oh, anna [-hs]

falling

a/n TW mentions of self harm

68. 

QUINN'S POV

"Hey, Quinn." 

A soft knock follows her voice. My head pokes up from my nest of blankets. "Yeah?"

The door glides open, and Emma's face appears in the frame. Leo calls out in excitement. He leaps out of my grasp and runs for her legs. "Were you holding him hostage?" 

"I needed a support animal," I roll onto my back and squint over at her. "What's up?"

She pouts her lips. "I was thinking, um," her fingers fiddle with her cuticle. "Maybe we should go out to dinner tonight."

I sit up straighter and bunch the blankets around my knees.

"It's been a week and a half, baby."

"I let you be sad longer after Kate." She rolls her eyes at that. "I get at least a few more days."

"Nooooo," she sings the word, wandering to the foot of my bed. "It's time to pull yourself out of the haze."

"I don't want to," I scoff.

"Too bad, I have an idea," she grabs the end of my blankets, pulling them toward her, and the comfort and warmth of my nest disappears. "Get dressed and let's go outside."

"Fine," I roll out of bed and reach for a dresser drawer, sifting through fabrics.

"I love you!" She sings and waltzes back out the door, taking the cat with her.

When the door clicks shut, the silence swallows me back up. Without Leo, without Emma, I'm left alone to stew in my thoughts. A hazy gray looms over me, a rainy cloud collects in the rafters of my room. I feel heavy, strangled in emotions, drowning in my desperation, and too exhausted to continue keeping myself afloat.

I think if my soul could dress me, I would look like a void. I'd be decorated by the empty nothingness of the universe. The gaps between stars and galaxies where souls get lost in depression and lonliness. I shiver at the thought. Instead, I decide to go the opposite direction. I pull on a big yellow knit sweater and golden plaid pants.

I find Emma at the front door. She hands me my hat and coat, and I tie up my boots. "Where are we going?"

"A surprise," she hums in excitement and skips out the door.

She drives me through Manhattan, her punk-rock music blasting from the speakers. She sings softly along to the screaming alt bands, static saturating our ears. I glance over at her in the driver's seat. Soft edges, blonde hair pinned to the back of her head, a brown leather watch clinging to her wrist, a cream colored cardigan hanging from her shoulders. She sounds like a bird, chirping sweetly to the heavy drums and electric guitar.

We arrive at a hair salon.

"Em," I laugh and glance out the window. "What are we doing?"

She turns off the radio and sets her hands on the center console. "Baby," she starts, stern but hesitant. I wait for her to continue. "It's time to dye your hair."

"Really? Why?" The words make my skin prickle, my heart pound.

"It'll make you feel so much better. You know it will. You need to get rid of the blonde and just start fresh. You know?"

I run my tongue over my teeth and stare at her. My scalp freezes as I press it against the window. "Right."

"I know it's scary," her eyes are warm and understanding. I nod.