Fic: Firefly
Title: Firefly
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: R for Angst
Spoilers: Definitely not.
Summary: A little drabble set in the Last Call verse. Set between I'm Not Brave and Last Call. Quinn just wants it all to stop.
A/N 1: The song at the beginning is Breaking Benjamin's "Firefly."
A/N 2: Sorry for the preponderance of short fic lately. There's a Company update coming soon, I'm just having a hard time getting my brain re-engaged following therapy. It's about half-written, though, so hopefully soon!
Fuck You, Firefly
Have you lost your light?
Now I hate your ways
'Cause they're just like mine
So you lost my friend
Such a sorry end
And I don't know why
So I joke and smile
“You’re bad, Quinn. You’re wrong. You’re sick, and you’re evil, and you’re going to hell.” You watch your lips in your bedroom mirror, forming the words, and even though you know it’s you saying them the voice still sounds like your father’s. Your eyes find the picture of Rachel Berry in the corner of the frame that’s normally buried behind two others, one of you and Santana and the other a print of Jesus and some sheep. You only risk looking at it once your father’s gone to work - you still remember the beating he gave you just for being her friend in middle school, and if you didn’t then the scar on your lower back would serve as a good reminder.
Every time you sit here, you think of the letter you stuck in her locker. Even now, you don’t know what you were thinking. You were so close to getting caught that day, and that would have been the end of everything. This life you lead might be a charade, but dammit, it’s yours, and you can’t risk it. Not even for that. Not even for her. It should have gone into the trash in tiny pieces, the way everything else has over the years. Your doodles of the two of you in front of a house with a white picket fence, the album covers you sketched for mix CDs that you were never going to give her, all of it. That letter was stupid. But that smile when she read it - you want to fall on your knees and plead with God to give her something that’ll make her smile that smile every day, because you’ve never seen anything so right and so perfect in all your life.
Your mother stumbles drunkenly into a cupboard downstairs, and there’s a smash as a glass breaks on the kitchen floor. You ignore it - if she calls for you to help, fine, but otherwise you’re just as likely to get screamed at. So you go back to looking at yourself in the mirror instead. What is it in you, what kind of sin and poison makes you love her? Why did God do this to you? Why did he make you want something so wrong, and then make you feel so awful when you couldn’t have it? It’s just not fair, you want to complain. But who could you complain to? Your father? Your priest, who’s your father’s golf buddy and would tell him anything you confessed? Any of those options would only earn you another beating, far more vicious than any you’ve had before.
Seizing a pair of scissors from your dresser on a sudden, inexplicable impulse, you cut off four inches of your long blonde locks. You’ll catch hell for it, but that’s the very last thing on your mind. Gathering the hair in your hands you stagger toward your bed and sink to your knees, holding your hands out in supplication. “Please,” you whisper as hot tears pour down your face, desperate that He hear you for once. “Please make it stop. I’ll do anything. I’ll cut it all off, I’ll never misbehave again, I’ll go to church every single day, just please make this stop! Please make me stop feeling like this, I don’t know how to make it better! Please, please, God, please just make it stop, I can’t do it anymore!”
You don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling there, eyes shut, but it must be longer than you’d thought because it’s Santana calling your phone.
“Q - are you planning to show for school today, or what? We’ve got Cheerios practice at noon, remember?”
“I remember,” your voice sounds hollow. “I’ll be there in a half hour, San.”
“Good. I’m having the whole football team slushie Berry today, I don’t want you to miss it.”
God’s ignored you once again - it still hurts. “Sounds awesome,” you force enthusiasm into your voice. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: R for Angst
Spoilers: Definitely not.
Summary: A little drabble set in the Last Call verse. Set between I'm Not Brave and Last Call. Quinn just wants it all to stop.
A/N 1: The song at the beginning is Breaking Benjamin's "Firefly."
A/N 2: Sorry for the preponderance of short fic lately. There's a Company update coming soon, I'm just having a hard time getting my brain re-engaged following therapy. It's about half-written, though, so hopefully soon!
Fuck You, Firefly
Have you lost your light?
Now I hate your ways
'Cause they're just like mine
So you lost my friend
Such a sorry end
And I don't know why
So I joke and smile
“You’re bad, Quinn. You’re wrong. You’re sick, and you’re evil, and you’re going to hell.” You watch your lips in your bedroom mirror, forming the words, and even though you know it’s you saying them the voice still sounds like your father’s. Your eyes find the picture of Rachel Berry in the corner of the frame that’s normally buried behind two others, one of you and Santana and the other a print of Jesus and some sheep. You only risk looking at it once your father’s gone to work - you still remember the beating he gave you just for being her friend in middle school, and if you didn’t then the scar on your lower back would serve as a good reminder.
Every time you sit here, you think of the letter you stuck in her locker. Even now, you don’t know what you were thinking. You were so close to getting caught that day, and that would have been the end of everything. This life you lead might be a charade, but dammit, it’s yours, and you can’t risk it. Not even for that. Not even for her. It should have gone into the trash in tiny pieces, the way everything else has over the years. Your doodles of the two of you in front of a house with a white picket fence, the album covers you sketched for mix CDs that you were never going to give her, all of it. That letter was stupid. But that smile when she read it - you want to fall on your knees and plead with God to give her something that’ll make her smile that smile every day, because you’ve never seen anything so right and so perfect in all your life.
Your mother stumbles drunkenly into a cupboard downstairs, and there’s a smash as a glass breaks on the kitchen floor. You ignore it - if she calls for you to help, fine, but otherwise you’re just as likely to get screamed at. So you go back to looking at yourself in the mirror instead. What is it in you, what kind of sin and poison makes you love her? Why did God do this to you? Why did he make you want something so wrong, and then make you feel so awful when you couldn’t have it? It’s just not fair, you want to complain. But who could you complain to? Your father? Your priest, who’s your father’s golf buddy and would tell him anything you confessed? Any of those options would only earn you another beating, far more vicious than any you’ve had before.
Seizing a pair of scissors from your dresser on a sudden, inexplicable impulse, you cut off four inches of your long blonde locks. You’ll catch hell for it, but that’s the very last thing on your mind. Gathering the hair in your hands you stagger toward your bed and sink to your knees, holding your hands out in supplication. “Please,” you whisper as hot tears pour down your face, desperate that He hear you for once. “Please make it stop. I’ll do anything. I’ll cut it all off, I’ll never misbehave again, I’ll go to church every single day, just please make this stop! Please make me stop feeling like this, I don’t know how to make it better! Please, please, God, please just make it stop, I can’t do it anymore!”
You don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling there, eyes shut, but it must be longer than you’d thought because it’s Santana calling your phone.
“Q - are you planning to show for school today, or what? We’ve got Cheerios practice at noon, remember?”
“I remember,” your voice sounds hollow. “I’ll be there in a half hour, San.”
“Good. I’m having the whole football team slushie Berry today, I don’t want you to miss it.”
God’s ignored you once again - it still hurts. “Sounds awesome,” you force enthusiasm into your voice. “Wouldn’t miss it.”