beads in her hair, Quinn thinks her name is Mercedes… she doesn't know the girl well – but they're all in this together now, and it seems as though their small group of four, suddenly got much bigger.
"Sounds good. What's your name by the way?"
"Mercedes Jones…and this here is Kurt. Kurt Hummel." Quinn nods, her rollerblades forgotten by their abandoned fort – oddly she doesn't miss them – at least not yet.
"Nice to meet you both."'
"That makes one of us." Santana drawls.
5
By the time Quinn returns home, she's exhausted – all droopy eyes and muddy skin. The gooseflesh still stand deliciously on end against the cells of her arms and legs, she hurries into the front door – just before the street lights can hail their coming. The house is silent in her arrival, she almost wishes someone where here to greet her…that dinner had already been made. Instead she ascends the sturdy staircase, settling her eyes on the open doorway of her parent's bedroom – her mother asleep in the same fetal position that Quinn left her in this morning - Her father still gone.
"Samantha is that you?"
No Mother…no mom, no. It's me…it's Quinn.
"Goodnight, Mom." Quinn whispers as she passes by the doorway. Judy chuckles hollowly at her mistake, burrowing deeper into the comforter.
"Oh, hello Quinnie… sleep well honey." Quinn won't tell her that it's only seven o'clock, or that there is no dinner on the stove, no food in the refrigerator. She won't show her the bruises on her arm – her Mother is bound not to even notice anyway. Instead she simply nods, a shaky curl of her hair, as she walks past the doorway and into her darkened bedroom. She hits the light switch and closes the door, illuminating the space in a halo of false light. She turns to walk toward her bed in order to change out of her dirty clothes, and when she turns to the closet to grab a bath towel…she sees it. Sitting there on the floor in the empty space of Quinn's now solitary room. It rests where a bed once stood, sitting pristinely against the floor, all plastic hair and tiny clothes. A smile on the plastic face that Quinn so vividly remembers. And, it may be ridiculous how a toy can instill such a pang of fear into ten year old Quinn Fabray's heart – but it does – like locomotors run off of their tracks, the adrenaline speeds through her veins, choking her lungs…
Because what is Tannie Barbie doing in her bedroom.
"Tannie…?" Quinn whispers into the air, not expecting an answer, because surely dolls can't talk back. Her feet propel her forward, into the space that once held her younger sister. The space that is so devoid of life at all that Quinn does everything in her power to avoid it. Her fingers reach for the Barbie doll timidly, clasping it. She pulls it up to her face and her breaths quicken as she stares into the painted on make-up of a doll that was lost over six months ago into a drain…so why is Tannie here? Quinn hears a noise and she looks up suddenly, her eyes falling on a calendar on the wall directly in front of her face…and when did that get there? It wasn't there a second ago.
Am I losing my mind? Like Jack Nicholson in that movie where he lives in an insane asylum? That movie that I wasn't supposed to watch but I snuck into the living room anyway? That movie about Cuckoo's and crazy people…and nests?
Quinn stares at the Calendar, recognizing it now. It's a child's creation – a glued together thing that Samantha had made for Quinn's birthday last year. All the months showing pictures of the two of them, and crayon drawings…some of the dates had been highlighted and colored, representing holidays and fun family trips. This calendar should be in the Lima dump – thrown away months ago, with other things of no more use in the Fabray household. This calendar should no longer exist. And as Quinn stares at it, the month of August beckoning her forward, she watches in horror as the pages flip of their own accord. With no wind or breeze, or hand to propel their movements. They flip, and flip, and flip…until they land on the month of June – of the year 1994…even though this Calendar only went to December of 1993 once upon a time…the picture is not as Quinn remembered it - A picture of Samantha on the beach in her bathing suit, building a sandcastle – colored butterflies and stickers swirl around the edges. And like an old Nickelodeon the picture moves, as if captured on a video camera. And Quinn can see the sand blowing in the wind, she watches Samantha as she digs out a sandcastle…she smells the salt in the air. She hears her voice.
"Hey, Sis!"
"Sammie?"
"I miss you out here you know…it's lonely." Quinn pulls up her hand to trace her outline on the paper, but when her skin touches the calendar, her finger comes back burnt and red – a blister already forming. She screeches tearfully bringing her scalded skin to her lips to suck on the wounded flesh. And the calendar begins to burn, a red, rabid flame. Samantha smiles. "It's about time you joined me, Quinnie. We don't like waiting." The paper folds and smolders before her eyes, warping her sister's image into something barely recognizable before disintegrating into ash. And when Quinn looks down, tears in her eyes – she remembers the Barbie doll still clutched within her palm. And like a lightning bolt to the haunting in her chest, the plastic neck of Tannie Barbie swivels around on it's small axis, and plastic pupils turn to settle on Quinn Fabray, that smirk mocking her – and Quinn wants to drop it, she wants to burn it. But before she can, a small plastic hand grabs for her wrist, dragging five identical paper-thin nails down the skin, drawing blood. And Tannie's mouth opens – a warped, dangerous thing. All pointed teeth and rotten snarls.
"We'll get you, Quinn…you can't hide from us."It growls into her flesh, and Quinn drops the tainted toy, her sobs real this time and wracking her body over and over again. She falls to the floor, knees to her chest – and it isn't until thirty minutes later that her Father barges in, smelling of liquor and tobacco to see what the ruckus is, that he finds her – rocking back and forth in a My Little Pony bath towel. He carries her to the hall bathroom silently, and he lets her wash up in peace, the tears still falling. And when he carries her back to her bedroom, he lets her sob again – her head shaking back and forth, protesting vehemently, as if her life depended on it. And with a sigh, he takes her to their bedroom, to sleep between her two broken parents. And as Quinn lay there, terrified and sobbing, she doesn't let them know what she saw – and she tries to sleep despite the fact that when she returned after her bath – it was gone. The room immaculate, as if never touched, the Barbie gone, the Calendar, vanished like smoke on clear water.
And Quinn stares at the tiny trail of five nails, the blood already scabbing on her wrist in the night – she watched her Father bandage it after her bath…and she knows – that she is facing something much more terrifying than death.
Quinn Fabray is facing the devil.