Paper Dolls // PLL x Glee

Paper Dolls

We are remembered more for what we destroy than what we create.

But I have created and destroyed myself so often that I have lost track of how many Quinn Fabrays I've been since I gave away Lucy only to reveal the dark prescence lurking underneath my skin. I added drug addict to my never-ending list of labels (teen mom, HBIC, manic-depressive, temporary paraplegic), and for some reason, sitting in this dusty rehab dorm room, this one feels like the worst one yet. I couldn't control this Quinn, couldn't keep her under wraps, and she ended up letting her poison out into the world where everyone could see.

I thought the pills would help numb the loneliness, but that's not why I took them, no matter what Santana thinks. I hoped they would help push aside the fear that coils like a snake in the pit of my belly. The fear that I don't have a name. That I have too many names. That I don't know my name. That if I stripped down, moved my mind to the side, peeled back the layers of scarred skin I have accumulated over the years... I would find a serpent's head staring back at me, smiling, and she would eat me whole.

Jump to me, sitting cross legged on my bedroom floor in a white sundress, surrounded by an assortment of painkillers hoping that if I took enough of them I would look at myself in the mirror and love what I saw. But Santana came barreling in, holding two coffees and babbling about the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy. Dark eyes wavered and danced down to my hands, clutching little blue miracles.

Rewind.

Pill bottles were scattered around me. Santana did the math. One-two-three-six. Too many.

Flash.

I cried and I cried and I cried. I don't remember how much time I spent on that carpet, sobbing my eyes out. Santana's arms wrapped themselves around my torso and I fell against her body. I didn't look into her eyes. I was afraid that if I did, the serpent would latch onto her and destroy her, too.

Jump to me, standing in rehab-issued leggings and an ugly grey cardigan with no buttons waiting for my roommate to come barreling through the door. S. Hastings, the paper said. I imagine twenty lives for S. Hastings. In one she is a ballerina named Sara who fell through the cracks and buckled under the pressure of beauty. In another she is a rebel named Salma who was destined to be in this place since she came out of the womb. In many she is both and neither; just like me, a girl with many names.

She comes barreling through the door, with the body of a ballerina but lacking the grace. Her head falls against the door of the room when she shuts it and she takes a deep breath. I feel like I'm intruding, bearing witness to something I'm not supposed to. I clear my throat.

Flash.

Her head turns, eyes rabid.

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Quinn Fabray," I answer, tilting my head at the way her eyes look panicked.

She narrows her eyes at me, "Are you lying?"

"Maybe, but I don't know any other answer I can give you right now that would be any more true."

"I'm not in the mood for games."

"Good," I tell her, "Because I'm not playing any."

Her breathing slows down some, but not enough to calm my nerves. She asks, "Where are you from?"

"Lima, Ohio."

"Far enough from Rosewood. Do you know Alison Dilaurentis?"

I tilt my head, "Who?"

"Nobody important. I'm Spencer Hastings."

Jump to a week later. Spencer and I have barely spoken besides cordialities, but we have banded together due to need more than anything else. She doesn't seem to speak to any of the other paitients. So I sit with her at breakfast, and we partner up for group therapy, but we don't talk. I think it calms her to know I'm not eager to ask many questions.