Her deviance is obvious and oddly satisfying. Enjoyable. She thinks she must have grown more than she previously thought. Straying from what was normal, what was expected of her...that used to frighten her more than the pain that would spread across her skin as a result of the hand of the man who had once claimed to love her more than the sun, moon, and stars.

She drops the blade, the sound of it klanging against the recently installed tile filling her ears. The pain is sharp, but it dissipates and leaves behind the hum in her veins and in her ears that fills her up the way those obsidian eyes used to.

The eyes of the audience members flick from the screens behind her to the crimson of her life, dripping down her arm. He head feels empty unlike the rest of her, and it brings her up, takes her an makes her feel so fucking high. Higher than she's ever been.

This is the first time she's taken a blade to her own skin, and the overall effect appeals to her. The smile curls her lips and then she catches those eyes with her own and the smile falls. The brows above the darkest brown furrow and harden the lines around the most perfect eyes Quinn has ever loved. She wonders how Santana found her at the gallery.

Hands that once caressed the arm she's once again slicing into tighten into white-knuckled fists and Quinn finally notices the paler hands around caramel wrists. Rachel. Of course. There's not much going on in this part of the city that the maple-eyed songbird doesn't know about.

The red flows freely again, dripping like fresh paint down milky skin. Almost black eyes go wide with panic and Quinn can see how tight Rachel's holing on, trying to keep her back.

Quinn slices the blade into her flesh one last time, standing on wobbly feet in her delirium. She raises her arms high and wide, watching as the only thing maintaining the body she exists in drips to the hard white canvas of tile below, creating the most beautiful painting she's ever seen.

"They are bleeding us dry. Life is bleeding us dry. LOVE is bleeding us dry. Killing us sharply. Isn't it better if we do it ourselves? Give ourselves the shallow illusion of control? I'll do it myself. Hurt myself before YOU can hurt me. Cause my own pain..." She finishes off the last of her lines, fading into familiar black as the lights in her box slowly dim. She dissapears out of the back, walking towards the waiting EMT's. They fix her, cleaning and gauzing her visible self-inflicted wounds and then hooking her to an IV, pouring new life into her...erasing away all the progress she made.

Orange juice the color of the sun is flowing down her throat when Santana walks into the back room, tears creating a river of her pain. Full lips open then close, their owner incapable of speaking. The torrent of water-bourne salt down full cheekbones continues, and soon enough, the dam breaks. Santana breaks alongside it. Quinn holds her in her gauze-covered arms, comforting her. Her desire to continue to hurt herself diminishes with every second that leaves them behind.

Hurting herself equals hurting Santana...she'll add it to the list of things won't allow herself to want. It's an old crumpled peice of paper she's had since she was fifteen, eyes on a songbird. Nothing changes. Everything changes.