Disclaimer: I do NOT own rights to any of the characters from Glee. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

WARNING: This story includes a minor spoiler for Season 2 of Glee. You have been duly warned.

A/N: This is a first-person introspective one-shot with potential for more. It's a little different to my usual writing style. The premise might end up branching off into something more substantial but I don't really know. This was more of a bleeding off of my own building angst – I poured it into the story instead of into my own life at the moment. I don't know whether this even ended up being worth reading in the end.

"Telephone by The Jellybaby Bandit"


"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

I pray to whatever deity that's listening that that song would stop playing but it won't. It never does – it's... incessant... I think that's the word. That or incestuous I'm not really sure to be honest. I should have read more books as a kid.

It was a mistake. I should never have allowed him to play around with my damn cell. I have no damn idea how to change the song now that it's been chosen. And all the song does is force me to picture his face.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

It's amazing how things have changed. It used to be that I was loud. I was confident. I was the baddest mother in town. But that seems like it was such a long time ago now.

Now look at me. I'm a fucking mess. I'm hunched up with my knees to my chest in a dingy, stinking motel room that I haven't left in days and I'm fucking hiding from him. And I'm hiding from the growing pain in my chest that says I want to cry.

I will not cry.

I won't.

Please.

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

He just won't let me go. He won't leave me be like I've pleaded with him a hundred times already. I'm 23 years old and I'm hiding from him like a scared child. I haven't been a scared child since... well since I was a scared child.

Hey Dad – hope you're rotting in Hell – I'm doing fine thanks.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

I don't know why I let him touch my cell.

Scratch that - yes I do – he smiled at me. He fucking smiled at me and I just handed it over like that. I must have impulse control issues.

I fucking hate that Gaga dude too. I don't care whether she showed the world a blurry outline of her pussy in that music video or not – with what they can do with computers these days it'd be easy to airbrush out a cock.

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

I don't know why he still calls. I haven't picked up a single one in nearly three days now. I'm actually quite impressed with the battery life on my cell. It's been three days since – well since it happened.

I don't want to think about that though.

Time gone by I'd have picked up one of his endless stream of calls – told him exactly what I thought of him and left him the broken and beaten one. He'd have been the one left a broken mess over the thought of never being spoken to again. But I know. I just know that if I pick up that I'll break.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

This fragile shell that I've wrapped myself in – this paper thin barrier that's keeping me from being a complete basket case – would tear itself apart and I'd be exposed like a raw nerve.

I just can't take that chance. I can't allow myself to be hurt – not now, not ever. I need to go back to the way I was before and fast before I crumble. I need to be uncaring, brash, loud, womanising – those are the character traits I weeded out for him that I now need to cultivate again.

Do you see?

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

'Cultivate?'

Two years ago I'd have never used a word like that. That's his influence. Operation 'Make-Me-Better' shown clearly for all to see. It had all started out so innocently. Wish I'd known then what I know now.

What happened to me? I used to be the baddest mother walking the face of the Earth. I was admired by some and feared by most. I left High School and went off to Ohio State on a scholarship – a full ride too – and I steadily lost contact with almost all of the douches I'd been lumbered with during my time at WMHS.

The future looked – not unlimited – but a Hell of a lot more rosy than it turned out to be.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

The only person I keep any kind of regular contact going with from High School is Finn – and that's only because we both ended up at the same College and had to share an excruciating number of classes together. Thank God we didn't end up sharing a dorm or I'd be locked away in a Penitentiary right now.

After the whole pregnancy 'thing' back in High School it was never the same between Finn and I anyway. I can tell he still resents me to this day. I don't see how it's my fault that it turns out he's firing blanks at twenty-three.

Douche.

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

Keeping in touch with Finn though kept me in the loop and so through the gossip grapevine I know where most of the Glee kids are now that High School is over and life has begun. They say your High School years are supposed to be the best years of your life – fuck me I hope that's not true. If they do turn out to be, then this whole 'existence' shit is totally overrated.

I know from Finn, that Artie went to MIT and that he's now working for the Government in some ultra top secret research lab in the Nevada Desert. No doubt he's dissecting aliens or some shit like that. Good for him.

Tina and Mike managed somehow to stay together from Junior year at High School all the way through College. They'd even kept it going despite being at different Colleges 3,000 miles apart. They were last time I'd bothered to listen, travelling the world on Daddy's dime before settling down – no doubt to start firing out dozens of tech-savvy sprogs. They've been travelling for nearly a year now I think. Good for them too.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

Santana and Brittany. Now those were some fun times I have to admit. In true lipstick lesbian style they'd split soon after High School ended and went their separate ways. I laughed so hard when I found out Finn was actually trying to date Brittany a short while after the split. God can you just imagine the vacant looks on the faces of their children? Thank God that relationship didn't get past the second date. The world will never know the bullet it dodged by being spared the offspring of a Finn/Brittany coupling. Eww.

Eww? Fucking eww?

That's more of his influence again. Gotta stop doing that. Need to get that old mojo back and firing on all cylinders. Version 2.0 needs to be put back to factory settings.

And for fuck's sake I wish that cell would stop ringing already.

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

Anyways, ignoring the cell – Santana last I heard was reapplying to Brown having flunked out the first time round to go live on a commune in Israel. A latina living in a Kibbutz. Now there's a mindfuck if ever there was one.

Brittany after dumping Hudson's ass cold is still going to classes part-time at Lima Community College. I see her from time to time though we don't do much of anything other than nod in passing.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

I'm starting to hate the invention of cell phones. I'm severely tempted just to flush the damn thing down the toilet. But it was an expensive handset – not one I bought either, he did – and of course, I didn't take the insurance on it. So as much as I might want to, there goes that plan out the window.

Out the window. I can see it's dark right now out of the window of this prison cell cum motel room cum bolt hole. There's a never ending glow from the neon hula girl that hangs above the motel entrance way. I'm bathed in pink light right now. It's so gay. But then that's the whole problem isn't it? Enough of those thoughts. Focus on something else.

"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

Aretha decided to go into writing – who knew she could write shit. She's already had a book published and last I heard she was living in a loft in Manhattan with some football or baseball player for the Jets or Mets – I forget which. But good for her too. She always got a raw deal in High School – she deserved way more solos than she got.

Speaking of solos – Berry. Rachel Berry – fame and fortune came her way but not in the way she expected. Falling from the stage at her opening night on Broadway and straight into the orchestra pit gave her notoriety sure – while the injuries she sustained, including a broken pelvis, gave her the fortune part courtesy of a healthy insurance policy.

"Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…
Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh…"

My arms are trembling from holding my knees up to my chest for so long. I probably stink like a sewer rat too. Not moving for three days – and hence not showering – will do that to a guy.

Jesus I'm fucked up. Hell I'm Jewish and I'm praying to Jesus – if that isn't fucked up I don't know what is.

Quinn. Quinn and I... well that's a long story. I guess saying that Finn is the only one of the Glee club kids I still keep in contact with isn't strictly true. It's complicated the thing with Quinn and I – I guess when you've had a kid with someone that sort of comes with the territory.

Hold on I just realised. No – really? Has it stopped? Has he finally given up?

I stretch my aching limbs out and groan as I look over at the offending object. The screen is still brightly lit but there's no music. Three days of that same dozen lines of Gaga is enough to drive anyone gaga. I wouldn't be surprised if the Government use Gaga as an alternative to waterboarding.

"Is it...", my voice is hoarse and scratchy from days of no use, "... has he given up?"

I reach out and pick up the offending cell tentatively – I half expect it to start ringing again the moment it makes contact with my skin.

It doesn't though and I breathe a sigh of relief. One hundred and seven missed calls. One hundred and seven in three days.

Is that all?

It felt like more. But I'm too relieved to have the moments respite to care. Carelessly I throw the cell back down on the counter as I lay my head down on the thin pillow. Maybe I can get some sleep. Sleep hasn't come easy of late.


Even with my eyes closed I can still see the pink neon glow that suffuses the room. Sleep isn't coming to me despite my bone weary exhaustion. There's just too much shit floating around inside my head right now.

'God dammit...'

Why can't things just be simple again like they were before? Sure life hasn't worked out the way I thought it would. Or hoped it would. After College I had hoped I'd have some idea of what I wanted to do. But I didn't – no clue whatsoever.

As it turned out all I ended up with was a useless Degree and no direction.

Ha - there's a joke – I went from New Directions to No Direction.

So I ended up despite everything, back in Lima at the age of 22 with a Degree certificate of more use for wiping my ass than getting me a job and about thirty bucks and change in my pocket. I refused to live back with Ma though – besides the bitch rented my room out the moment I left for Ohio State. My childhood bed is now the resting place of some Cuban or Mexican immigrant or something. That is when he's not in Ma's bed fucking her brains out when he's short on the rent money.

So I instead slipped back to the life I knew. I rented myself a small room above a seedy bar – it was basic and the bar was a total dive but it had a thick secure door and a strong lock. Besides, it's not like I had anything worth stealing anyways.

And I started back cleaning pools in order to make money.

I hated it and I came to hate myself.

The pitying looks I'd get from the cougars who had just a few years earlier been at my beck and call, turned what had once been the dream job into a nightmare that I just couldn't wake up from. I had gone from being badass to being pitiful.


I was about at the end of my rope when I saw the advert in the paper. It wasn't exactly what I wanted but the more I thought about it, the more I realised I had precious other options available to me. If I wanted to do anything with my life I'd need to start somewhere.

And so I answered the ad to became an apprentice mechanic.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I was bricking it when I went in to interview for the job. I hadn't bothered to read the ad to see who the job was working for - all I saw was the opportunity.

I almost turned and ran as I'd walked up to the garage entrance and saw the sign hanging with the familiar sign on it – 'Hummel's'. I realised that there was a good chance that I'd never leave the place alive considering how I'd treated the owner's son in High School.

But I needed the job and so I swallowed my pride.

As it happens, Mr H had been a stand-up guy about it. I have no doubt that apologising to him for all the shit I'd pulled as a teenager made a difference.

I have no idea what he saw in me to this day, but he offered me the job and I snatched at it.

I had always been good with my hands – or so the cougars had told me – but as it turned out I liked the work too. It was... interesting. I picked it all up pretty easily too and before a year was out I'd become a part of the fixtures down at Hummel's.


"Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my
head and my heart on the dance floor"

I don't know how much more of this I can take. I snatch up the offending cell and contemplate just hurling it at the wall. But something makes stop and just stare as the screen flashes and the cell pulses rhythmically.

It's not going to go away – I can't hide here forever. It's a fucking joke that I've even been reduced to this, huddling in the dark like some kind of pussy-fied animal. Yeah I know pussy-fied isn't a real word but fuck it.

I'm Noah Puckerman. I won't bow to anyone and I won't break.

I press the bright green key and take a deep breath.

"Noah?"

The fight drains out of me again and I'm back where I knew I would be. I'm breaking apart and there's nothing I can do about it.

"..."

"Noah please... just talk to me..."

"..."

"I love you..."

'Shit... I'm crying after all...


A/N: Well - comments, criticisms - suggestions? I think if this is going to be expanded upon I'm going to make it a little bit of a challenge for my readership ;D

What would you like to see? What kind of a plot do you think fills in the gaps?

If there's anything in particular you would like to see in print but haven't read or have thought about but not written yourself... send me the idea and if I like it I'll incorporate it.

ABOVE ALL - PLEASE REVIEW AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK