Chapter Text
I am a different person than I was two years ago.
More happened in that time than the rest of my life. That's not saying much, considering the pretty mundane shit that was my average day up until 14. Still though...
I guess it's time for the exposition dump.
In September of 2011, I--Quinn Norcutt, of course--was starting my first day of ninth grade. I don't remember much about it, other than the fact I was way more nervous than I needed to be, and almost took some kid's lunch by accident. Nerves or something. I went through the year, passing my classes with average marks and having little to no social impact, before my mom pulled me out in May, saying she would homeschool me for the rest of the year. At the time, I didn't realize her irritable explanation about her "disappointment in the modern education system" was covering up what was soon to change my life. So, my oblivious fourteen-year-old self was busy focusing on the little things.
I had mixed feelings about it. The isolation wouldn't be that different from my normal year. I hadn't been invited to any of the inner-circle parties, but I hadn't been excluded from the big ones. Other than Ashley, I was a background character to everyone else.
Ashley... we'll get to her.
Anyway, I probably benefitted from being away from all those slick-straight haired, stick-thin girls that looked much older and more intimidating than I knew I ever would in my life. I remember the first time I looked in the mirror and stared at my stomach with revolt. I spent many a night crying and wailing softly so my mom wouldn't hear, clawing at my thighs that I so despised. Looking back, it was an awful time for myself, but I don't know why I spent so long on it. Nobody had ever even called me fat to my face. Still, I envied those girls for months; the ones that seemed to never be hungry, or the ones that ate anything they wanted but went on those stupid diet pills I knew we were too poor to afford.
Speaking of, I had suspected that my mom pulled me out of school partly to save money. How she had the time to homeschool me was a mystery… We had always had a bit of a cash struggle, though it wasn't apparent. She cycled through part-time jobs a lot, even went months unemployed. Still, I always had enough to eat and new-ish clothes, and no one else really noticed we were a little worse off than the rest of them. Though, I guess we were worse off than I used to think.
So, Ashley. She'd been my best friend since fifth grade. She had wide eyes that always had an air of amusement to them, like she was in on a joke the rest of us didn't know. Her blonde, spiky hair streaked with electric blue caught the eye of anyone immediately. Her bright, angular figure and snarky demeanor were a contrast to my softer, muted curiosity. Still, she brought out something different in me. With her, I laughed more, had more energy. She was pretty mean, honestly, kind of judgmental. She would tease me lots. I liked to think she said things about me in a different way than how she talked about others, but that was most likely delusion.
In ninth grade, I realized that I was gay. I liked Ashley. I didn't tell anyone. The only people I knew well enough to tell were her or my mom. Neither of those sounded particularly appealing, so I didn't.
Me and Ashley didn't talk much after I left school. She was more social than I, and made friends very easily. She would only respond to my texts about once a week, and only text for a bit. She never initiated conversations. She was busy after all, with all her extracurriculars and parties, friends and shit. Sorry, do I sound a little bitter? I am. So, eventually I realized she was moving on, and I stopped trying.
September 2012, I started my first official homeschooled year of grade ten. My mom seemed more stressed than usual, even if she was trying to hide it. I just assumed her work had a lot on her plate. I didn't really notice, but I became more sluggish as the days went by. She didn't take me outside much, and I didn't think there was any real reason to go, but it must have been affecting my mental health. What affected my mental health much more, though, was February 4, 2013.
It was an average day. They all blended together, especially in the drag of winter. I was doing my math homework, there was something I was stuck on, but I didn't want to ask mom about it. She was on the phone all day, and I didn't want to interrupt her, since whatever the issue was seemed pretty turbulent. I stared at it, trying to will it into making sense, when I heard her coming down the stairs.
"Quinn, honey. Let's go for a walk, okay? We should get some sunlight for once," she said. I tilted my head at her, watching her pull on her jacket abnormally fast, her badly disguised shaky voice. "Let's get going now, okay? I have work to do." It was so abrupt, so unexpected, that I just sat there. Staring. Until she almost shouted, "Come on, Quinn!"
Something to know is that she never shouted. We were a calm family, the two of us. If I did something bad, she would give me a soft scolding and I would do better. So, this was scary to me. I scrambled to get my coat and boots on, and we stepped out into the bright white February blizzard. She made a beeline for the car, the "walk" disregarded. I jumped in the backseat, not saying a word for fear of being yelled at. After a few tries, the engine revved and she sped out of the driveway, not bothering to clear the ice out of the windshield. She seemed extremely anxious, looking out the windows every minute. After maybe ten, fifteen minutes of speedy driving, erratic directions and U-turns, swearing under her breath, we were in some kind of back alley. I heard something that sounded like a balloon popping, or a gunshot. The car tilted to one side and skidded, and mom gasped, cursing repeatedly as she slammed the brakes and swerved to barely avoid crashing into a brick wall. I clutched my seatbelt, heart pounding with adrenaline. Reluctantly, with a trembling hand, she opened the car door and didn't look back at me.
"Stay in the car. Okay, Quinn? Just stay here."
I didn't nod. I did nothing but stare, wide-eyed, questioning. She stepped out, leaving me in the backseat, breathing in the icy air. I watched as she stood defensively while three men in various shades of tan jackets stepped out of a metallic truck. Two of them held guns. They exchanged words that I couldn't hear from in the vehicle. I suppose if I was braver, I would've jumped out to try and defend her, or something. Instead, I hid in the window, terrified. Probably for the best, anyway. Nothing I could have done would've changed the first man jumping forward, pulling out something I couldn't quite see, and forcing it into her mouth.
I couldn't have stopped her head from exploding.
The deep red splattered the car windows, getting on the man's face but somehow not his pristine tan jacket. I barely saw them as they pulled out walkie talkies, made reports, and then sped away. I could only stare at her body, her blood in the white snow. I could only stare.
My mouth hung open. I couldn't look away, but it must have taken a while for me to fully understand what had happened. Weakly, I pushed the door open and walked out to where she lay.
"...Mom?"
One second I stood, the next I was on my knees in the snow. "Mama...?" I was choking. I couldn't stop the nauseous sobs that forced their way out of my throat. "Why... why why why!? M-mom...!"
I screamed and cried until my voice was gone, my head killing. At that point, I could do nothing but stare, chin trembling, wishing I was numb. I had no idea what to do. My hands and toes were frozen, the wind biting into my skin and burning me. I couldn't go home. I had no clue where I was, and I didn't have a phone to call the police. I hadn't seen anyone around when we came here, and if anyone was near they would've heard me by then. I saw the blood thicken and dry. I couldn't bear looking where her face used to be. I was alone.
Until I heard a car pulling in. My fight-or-flight kicked in, and I darted backwards. I surveyed the truck in terror--it looked awfully similar to the one those men came in. I looked around, but I had nowhere to go. I was trapped.
I accepted it. I would die here, with my mom. This horrible day would end.
Two people stepped out of the truck; a middle-aged man with hair the color of snow, and a young woman with dark skin and tied-up curls. They wore jackets like the others, except they were a light cream color. I didn't know what that meant. They approached me, I noticed, without any visible weapons. I sat, sprawled in the snow, waiting for my end as they drew closer. The woman surveyed the scene and shook her head in disappointment.
"Awful. Just awful," she said to herself. "I never liked how they handled things, and now this?"
The man sighed as well. "I understand that brutality is necessary, but they take it too far." He stepped closer to me and held out a cautious hand, like trying to befriend a scared deer. To be fair, that is what I felt like. Frozen in headlights, knowing something was coming but unable to process. He spoke softly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. We will be your new guardians. What's your name?"
They were trying to tell me something. A lot of things, I guess. It was hard to focus, since I could see my mom's scuffed heels from the corner of my eye. The heels she said she would give me to wear for my graduation.
"We're peacebringers," the white-haired man explained. "Your mother was violating many major codes of conduct, and siphoning off our limited funds. We didn't know she had a child, trust us--we're just trying to bring about a better country." He and the curly lady kept talking nonsense, some system I didn't understand. I stared forward at a shriveled, frostbitten plant, my head buzzing. I had never heard of any of this. My mom was dead. What do I do? The car is wrecked. We can't afford to fix it. Mom will have to find another job. No, she won't. Because mom is dead.
They said they would be my new parents, but that I couldn't let anyone know about this. I could tell no one my mom died. It was because of CPS, or government secrecy, or something. It was “for my own good.” I still don't understand to this day.
“Don’t worry about any legalities, we’ve taken care of all of that.” I wasn’t worried about that. I was worried that I would have a mental breakdown, if I hadn’t already. Official documents hadn’t been my highest priority at the moment.
The rest of that day was a blur. They took me home, got stuff all settled, and I fell asleep after hours of staring at the blank wall, clutching my knitted blanket to my chest.
To be honest, the memories of those months after it happened are all fuzzy. I had to get used to living with two new people, and act like they were my real parents. It was probably beneficial to them and their secret operation bullshit that I hadn’t stayed in touch with any of my friends, because they would’ve been concerned. Concerned about my depression, locking myself in my room and blasting music to drown out my anguished wails. Food was disgusting to me, I couldn’t stomach it. I would lay in bed for hours, hungry but unwilling to eat, thinking how stupid I was to have used to want this.
I would be fine one day, and think I was feeling better, just to have a panic attack an hour later. Other times I would sit, trying to force out tears. What kind of monster was I, not even sad for her to the point of crying? I probably didn’t love her at all. I took her for granted. When I wasn’t depressed, I would lash out a lot. I threw things, broke things, screamed like a child with temper issues.
Understandably, I had nightmares, the scream-yourself-awake type. I knew I would be scarred forever; it’s not something you move on from and forget. I would flinch at any loud noise, any vague reference or depiction of blood made me immediately nauseous, and I found myself dissociating at times. I still have these things happen, and probably will for a long time.
It took until July for me to act semi-normal. In the back of my mind, I had known that I was falling far behind academically, but that didn’t really matter. My two guardians—Piper and Otto, I learned—were much kinder than I had expected. They took me to clinics and facilities, and tried their best to get me rehabilitated. They got me medication, and a therapist to manage my outbursts and PTSD. Once I was stable enough, they caught me up on the main necessities through homeschool. They still had jobs to do, and wanted to get me less isolated, so the plan was to return to school for grade 11.
So. Here I am.
September 7. The school is right across the street. I can already hear voices of teens outside, chatting and laughing. I haven’t talked to someone my own age in person for a year. I have to act like nothing’s different.
I’m scared as hell, but I breathe and walk forward.