Somewhere on the Edge

by Permanent Rose

Santana pretends. She pretends in order to protect herself, to hide from what she wishes to forget. But a beautiful girl hides behind her uncertainties—a girl who has never been given a chance. Santana/Brittany with a side of Emma

A/N:This fic deals with some abusive themes—nothing very descriptive, but I wanted to warn you ahead of time in case that topic makes you uncomfortable.

Also, this fic is slightly AU, but for the most part it follows events from Season 1.

I hope you enjoy!

---

The sun bleeds into the sky, dyeing the scattered clouds hues of pink and gold. The fiery crown rests against the horizon, half an orange slice slipping beneath the earth.

You've always found it hard to tell the difference between sunset and sunrise, especially when the yellow orb is so perfectly divided. It's undecided, hovering on the edge, waiting to rise or to fall.

You like it best, just how it is now. Right before you know for sure, before everything settles and resumes its normal course. It's like you're holding your breath, wishing fiercely that the sun might just change its mind, rising back to the sky instead of dipping out of sight.

As the sky continues to darken, you pull your knees to your chest, your feet brushing against the loose shingles of the roof.

The glow of the sun softly fades, giving way into dusk, tugging you back to reality. The voices you tried to tone out earlier surface with a sudden vehemence. Even from your hideout on the roof, the screaming is all too clear.

You hear him mostly, spouting away with an uncontrolled fervor. You didn't stick around long enough to learn the source of the argument, but it doesn't sound much different than all the others.

A shrill voice competes with his booming tenor. Your little sister. At only ten, Lourdes has a temper to match her father's. Though muffled, you can hear the distant sound of sobbing, and you can imagine little Manuel, tucked away in a corner, crying as the angry voices only grow louder.

You don't know where your Mama is. Perhaps in the kitchen, complacently scrubbing dishes, glad that it is not she who is receiving his wrath.

You used to have your place, too. You used to have your place in this dysfunctional family. You had deemed yourself the protector, when Lourie wasn't defiant enough to stand up for herself, when Manny was too young to understand what was taking place. But now you're done. You're spent, and you only feel the slightest twinge of guilt as you hear Lourdes scream and Manny cry. You have suffered enough over the years, enduring the verbal abuse of a man who is not even your father.

Your father is a bastard who knocked your mother up when she was only seventeen years old.

That line, delivered by your mother with spite for as long as you remember, is all you know about him. You know nothing else, not even his name. The subject is a void, empty space—a taboo topic best not mentioned. You blame him for the parts of yourself you can't figure out, the parts you hate. He's that empty part of yourself you search for through the anger and fear. He's the part of yourself you're sure you'll never find.

A bellowing stream of curse words brings you back once again, drawing you from your hate. He tells Lourdes he'll hit her. He'll smack her hard if she doesn't shut up. You know it's a lie, an empty threat. He'll never touch her, or any of you. He's a coward hiding behind his angry words.

When Lourdes tells him just that, that he wouldn't dare touch her, he replies in a heated stream of Spanish. For growing up in a Hispanic family, you hardly know the language. Your mother and Anton, the man who is not your father, only use their native tongue when they can no longer express their anger in English, delving for words and phrases that can only be found in Spanish.

Though you cannot understand Anton's rushed rant word for word, you can follow the gist of it. Mostly he swears, familiar words to your ears. You knew them long before their English counterparts.

By the time the house has fallen silent, the sun has long since disappeared, a heavy blackness painting the sky as the crickets chirp softly in the Indian summer. With a breathy sigh, you carefully leave the roof, using the bricks of the chimney so you won't lose your footing.

Your sun dress billows around you in the chilly evening breeze. Beneath the tough façade your Cheerio uniform offers, nobody would ever guess you prefer a soft, subdued looked, much like Quinn Fabray's style. The anger, the defiance is all just an act to hide how vulnerable you feel inside. Let them think what they want, you always tell yourself. Let them fear you. Then nobody has to know. Nobody has to know anything at all.

The house is eerily silent as you climb the staircase to your second story bedroom, creaking open the door of the room you share with Lourie.

"Where the fuck were you?" she spits, her face glowing in the heavy moonlight.

You wince, still unable to train your ears to Lourie's foul language. She's lost her innocence, and it hurts you to see so much anger in such a small girl.

"Roof," you mutter. Your safe haven is no secret, though it's secluded since you're the only one brave enough to trust the loose bricks and long ascent.

Her face hardens for a moment, and you know she's thinking back to all the times you used to protect her. The times you practically begged Anton to yell at you instead, not Lourdes. Not little Lourie. Your chest tightens as Lourie tugs her knees to her chest, her expression softening. "Why don't he yell at you anymore?"

"Doesn't," you immediately correct, earning another glower from Lourdes, but she corrects herself nevertheless.

"Why doesn't he yell at you?"

"Because," you speak slowly, carefully. "I don't give him a reason to yell anymore."

You used to be like Lourdes, so angry, so bitter, unable to let Anton hurt you without a fight. But you've learned what Lourie has yet to discover. Passively resisting, letting him take his fill. He doesn't yell as long if you don't fight back. He can't cause as much damage if you let him think he's won.

"I don't do anything, either, Santana!" her voice rises with fury, and you have to hush her. "I don't do anything—it's him, all him! Everything I do is wrong, every little thing makes him angry! It don't matter what I do, he always finds a reason to yell."

He anger fades as her voice does, and you see a single tear drip down her bronze cheek, soon followed by an onslaught of others. You used to cry, too. Heavy, racking sobs that tore through you, emotion you were unable to control. But now you hold them in, too. You hold everything inside, keeping it all tucked away where no one can use it against you.

You rub Lourie's back gently as her tears run their course, watching with slight disgust as she blows her runny nose on the sleeve of her shirt.

"Someday you'll realize he's not worth your tears—that he's not worth your anger," you tell her softly, watching as her eyes widen with confusion. She has so much uncontrolled anger, so much pent up emotion that she cannot imagine what it would be like not to care. She cannot imagine your indifferent world, keeping her emotions locked inside.

"I hate him," she whispers. "I hate him so much."

You don't answer. You hate him, too. You hate what he's done to this family. You hate what he's done to you, fucking up your life when you were already so broken.

"Go to sleep, Lourie," you tell her, tucking the blanket around her neck before going to your own bed.

You don't sleep. You don't even change from your sun dress, relishing your chance to wear normal attire, even if it's only for a moment.

In the morning, you'll don your Cheerio uniform, putting on an air of confidence. You'll transform into the bitch you've become, the angry, mean girl who is only second to Quinn Fabray. The slut who will take any guy who's willing to keep up with you.

When you pretend, it's easier to forget. It's easier to cover what you don't want to remember. But right now, as you lean your head against your bedroom wall, you let it all fall away until you're just a little girl again.

A little girl who knows nothing at all.

XXXX

You awake to a faint cry, your cheek plastered against the wall. You curse quietly as you sit up, realizing your dress has wrinkled beneath your thighs. You notice Manny standing in the doorway, his cheeks stained with tears and his pants missing. You don't even have to ask what happened.

"Come on, I'll help you clean up," you sigh, taking his hand as you walk down the hall to his room.

His sheets are tangled in the center of the bed. As you approach the bed, you smell the heavy stench of urine before you can see the wet patch.

Manny has been potty trained for a year now, only having a few minor accidents during the process. But recently bed wetting has become a problem, and you can't quite figure out why. The first time it happened, he had run to your Mama and Anton's room, horrified at what he had done. Mama had been soothing; Anton had thrown a fit. No four-year-old boy should still be wetting the bed, he told him, especially one who's been potty trained.

Manny comes to you now, too scared of Anton to even seek Mama's comfort. You strip the bed until you can only see the stained mattress. Though you know it's in vain, you do you best to remove the urine with a spray bottle of carpet cleaner. You take the sheets and Manny's wet pants down to the cellar, where the ancient washer and dryer rest. Manny tags along, still pant-less, saying nothing as he watches you take care of his mess.

Once the washer is buzzing loudly, you take Manny's hand once again, bringing him back to his room to dress him in a clean outfit. His eyes are drooping as you tug the elastic up to his waist. You take him in your arms, bringing him to your bed with you. Manny falls asleep immediately, but you keep your tired eyes open, staring at the alarm clock between your and Lourie's beds for the washer's forty-five minute cycle.

You drag your tired body from the bed, tip-toeing down two flights of stairs to place Manny's sheets into the dryer. You trudge back up the stairs, finally pulling your rumpled sun dress from your body as you replace it with a tank and a pair of boy shorts. You slip beneath the covers, Manny's hot breath beating against your neck, finally allowing sleep to claim you.

XXXX

You're up at five, untangling yourself from Manny's grasp. You slip back down to the cellar, taking Manny's clean, dry sheets in your arms. The warmth has faded, but they smell fresh, and you feel pleased as you tug them back over the mattress, no sign of Manny's accident present.

You return to your room, easily lifting Manny from the bed and placing him in his own once again. He stirs slightly, but doesn't wake, shoving his thumb in his mouth as he buries his face in the pillow.

You smile in spite of yourself, relishing every little amount of control you manage to take over your life. As Lourdes continues to sleep, you sift through your closet, pulling one of your clean Cheerio uniforms from the hanger. Coach Sylvester's budget has allowed her to provide each of her girls with three uniforms each, so you never have an excuse not to wear it. You tame your wild black hair, pulling it into a smooth ponytail with a red hair tie that matches your uniform. After applying a heavy coat of eye makeup, you catch your appearance in the mirror, smiling at the perfection you have achieved.

You wake Lourie, who moans as you tell her to get up for school. You hear muffled voices from behind Mama and Anton's closed door, as they prepare for their own days. Mama works as a nurse at the general hospital, and Anton is a mechanic at a local automobile shop.

You're no longer needed here. You skip breakfast, heading out into the hazy morning, leaving your hell of a life behind.

XXXX

You don't mind school.

You've created a social status for yourself that makes the horrors of high school bearable, and you have a reputation that makes you untouchable.

You're on Quinn Fabray's good side, a deciding factor that will make or break you at McKinley High. You've been friends with Quinn since sixth grade, though you aren't sure if friendship is the right term to describe your relationship. It's more like an alliance, a dependence that both of you thrive on. Quinn is the top dog, the most popular, most feared being in the entire school. But Quinn wouldn't be able to maintain her status without a band of pretty, inferior girls tagging along behind her. Popularity is nothing unless there are others to help you maintain it.

You know you're more than a tag-along to Quinn Fabray, even if just barely. You have worked to earn your spot as her right hand man, a status achieved by two factors. You have known Quinn longer than most of the girls. You were there, following Quinn when she was only a budding tyrant, the days before she took complete dominion. And you have kept that spot with your attitude. No one messes with you.

Quinn has a perfect life, as far as you can tell. Since you can manage to hide your insecurities so effectively, you can only imagine Quinn has her own as well. But even so, Quinn has everything you could ever dream of. Two doting parents, a gorgeous older sister, a house the size of three of yours. You imagine what it would be like to be Quinn, hiding behind the innocence her life offers, having everything she needs, right at her finger tips.

Of course, there's one thing you have that Quinn doesn't have—something you're sure Quinn couldn't even imagine.

You have Brittany.

You met Brittany in ninth grade while trying out for the Cheerios. Quinn and you had worked hard for this chance. It had been Quinn's dream since her older sister was head cheerleader during her high school glory days. You didn't have a particular interest in cheerleading, but being Quinn's shadow had you automatically along for the ride.

You didn't notice Brittany at first. She was nondescript among the sea of other blondes. A pack of girls who didn't matter. Quinn had taught you well; for your social status to thrive, you didn't need anyone except her.

But the second night of tryouts changed that. Quinn had left as soon as the session had ended, already late for her dance lesson. You had trudged to the locker room, sweaty and aching, dying to relax your tense muscles in a scalding shower, when you heard the subtle but distinct sound of sniffling.

All the other girls ignored the blonde girl, her face red with tears as she sat on the bench, rubbing her swollen ankle. You almost did the same, glancing toward the hot showers. You've been trained to ignore, trained to fend only for yourself. It's a mentality you adopted long before Quinn, having a mother who was never quite there, dealing with her boyfriends—and finally a husband—you never fully learned to trust. Survival is selfish, and to keep yourself alive, you can't afford to string yourself to others.

But something in you broke as you watched this girl, looking so small and helpless as she whimpered in pain. On the outside, she was just like any other girl. And at that moment, that's all she was—just a girl, but for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to feel something.

"What hurts?" you asked. It was a dumb question, seeing as her swollen ankle was obviously inflated. But you couldn't think of anything else to say.

"My ankle," she muttered, her voice sweet, her clear blue eyes locking with yours. She sounded so small, so helpless that you couldn't help but to think of little Lourdes and Manny, the only two people you've ever let tug your heartstrings.

"Why don't we get some ice to put on that?" you told her softly, rising from the bench.

"Ice?" she asked, almost dumbly, her face lighting up as the word registered, completely in awe of your simple solution.

"Yeah, some ice," you repeated, wondering if she hit her head as well as her ankle. "I'll be right back."

You sat with her as she iced her ankle, speaking rarely. She seemed comforted enough by your presence, and you found yourself oddly at ease by hers. You showered when she did, waiting for her to dress, watching her hobble to her car. When she was strapped safely in the passenger seat, the blue sedan out of sight, you left yourself, an odd feeling in your stomach.

The next day as you changed for the last day of tryouts, the blonde girl came up beside you, smiling brightly. Quinn glared, shooting you a look that was clearly meant to tell you to get rid of her. You shot her back a look just as heinous.

"She's not doing anything," you hissed, hoping you wouldn't hurt the girl's feelings.

Quinn just huffed, stomping over to the bathroom stalls as you continued to change.

"Hi, Santana," the girl said brightly, seeming unaffected by your and Quinn's exchange.

You waited for her to say more—expected her to say more, but she only smiled as she pulled her t-shirt and Soffe shorts over her slender body, seeming content just to be by your side.

You quickly discovered that Brittany was not very bright, at least when it came to understanding the world on the level everyone else did. People always brushed her off, making fun of her for her lack of intelligence. Her beauty and agile body were her only attributes that kept her from falling completely off the social spectrum.

You'd certainly never reached out to anyone before, and you'd never been one to pity. You never had a problem throwing a slushie at the kid in the wheelchair, or writing obscene things about Rachel Berry on the bathroom walls, or making racist jokes about that gothic Asian chick. But your heart hurt for Brittany, and as you let her in, forming the first real friendship you could remember, you knew it wasn't out of pity. It wasn't because you felt obligated or guilty.

It's because you wanted to.

Brittany's innocence, her sweet adoration, her unfailing love for anything, anyone pulled you in before you even had time to consider your actions. You didn't know people like Brittany existed. In a cold, angry world where people thrived on self gain, you never expected to find someone as selfless as Brittany.

Quinn was wary at first, annoyed by your new tag-along, but you were fast to protect Brittany. It took Sue Sylvester openly praising Brittany's skill, dropping her a rare compliment, for Quinn to tolerate Brittany.

And a toleration is all it has even been. You are the tie between Brittany and Quinn—and you doubt either would look each other's way unless you had brought them together. You never push them, never try to create something that isn't there. Because your friendship with Brittany is yours. It's something Quinn will never have, and you like to keep that soft, wonderful feeling Brittany gives you all to yourself.

XXXX

You would've never noticed the sign up sheet if you hadn't thrown the cherry slushie at Rachel Berry.

At Quinn's request, you had throttled the icy liquid onto her unsuspecting face. You don't know why Quinn bothers with the slushies—the football team takes care of that pretty well on their own. But Quinn can hardly resist the infantile display. She rarely throws them herself—god forbid she get her perfect little hands dirty—but her lips never fail to curve into smug smile when you do the task for her.

As Rachel drips, the solidified fruit juice seeping into her eyes and the stitching of her argyle sweater, Quinn smiles maniacally, and you snort contently, only to appease Quinn. You don't mind throwing slushies—no matter how ridiculous you find it—but you find it far from satisfying.

While Quinn watches Rachel's horrified expression for moment longer, your eyes dart to the bulletin boards, catching Rachel's tacky gold star signature on a sheet of paper.

A sign up sheet for Glee Club.

You hadn't even heard of the Glee Club until two weeks ago, after the notorious Sandy Ryerson scandal spread like fire.

The names on the list are of nobodies. That faggy kid, Kurt or Kirk or something. His flamboyant, curvy handwriting makes it impossible to make out his name. That fat bitch, Mercedes Jones. You don't recognize the names Artie Abrams and Tina Cohen-Chang, confirming further that this club will be filled with losers.

And of course, Rachel Berry is last on the list with a tiny gold star sticker following her name.

Everyone knows Rachel Berry.

And everyone hates her.

Once Rachel has sulked off, leaving a trail of sticky cherry residue behind her, you point the list out to Quinn. She smiles faintly, bringing her manicured nail to the paper. She rips Rachel's star away, leaving an ugly hole next to her name.

You can practically see the cogs turning in Quinn's mind, and you know this club doesn't stand a chance.

XXXX

Puck isn't technically the first boy that you had sex with, but you hardly count those horny little middle school boys.

You were slightly scared the first time—it wasn't anything like that fooling around you'd done before. Fooling around you'd only done to prove that you could take control of yourself, that you take control of these pathetic boys.

No one can force you to be anything, and you can do whatever the hell you want.

You like that feeling—when you're in charge. In charge of your body, in charge of your mind. For all the other things you can't control in your life, you make up for it by taking ownership of your body.

Puck was different, because you felt things you hadn't before—things you weren't sure you wanted to feel as he thrust inside you. Puck knew just where to touch you, all those spots no one had ever hit before. The first time left you shocked and shaking, and you had collapsed in the shower as soon as you returned home, sobbing tearlessly.

Because Puck isn't like the other boys.

Puck is always in control.

You have learned to work around that. Puck always sets the tone, always takes dominion, but you have trained your body to feel only what you want. He can make you scream, he can make you beg for more, but he can never make you feel anything more than what you want to.

Puck doesn't love you, and he never tries to tell you that he does.

You're not dating. You're even less than friends with benefits, because outside your heated evenings, you and Puck ignore each other's existence. There's nothing there. Nothing there at all. He uses you to fill his need for sex, and you use him to prove there is one aspect of your life you can control. At least that's how it began.

But the more you fuck him, the more you realize that you're craving it as much as he is. Because he fills you in a way that makes you forget. It's like a drug, a high you can obtain to escape from anything at all.

XXXX

You're now part of the fucking Glee Club, thanks to Quinn Fabray's unreasonable insecurities and need for complete control over one Finn Hudson.

Finn Hudson is one of the only guys on the football team you haven't slept with. He's a pansy—a sweet, naïve kid who probably doesn't even know what a vagina is. Plus, he's Quinn's, and no one ever touches what is hers.

Coach Sylvester is surprisingly supportive of Quinn's idea to have you all tryout for the club. Destruction from the inside is her tactic—she can't stand to see another club thrive and compete with her Cheerios.

You hate Glee.

You hate everything about it.

You hate how genuine everyone is, how open they all are. You hate how singing, how dancing, how throwing yourself into a piece of music makes you feel something.

You hate Rachel Berry. You hate how much she loves it all.

You hate everything, everyone, except for Brittany. Brittany dances flawlessly, her Cheerio's skirt twirling around her milky thighs. She smiles - a wide, beaming smile for no particular reason at all. She lets herself feel the emotions you won't allow in. Instead of the spite you feel for Rachel, Brittany's blissful innocence mellows you, keeping you calm, keeping you in control when you just want to rip everyone else apart.

Brittany gives you a reason to hope.

XXXX

Brittany's house is your second home. She has one of those moms that seems to come straight from a magazine, always smiling, always baking things like cookies. Brittany's not rich, but she's better off than you are in your crumbling house. She lives in a sizable suburban home on a cul-de-sac with a little creek in the backyard. But the best part is the second floor balcony. The balcony that attaches right to Brittany's room. You've had countless sleepovers there, staring up at the twinkling night sky, curled up in the same sleeping bag because Brittany's just a little afraid of the dark.

You're there today, staring at the hazy October sky. The Indian summer has gone, bringing frosty autumn air. You rub your arms through your white turtle neck beneath your uniform, shivering slightly as you sit on the swinging porch bench.

"Mom's making hot chocolate," Brittany tells you, sliding open the door and joining you on the swing. She snuggles next to you, and suddenly you don't feel so cold anymore.

"You seem angry lately," Brittany speaks her thoughts out loud. For lacking in conventional smarts, Brittany is quite perceptive. She can pick up on the slightest altering of your moods. Even if you put on an indifferent face, Brittany is quick to sense when something is wrong. "Is everything okay, San?"

You sigh, leaning your head against her shoulder, breathing in Brittany's soft scent. She smells like vanilla and something else you can't ever seem to put your finger on.

"I'm just sick of Glee," you tell her simply, only skimming the surface of your foul mood.

Brittany frowns for a minute before leaning in, her lips brushing quickly across the corner of your mouth. You're pleasantly shocked. Brittany has always been touchy, from sporadic embraces and snuggling to pinky linking and hand holding. Her innocent kiss feels strangely natural.

"What was that for?" you mutter, you lips curving into a smile, tingling slightly from Brittany's touch.

"I just wanted to see you smile," she tells you simply, not seeing anything wrong with her simple display of affection.

You earn a new respect for Brittany, right then. She's so pure, so naïve that you can't help but to find her utterly endearing. Something you've been taught to shy away from suddenly doesn't seem so wrong as Brittany places a second kiss against your lips, earning another smile from you. No matter how much you've grown to love Brittany, you've never fully been able to shake the label of "dumb" away from her. She's weird, different, living in her own little Brittany world, and you realize you might be the first person she's ever truly invited in. Maybe it's not Brittany who's peculiar—maybe it's everyone else. Brittany is everything you were, everything you dreamed of as a child, and while everyone else deteriorates in world of sin, Brittany still manages to hold onto what everyone else has lost.

You twine your hand with hers, fitting your head into the crook of her neck. "I'll smile anytime for you, Britt."

XXXX

You take Spanish with Mr. Schue, despite the fact that you already know the basics of the language.

It's harder, you soon discover, when you get down to the mechanics of the language. The broken Spanish you know from home can hardly even compare to the formal text book grammar you're learning. You struggle like the rest of the kids, pulling by with a 'B', helping Brittany cheat to the best of your ability so she doesn't fail. You don't have many classes with her, and you're not about to lose this one.

Mr. Schue drones on about the preterite tense, conjugating the verb dormir—to sleep, something you'd like to be doing right now. Anton kept the entire house up late last night, yelling at Lourdes for a reason you didn't bother to catch.

Beside you, Quinn hardly pays attention as she sketches hearts across her note book, etching her and Finn's names into the centers. On your other side, Brittany smiles at you, offering to share her many colored pens for taking notes. You're about to pick the purple one when you feel a jab in your back. It's Puck, being completely obvious about passing a note, but Mr. Schue remains oblivious as he writes dormiste in his scrawl across the board. You take the note, revealing Puck's scribble.

Wanna hook up tonight?

You scowl; he's blunt, but when has he not been? You turn sharply in your chair, giving him a look that tells him you'll discuss it later.

"Santana?" Mr. Schue turns toward you. You flush slightly as you crumple Puck's note, picking up Brittany's pen to resume your notes. "Can you translate dormiste for me?"

You look at the word on the board for a moment, repeating the preterite tense endings in your head.

"You slept?" You half-guess.

He nods, and you let out a sigh of relief, only to have him clarify, "Singular or plural?"

Shit.

Your face flushes deeper, hating to be put on the spot. "Singular?"

Mr. Schue nods, giving you a significant glance that lets you know he won't put up with anymore funny business. You settle back into your chair, writing the forms of dormir you failed to copy down before.

When the bell finally rings, you link pinkies with Brittany, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you head for the door. Puck grabs your arm, raising his eyebrows as he stops you in the doorway. "Dormir with me tonight, Señorita?"

His flirtation is almost endearing, and you're about to give in when Mr. Schue calls Puck to his desk. You hover in the doorway with Brittany for a minute, soon gathering that Puck is failing the class. Puck catches up with you in the hall a minute later. "So? Can I pick you up tonight or not?"

"Why not?" you shrug, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt as Brittany's pinky tightens around yours.

He smiles victoriously, heading down the opposite end of the hall.

"Where are you going, Puck?" you call after him. "English is this way." You only know his next class because it's the same as yours.

"Mr. Schue gave me a note to go talk to that hot guidance counselor about me bombing his class," he explains, almost smugly.

You only roll your eyes, turning on your heel as you continue to walk with Brittany.

"Why do like him, San?" Brittany asks, wrinkling her nose slightly as he disappears down the hall.

You're about to explain to Brittany that having sex with someone does not mean you have to like them, but really, you don't want to delve into your complicated mindset. Besides, Brittany probably understands that more than you're giving her credit for. Brittany is no more of a virgin than you are. Like a child, she acts on her impulses, just like most aspects of her life. She's just as much of a slut as you are. The difference between you and Brittany is that she probably usually likes the guys she's fucking. But then again, it's hard to find someone Brittany doesn't like. Puck is one of the exceptions.

"You know what, Britt," you tell her, glancing at the corner that Puck has just disappeared behind. "I have no idea…"

XXXX

"Mama, I want to wear my red dress," you whine, looking down at your blue one in disdain. You like your red polka dot one much better.

"Stop whining, chiquitita," she tells you, smoothing your dark hair behind your ears. "Andre will be here soon, and I still have to start dinner."

She's half dressed herself, and her unruly hair flies out in all directions. You grimace as your Mama exits the room, leaving you to look longingly at the red dress in your closet, too high for you to reach on your own. The doorbell rings, and you hear your Mama curse loudly in Spanish. "Chica, can you get that for me? I'll be out in about fifteen minutes!"

You trudge toward the door, opening it to reveal a gruff-looking man. Andre, your mother's latest boyfriend. He's not so much different than the rest, all blurring together, though he does take more interest in you than the other ones have.

"Hello," you mumble, stepping aside so he can come in.

"Why the sad face?" he asks you as he steps over the threshold.

You stare at your feet, your bare toes sinking into the carpet. "Mama won't let me wear my favorite dress..."

"No?" he raises his eyebrows, more interested in your predicament than you anticipated. "Where's your Mama right now?"

"Getting ready still," you tell him. "She says she'll be fifteen more minutes."

His lips curve into a smile, his bloodshot eyes shining. "Well then, it seems to me that we have enough time to go switch your dress before she's ready."

Your eyes light up immediately, a new adoration for this man. "Really?"

"Really," he repeats, following you as you eagerly lead him down the hall to your bedroom.

You hurry to the closet, beckoning him closer, pointing to the red dress hanging just above your grasp. He easily takes it from the hanger, and you're out of your blue dress in an instant, your five-year-old self having no sense of modesty.

But he doesn't hand it to you right away. "What a pretty dress," he mutters, glancing from the dress to your almost naked body.

"Thank you," you mumble, growing slightly impatient as he keeps the dress firmly in his grasp.

"And what a pretty little girl you are," he says, draping the dress on top of your dresser as he sits down on the bed, watching you carefully.

"Thank you," you tell him dutifully. "But can I please have my dress now?" Your eyes dart to the dress, wondering if you'd be able to reach the top of the bureau yourself.

"Just one minute, pretty lady," he tells you, his voice light. He eases your apprehension slightly. "I want to play a little game with you first."

"A game?" you ask, your tone rising in excitement. Maybe it is okay you'll have to wait for your dress after all. Your Mama hardly plays games with you, and the idea suddenly delights you.

"Yep, a little game," he repeats, his gruff face looking softer as he smiles, tugging gently at the hem of your panties.

You look down past your belly as he slides his finger into your underwear, touching you in a place you've never been touched before. You squirm uncomfortably, a slightly panicked expression washing across your face as your eagerness quickly fades. "I don't know if I want to play this game..."

"Of course you do," he tells you, pulling his finger away from you. You relax slightly. "It's a big girl game—most little girls have to wait a long time to play, but you're so special that I'm going to play with you now. You want to be a big girl, right?"

You nod hesitantly, mixed feelings of pride and wariness courses through you. You want to be a big girl—and you want to show him that you're not just a baby. But you're not sure you want his hand in your panties again.

"That's my girl," he tells you, smiling again. The uncomfortable knot in your stomach loosens. "Now since this is such a big girl game, we're not going to tell your Mama, okay? This is just between you and me."

You nod again, positive that you wouldn't want your Mama to hear about your game.

"Good," he smiles again, reaching his hand past the elastic, moving his fingers—

You wake up with a start, a cold sweat drenching your body. You quiver slightly as you pull your knees to your chest, biting back a sob as your body burns.

You tell yourself the rest. You tell yourself what happened next.

You pulled away from him. You told him that he could not touch you. That you would not play his game.

You're able to breathe easier as you repeat the words over and over in your head.

Because of course that is what happened.

Of course, of course, of course.

XXXX

Glee club gets a little better, even though you're mercilessly trying to sabotage it.

After Rachel Berry leaves to join the musical, you discover that it's she you hate, not the actual club. You allow yourself to enjoy it, just a little, dancing beside Brittany, listening to Quinn's soft lead vocals, which you much prefer to Rachel's showy soprano. And even when Rachel returns, more annoying than ever, you hold on to that little piece you've grown to love, determined not to let her ruin it for you.

XXXX

When you find out Quinn is pregnant, you throw up.

You know for a fact that Quinn was a virgin at the beginning of the school year, and you're still finding it hard to believe she's not one now. And if Quinn can get knocked up by having sex only once with Finn, pathetic Finn Hudson, then where does that put you?

You vomit again, your head hovering over the toilet, feeling weak as you try to remember the last time you had a period. You're certain you're going to throw up again when the bathroom door swings open. You jerk your head up, flushing the toilet immediately as you rise, hurrying to the sink to nonchalantly scrub your hands. You catch the outline Miss Pillsbury in the corner of your eye, stepping closer to you. You turn your head, focusing on your pale reflection in the mirror, trying your best to ignore her presence.

"Santana?" she asks softly. You still refuse to look at her, scrubbing your hands until they turn pink. "I don't mean to accuse you of anything, but I'm pretty sure I heard you throwing up right before I came in."

Your stomach lurches as she says the words, and you can once again taste the vomit rising in your throat. You just want to be left alone. You don't say anything. If you defend yourself, it will only confirm that damn guidance counselor's suspicions. You know exactly what she's thinking. People like Rachel fucking Berry mash all you high school girls into a pathetic stereotype of sorry little drama queens drowning in your own self pity. Your life may suck, but you don't go around whining about it, and you certainly don't cause yourself more unnecessary harm and pain by destroying yourself with an eating disorder.

Your alternative is to explain the real reason you're throwing up, the gripping fear and sudden worry that you've pushed your body too far. That you'll end up just like Quinn Fabray, in her compromising situation. God knows you pushed the limits long ago. You say nothing, neither option working in your favor. Like everything else in your life, you let her think what she wants. She doesn't matter anymore than them.

"Santana, why don't you come down to my office for a little while?" she tells you gently when it's obvious you're not going to say anything.

That's the last thing you need right now. The last thing you want. You open your mouth to calmly explain that you're fine, but as soon as you do, your stomach heaves, and your head is back over the toilet, flushing out the remains of what you held back before. She lets out a faint cry as the stench of vomit fills the bathroom, but your head is spinning too fast for you to really notice. You crumble to your knees, feeling spent as you flush the filth away. This time, you know you're done.

"Santana, honey, are you okay?" Miss Pillsbury approaches you, her mauve heels clicking softly against the tiled floor.

Her voice is soft, comforting, and in your distraught state, you find it soothing. You think of all the times you've thrown up at home over the years, holding back your hair yourself, nobody caring at all. But Miss Pillsbury approaches you, cautiously, crouching down in her prim pencil skirt so her eyes are level with yours. She tucks a flyaway hair behind your ear, smiling faintly, her large brown eyes shining. She's not concerned anymore—at least not the way she was before. Girls with eating disorders don't throw up without warning. Girls with eating disorders know how to control it.

She pushes through her comfort zone, reaching to take your hand to help you up. You graciously take it, feeling slightly dizzy as you rise. You stumble over to the sink, while Miss Pillsbury takes a sheet of paper towel, wetting it before she hands it to you. You crack a faint smile, taking it appreciatively as you wipe your mouth. As you toss it, stepping toward the sink to wash your hands, she does the same, though it takes her a good three minutes longer.

"Want me to walk down to the nurse with you, sweetie?" she asks as she dries her red hands thoroughly.

"I—I don't want to go to the nurse," you mumble hoarsely, your throat still burning from the acidic vomit. You know the nurse immediately sends any kids home who throw up, and your Mama, working the day shift, is unreachable, and you know Anton will be less than willing to pick you up.

Besides, no matter how awful you feel, you know you're not really sick. Your shock, your fear will soon fade, and you know your body will be back to normal.

"Well I can't send you back to class like this," she tells you. You catch your reflection in the mirror, noticing your pale face and your red, watery eyes. You really do look like shit. "So you either need to go the nurse's office or come sit in my office for a little while."

"Your office," you mutter immediately. Though you're already starting to feel a little better, you know you can play up your illness a little bit longer so she won't push you to talk. She nods, pushing open the bathroom door as you follow her through the empty halls. You've only been in her office one other time—for scheduling at the end of last year, and you feel out of place as you sit in one of the plush chairs on the far side of her desk.

"Here," she mutters awkwardly, handing you the trashcan from beside her desk. "Just in case, you know, you, um, feel sick again..." she looks pale herself at even the thought of you throwing up in her pristine office.

You take it, placing it next to your chair, not bothering to explain that you know you won't be sick again. The effort seems too great, and as your body relaxes, you're suddenly so, so tired. She slips in the chair behind her desk, taking out a packet of papers, placing them in the dead center of her desk. She squirts a drop of hand sanitizer onto her pale hands, rubbing them thoroughly together. The strong scent of Purell wafts around the small office, mixing with her cherry blossom air freshener and the lingering smell of Lysol wipes.

You don't know why she's such a nut about germs—it's just one of those things everyone who's spent at least five minutes with her knows about her. You figure something probably happened in her past—something she probably wants to talk about no more than you do. It makes you feel a little bit better, thinking about this successful, perfect woman having her own flaws, her own struggles. It makes you feel just a little bit hopeful.

"How long can I stay, Miss Pillsbury?" you find yourself asking. You've never let down your guard this much—not at school, at least, and you suddenly don't want to pick up the pieces and put on your tiring act. This office is secluded, controlled, a quiet little world nestled in chaos. It makes you feel safe.

"As long as you need to," she tells you, smiling from behind the desk. "I don't have any appointments scheduled this afternoon, and I'll be sure to let your teachers know you're here with me."

You nod, a warm feeling in your stomach. You head falls against your shoulder as you struggle to keep your eyes open, Miss Pillsbury's form shimmering in front of you as they flutter closed. You're too tired to fight as you drift into darkness.

XXXX

You panic when your eyes fly open, feeling disoriented as you wake up in the unfamiliar room.

You settle slightly, relaxing back into your chair as it all comes back to you. In front of you, Miss Pillsbury has a pile of books stacked neatly on her desk as she organizes a bookshelf you can't find any fault with.

"Feeling better?" she asks you when she realized you're awake.

You nod, still feeling a little dizzy as your eyes focus. "How long was I asleep?" you mutter. You mouth is dry and it tastes horrible. You wrinkle your nose as you run your tongue across your teeth.

"Almost an hour," she tells you, abandoning her books as she begins to rummage through her purse. Your eyes widen in shock. "Don't worry about it," she quickly assures you. "You certainly looked like you needed it. I just felt bad that you had to make do with that cramped chair."

"It's okay," you tell her, certain that you would've never slept this deeply under the watchful eye of the nurse. You don't bother to explain how safe she makes you feel.

"Here, do you, um, want a piece of gum?" she asks, pulling a packet of spearmint Orbit from her bag. "I was going to offer earlier, but you conked out pretty fast..."

"Thanks," you mutter, popping a piece of the minty gum into your mouth, immediately feeling better as it covers the stale taste of vomit. You chew in silence as she continues her book organization, struggling as she reaches to place a large volume on the top shelf.

"Want a hand?" you ask quietly.

She looks slightly startled as she turns. The words surprise you, too. As a rule, you're never nice to anyone but Brittany.

"Um, well, only if you want to..." she's a little flustered as the words spill from her mouth. She's the used to giving out the help, not receiving it.

"How are you organizing them?" you ask as you approach her desk, glancing at the stack.

"Alphabetically by, uh, title...I just had them organized alphabetically by author, but I thought it was time for a change," she practically whispers, seeming embarrassed as you witness her crazy behavior. You take the next book from the stack, easily reaching the top shelf that had her straining. You realize it's her own way of taking control in her life. You take control of your body; she takes control of her surroundings. You feel a little less alone as you continue to stack in silence.

It takes you almost through the end of last period to finish, and though Miss Pillsbury hardly speaks the entire time, you can tell she appreciates your help.

"There," she says, placing the last book into place, smiling proudly. "Thanks for your help, Santana."

You smile, feeling strangely proud as well.

"I guess I should be getting back to class," you tell her, almost regretfully. You don't want to leave this blissful world you've found in between, right in the middle of your two separate lives.

"Right," Miss Pillsbury mutters, filling out a pass for you in her perfect handwriting. "Here you go. And please, Santana, stop by anytime you need to. My office is always open."

You nod, smiling as you take a closer look at the pass, noticing she's filled it out in pink ink. Brittany would like that. Maybe you will come back, you think as you head toward your biology class.

Maybe.

XXXX

It's late by the time you get home.

You had Cheerio practice for an hour and a half after school, and then you went over to Brittany's for dinner, prolonging your visit there for as long as you could manage. The house is oddly quiet as you slip inside. You stumble through the darkness, tripping over the edge of the throw rug as you cross living room.

"Shit," you mutter as your ankle twists beneath you.

You hear a gasp, your heart pounding as the lamp beside the couch flickers on, revealing your bleary eyed Mama sitting up between the cushions. "Oh, it's just you, chica," she sighs, her face relaxes as she falls back against the the throw pillows.

You're a little confused as you approach her, hobbling just a little on your injured ankle. "Why are you down here, Mama?"

"Oh, Anton and I just had a little fight," she mumbles. "Nothing to worry about, really."

In the glow of the lamp, you notice her swollen cheek for the first time. You gasp. "Did he hit you, Mama?"

She turns her face away, obviously not wanting to discuss this with you. "It's nothing for you to worry about, Santana," she assures you. "He was just a little angry, that's all."

You're so angry that it takes you a moment to catch your breath. Yelling is one thing, but hitting? The anger you've kept suppressed for so long is suddenly pulsing through you.

"Santana," Mama tells you calmly. "Go to bed, and don't you dare do anything you'll regret. I'm fine; I can take care of myself, and I'd appreciate it if you left this alone."

You nod, still shaking as you climb the stairs up to your and Lourie's room. You throw your bag against your bed, realizing quickly that Lourdes is not in hers. You panic for a minute, imagining Anton hurting your little sister as well. You run down the hall to Manny's room, cracking open the door to make sure he's okay, letting out a breath of relief as you realize Lourie is curled up right beside him.

Of course. She hates falling asleep by herself.

With your anger replaced by a wave of relief, you tip-toe back to your own room, changing from your Cheerio uniform into some pjs. You're still too riled up to sleep, though you are heeding your mother's advice. Doing anything rash right now would be a mistake on your part, no matter how much it angers you that Anton can manage to get away with his insufferable acts.

You glance around your room, wishing you had a bookshelf, or something, to organize, remembering the way the methodical task gave comfort this afternoon. If Miss Pillsbury can manage her life by taking control of her environment, then why can't you try it as well? You settle for you sock drawer, digging out the large pile, deciding you'll arrange them by color. But when they're tucked neatly into the drawer in the best rainbow order you can manage with your limited colors, you're not satisfied. You arrange them by size, then by brand before you're too tired to keep your eyes open.

Crawling into your bed, you feel just a little better as you allow sleep to claim you.

XXXX

Quinn falls fast. Faster than even you anticipated.

As soon as Coach Sylvester discovers her pregnancy, she's off the Cheerios before the rumors can even spread through the group. After Coach Sylvester yells at an hysterical Quinn, telling her that maybe she should've thought about keeping her legs closed if she were going to behave like this, Quinn shoots you a pleading, wild look, begging you not to leave her alone.

But you turn your face, refusing to give into her pleas. Because after all, you've learned from the best. And you stab her harder in the back than you ever imagined yourself capable as you use her exact techniques against her.

It doesn't take you long to fill Quinn's shoes. You're next in line for head Cheerio, and the band of pathetic girls who followed Quinn now gather behind you, switching loyalties without a thought. Your confidence has been restored. You start fooling around with Puck again, and you strut around the school like you own the place. You have Brittany by your side, your right hand man. There's nothing else you could ask for.

You don't tell anyone how you really feel—that having complete dominion is nothing at all like you imagined it'd be. Being head Cheerio means you have to work harder, leading the segment of practice you always took for granted when Quinn was still around. You find your pack of Cheerio girls to be annoying, asking when you'll throw sleepovers and shopping trips like Quinn.

In reality, you just want to be left alone.

Except for Brittany, of course.

You're at least thankful you have her to keep you sane.

XXXX

You don't go back to Miss Pillsbury's office, though you go out of your way to pass her office as often as you can during the day.

You watch her, caught up in her own controlled world, cleaning her office continually, organizing her books from time to time. You've been doing the same at home, trying out her techniques in your own room, and you're surprised how soothing it can be after a particularly trying day.

You've come close to opening her door several times. After all, she did tell you that you could come back anytime you wanted. But it scares you, just a little, because you know what going back entails. You can't just expect a peaceful little visit, a small break from your life like last time. It was easier when she found you; you weren't obligated to tell her anything. But it's different if you seek her out; you're going to have to open up to her if you make the decision to visit.

And you're not sure if you're ready for that.

XXXX

He puts his rough hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming. After thrashing for a moment longer, you allow your body to grow limp in his grasp.

He slowly loosens his grasp, keeping his hand against your mouth until he's sure you won't scream.

You curl up in a ball beside your bed, gasping in pain. That tender area between your thighs is so, so sore.

"Get up," he tells you harshly as he tosses your panties at you. "Get up now, and get dressed."

You scramble to your feet, scared of what he'll do to you if you don't comply. You pull your underwear up your trembling legs, then that damn polka dot dress he hands you from the dresser top.

"Remember your promise?" he hisses at you. "You can't go crying to your Mama."

You nod vigorously, straightening your dress.

"Good," he tells you. "Because if you tell, we're going to play this game again."

You feel sick, squeezing your thighs tightly together as he roughly grabs your arm, leading from the room. "Not a word," he reminds you as you enter the living room, your Mama appearing a moment later.

"Hey, Andre," you mother greets him, placing a kiss on his lips. Andre's arms snake around her body, and you wonder if he does the same things he did to you to your Mama.

When she pulls away, she glances at you. "I thought you were wearing your blue dress."

"Andre helped me get this one," you whisper, and Andre smiles smugly, knowing that he has won.

"Oh, how nice of him," your Mama smiles, giving Andre an adoring look.

How nice, the words continue to ring in your head as your Mama leads Andre to the kitchen, leaving you standing there, all but forgotten. How very nice.

XXXX

You wake up with a start, a small cry escaping your lips.

You're sleeping over at Brittany's, and though it's too cold to sleep out on the porch, you're both snuggled in her twin sized bed, the air mattress her mother inflated for you forgotten on the floor beside you. Brittany stirs beside you, her eyes fluttering open as you whimper, trying to push yourself from the dream, trying to bring yourself back to reality.

"San," she mumbles, rubbing your hand gently. "It was just a bad dream."

Just a bad dream, you repeat to yourself. Just a bad dream.

You snuggle back under the covers with her, fitting your head into the crook of her shoulder. She brushes your hair away from your forehead, kissing it softly.

"It's okay, San," she whispers. "Everything is going to be okay."

You let out a breath, breathing in her warm scent of vanilla. When Brittany says the words, you can almost believe them.

XXXX

"Santana, can I talk to you for a minute?" Mr. Schue calls you to the front of room after the bell rings.

Brittany shoots you a worried look, but you assure her everything fine's, shooing her off to her next class. She reluctantly leaves as you approach the desk. You know exactly why you're here. You've been planning this for weeks now, but you play dumb, giving Mr. Schue a quizzical look as you approach his desk.

"Take a look at this," he tells you, handing you a sheet of paper.

Your eyes widen slightly as you look at the numbers, fighting the urge to smile triumphantly. You knew you were doing poorly, but you never imagined you'd be able to lower your grade this much.

The fifty four percent stands out like a sore thumb next to your eighty seven and eighty eight for the first half of the year.

"I can't figure it out, Santana," he sighs, giving you a distasteful look. For being such a nice guy, easily one of the favorite teachers among the students, he's never been very nice to you. But then again, you have been trying to destroy his precious glee club for a while now. "You usually do fine in my class—more than fine compared to most of the kids, actually, and you even know Spanish..." he trails off, and you bite back a scoff. People always assure that because you're Hispanic, you should know the language flawlessly.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, knowing that he's waiting for you to say something. "I guess I'm just not understanding it as well as I was before..."

He sighs again, not fully convinced. "Well, I do a tutoring session after school on Wednesdays, so I'd like you to come to those to see if we can get you back on track. In the meantime, I'd like you to go down and talk to Miss Pillsbury."

Score.

You take the pass from his hand, trying not to look to eager as you hurry from the room, walking the familiar route to the guidance office. It's become almost an obsession, your need to see Miss Pillsbury again. You cannot erase the ease that came over you while in her office, the connection you felt with her. It's something you've never felt before, not even with sweet Brittany.

So you came up with a plan.

Remembering Puck's visit to the guidance office, you decided to do the same. Failing a class would be the perfect excuse to see Miss Pillsbury, without having to come up with a reason on your own. No matter how much you want to see her again, relishing the safety you feel with this woman, you don't want to compromise yourself. You keep a list in your head, of all the things that are yours. Things you have promised you will never tell.

You push open the glass door, the familiar scent of Lysol, Purell, and cherry blossom greeting you.

"Please sit down, Santana," she tells you, motioning toward the same chair you sat in before.

You squirm in the chair as she straightens a stack of papers, wondering if this was the best idea after all. You wait for that feeling of comfort to wash over you, but you only feel foolish.

"Wi—Mr. Schuester," she corrects, "just sent me an email explaining your situation. You do know why you're here?" she asks, to clarify.

You nod, suddenly wanting out. Suddenly not wanting to talk. Your silly little obsession has taken you too far, and you're now craving the comfort of your solitude, the wall you have worked so hard to craft instead.

"Two weeks is a really fast time for your grade to drop this significantly," she tells you, and you're sure she's going to see right through your act. You feel more foolish by the minute.

She waits for you to say something, but you offer her nothing.

"Santana...is everything okay? At home? Here at school?" she asks softly, leaning forward as her brown eyes widen with concern.

You let out a little sigh of relief, realizing that your little stunt is not going to be discovered after all. "Everything's fine," you tell her. "Can I go now?"

"Not yet," she tells you as you make a move to rise from the chair. You glance down at your feet, hating yourself more than ever right now. Hating yourself for letting yourself feel something—for acting on that feeling. "Santana, look at me," she tells you gently, and you lift your face to hesitantly catch her gaze. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But I want you to know that I am here to listen if you decide you do want to talk. Everything we talk about stays in this office, just between you and me. Your friends, or even your parents don't even have to know you're talking to me."

You don't say anything, processing her words as you relax slightly.

"Santana," she sighs, continuing when you do not speak. "I know it's hard to be a high school girl, and I'm not going to pretend to understand your struggles, but I understand they are there. I don't want to offer you pity, or advice, or anything you aren't looking for, but I do want you to know you have a safe place to talk if you decide you want to. I care about you, Santana, and I'm not just saying that because I have to. And I can tell there's a beautiful girl hiding behind the wall you've put up."

Your throat tightens, because no one ever calls you beautiful, especially in the way Miss Pillsbury has. You bite your tongue, trying not to cry. You can't sort through your emotions—can't tell what you're really feeling right now. You want to say this visit was a mistake, but as Miss Pillsbury offers you what you've been searching for all these years—someone who merely cares—you can't help but to feel more drawn to her than before.

She watches you, and you wonder how much of your internal struggle is evident on your face. When you say nothing yet again, she fills the silence.

"Now about your Spanish grade," she begins. "Mr. Schuester says he wants you in his tutor sessions on Wednesdays, which I think is a good idea, at least to start. In the meanwhile, I wouldn't mind if you stopped down here once a week, just so we can see how your grade is improving—and if it's necessary, talk about ways to further help you. That's all I ask—that we strictly talk about your Spanish grade, and if you want to bring up something else while you're here, than feel free to. If not, we'll just have a short meeting each week until we find the right solution for this."

You nod, about all you can manage as you continue to fight your tears.

A weekly meeting with Miss Pillsbury, set up completely by her.

It's exactly what you wanted, exactly why you went through all this trouble in the first place. She opens her planner, picking a day and a time she'll be free for you. She asks you what day would be best for you, and you point to Tuesday, still not trusting your voice.

She bids you farewell, and as you step out into the hall, you take in a gasping breath, sucking in gulps of air until you're certain you won't cry.

XXXX

An odd feeling settles in your stomach as you sit on the edge of Brittany's bed, a strange mix between melancholy and ease.

You're trying not to think about your visit with Miss Pillsbury. She makes you question yourself, all the behaviors you've grown accustomed to over the years feeling wrong. She makes you want to open up, dare to talk about what you never let yourself delve into. She makes you want to give in, and finally just let go, seeking comfort from her that you never knew you wanted so much.

Brittany sits beside you, struggling through her math homework, her lip curved into a pout as she quizzically stares at the problems swimming in front of her. She finally gives up, slamming her book shut as she turns to you. It's so easy to be with Brittany. So uncomplicated. You don't have to dig out the parts of yourself you're unsure about; you don't have to pretend to be the bitch you've created.

You just have to simply be.

No strings attacked, so unwanted feelings. When you're with Brittany, you feel your best, and every other worry just melts away. Her lips curve into a smile, and it's just so cute, so pure that you have to lean in and kiss it. Kissing is something you've done more and more. Still just chaste pecks, but it's something you've grown to crave, even more than the passionate making out you do with Puck.

You feel her smile grow beneath yours, and you lean in further, a thrill pulsing through your body as Brittany's hand finds your face. Her lips feel soft against your own. As you lean deeper into the kiss, waves of emotion course through you. Excitement, surprise, delight, but greatest of all, satisfaction, satisfaction for something you've always longed for but haven't realized you wanted it so badly until now.

"I love you, San," she tells you when you finally pull away, panting slightly.

You catch your breath, locking your eyes with her blue orbs, uttering the truest phrase you ever have. "I love you, too, Britt."

XXXX

Your weekly visits with Miss Pillsbury turn out to be something you look forward to.

Even when your Spanish grades improve, you still continue to visit, slowly allowing yourself to open up to her. You tell her a little bit about your family, about Lourdes and Manuel, how Anton always yells. You brush upon your "friendship" with Quinn, and little how you're not sure you like taking her place. You even talk a little about Brittany, daring to skim only surface of the relationship you don't even fully understand yourself.

Like sex with Puck, you always determine how much you give, how much you share. You are always in control. But it feels better than you would've imagined, sharing your select insecurities with Miss Pillsbury. She always says the right thing, never making your feel awkward or embarrassed.

She makes you feel like you matter, something only Brittany has done before.

She gives you a reason not to hate yourself.

XXXX

Brittany rarely comes over your house. You don't like to take her to the place that makes you feel the most insecure, but you make an exception today. It's a rare afternoon that you don't have Cheerio practice, and both your parents are working. Lourdes is still in school, and Manny's at daycare. You apologize that you don't have any cookies or hot cocoa, like her mom always makes, but Brittany tells you it doesn't matter.

She's just glad to be here with you.

XXXX

Sometimes you like to imagine what it would be like if Emma Pillsbury were your mother.

You imagine you'd like it, living in her house, which you are fairly certain is as immaculate as her office. Controlled and peaceful, you find it hard to imagine a place you'd like more.

But mostly, you think it'd be nice because she cares. You stopped trying to seek your mother's attention eons ago, and you're just staring to realize how much you've missed.

XXXX

It's a strangely sunny day for the middle of February, and you figure the rare sunshine adds to your chipper mood, though you're quite certain you'd be smiling like a fool even if it were storming.

Brittany's parents are taking her little sister to a gymnastics tournament for the weekend, and they have agreed to leave Brittany at home, as long as you stay with her. Your Mama has agreed to let you go without a fuss. You're hardly ever home anyway, and the only person who often seems to notice you is Manny, and that's only when he wets his bed. You're beyond excited, to get to spend this much needed alone time with Brittany. A carefree weekend where you can stay up all night, falling asleep in the wee hours of the morning, only to snuggle in bed until noon. No parents around, no one to find you as you dare to explore boundaries.

As you enter Miss Pillsbury office, your smile seems contagious as she grins widely at you as you take your seat.

"Why so smiley today, Santana?" she asks brightly as she clears her desk off, giving you her full attention.

You try to wipe your grin away, but your efforts are in vain. You can't remember feeling this good in a long time.

"Let me guess," she muses for a moment. "Does this have something to do with a boy?"

Your cheeks color hotly. If only she knew...

She misinterprets your blushing, naively digging deeper, smiling as she asks, "Anyone I would know?"

You lick your lips tentatively, your giddy mood dropping suddenly. You've never thought of what you and Brittany do together as being wrong, but suddenly it feels that way. People don't understand you the way Brittany does. People don't understand Brittany the way you do. And all at once, your relationship that was always so simple, so pure, feels utterly complicated and taboo as you dare to look at it from an outsider's perspective.

"I'm sorry, Santana, if I brought up a bad topic," Miss Pillsbury mumbles, suddenly concerned by your chalk white face and your fidgeting. "We can certainly talk about something else if you'd like."

You don't really process her words, feeling distracted as your head reels. You've been so busy denying the truth, so busy simply letting your relationship with Brittany happen that you haven't taken the time to properly think about it.

"Have you ever liked someone you're not supposed to like?" the words spill from your mouth before you can rein them in.

Miss Pillsbury's face reddens, and you realize what a stupid question it is when actually aimed at her. An image of Mr. Schue flashes through your mind as she answers. "Santana, I know it can be hard to like a boy who's dating someone else, or too old for you...or even married to someone else," she says the words regretfully.

You almost scoff. If only your predicament were that simple, an unrequited crush on an unavailable boy. You almost tuck the subject away, but the annoying curiosity that tugs at your gut as you delve into the topic is stronger.

"I mean, someone that you shouldn't like...because it should feel wrong, but you're attracted to them anyway..." you trail off, struggling to express your inner turmoil.

Miss Pillsbury ponders your words, licking her lips before speaking, "Santana, are you unsure about your sexuality?" The words are blunt, and you're almost surprised she catches on so quickly.

Your cheeks redden to confirm it.

"Santana, being a lesbian isn't wrong...and I want you to go into this conversation with that mindset. I know your feelings are confusing right now, especially after you've been interested in boys for so long now."

The word "lesbian" makes you cringe. Is that all you are? A fag like Kurt?

"But what if I'm not a lesbian?" you blurt out, trying to wipe the label away. "What if it's not all girls I like...what if it's just one? What if just one is all it will ever be?"

You can't imagine feeling this way about another girl. No other girl makes you feel this way—no guy even makes you feel this way. As you struggle to fit yourself into a mold, you can't find a proper label, at least not from the list of ones you have to choose from.

"Well, maybe we should talk about why you like this girl," Miss Pillsbury suggests.

You're silent for a moment as you consider Brittany, sweet Brittany, and what makes you love her more than anyone else in the world. "She's sweet," you start. "So sweet. And she never judges me, about anything at all. She makes it easy to be with her, because there's never any strings attached. No commitment, no drama—she's just there for me when I need her. And she's always so gentle—never rough like all those boys I've been with...never overbearing..."

Miss Pillsbury watches you carefully, her eyes sparking with interest, concern, as you mutter the last part. "Santana, I don't mean to, you know, bring up something I should've, but your last statement worries me just a little...with your perception of men and all..." she stops, finding your eyes. You look at your feet. "Have you had, um, an experience with a boy, or maybe even a man, who, you know, touched you a way you didn't feel comfortable with?"

A flash of heat washes over you, and suddenly you feel sick. The walls of the office seem to close in around you as you try not to think. Try not to remember. "I need to go now, Miss Pillsbury," you tell her, you voice sounding detached at you speak.

"Wait, Santana," she calls, her voice sounding far away, but you're already out the door.

XXXX

You somehow manage to make it through your last period class without losing it, and you're glad you don't have to pretend anymore, putting on a strong face for Brittany, putting on a nonchalant face for Puck when he asks you to hook up with him tonight.

You're sitting behind the school, right next to the faculty parking lot with is almost empty now, the frozen February ground making your butt numb. You don't want to go home. You don't want to go to Puck's. You don't even want to go to Brittany's. You just want, everyone, everything to go away.

"Santana?" you recognize her voice, her subtle Southern drawl, before the turquoise pumps even approach you.

Of course.

Of course she'd still be here, and of course she'd find you.

You look up at her as she carefully crosses the expanse of dead grass, looking worried as she crouches down beside you. You're certain she's going to force you to come to her office with her, questioning you until you have no choice but to tell the truth.

But instead, she simply says, "I'm sorry, Santana. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have brought up a topic like that, and I feel terrible that I made you so uncomfortable. As much as I would like to talk about this—to see if there's anything I can do for you, I can't. You're the one who chooses what you feel comfortable sharing, and I never, ever want you to feel uncomfortable or obligated to tell me anything you don't want to."

You can't look at her, and you're biting your tongue so hard that you can taste blood. She's so good to you. She cares so much that it makes you hurt. Makes your eyes water, even though you've given up crying so long ago. You let out a strangled noise as you try to bite back your tears. You won't cry. You can't cry.

"Santana, sweetie, it's okay to cry," she tells you gently, reaching out to rub your arm through your shirt.

You want to tell her that it's not. It's not okay to cry. You have worked so hard to build up this control, this emotionless exterior. You can't just lose it now. She continues to rub your arm, saying nothing as her wide brown eyes never leave your. You watch as a single tear falls down her face—a tear for you.

Your eyes become so blurry that you can't see her anymore, and you wipe at your face furiously as the hot tears spill with fervor. You choke out a sob, hardly aware of the situation as Miss Pillsbury helps you to your feet. She has you wrapped in her arms, your head tucked against her shoulder before you can fully register the situation.

"It's okay," she soothes, rubbing gentle circles against your back. "It's okay, honey, just let it all out."

You cry for awhile, endless sobs that have been pent up for years. She never pulls away, never lets go as.

When you can finally breathe again, you sigh against her, not ready to pull away just yet. Her hands stroke your sleek ponytail gently, and you squeeze you eyes shut as you begin to cry once again.

You used to wonder what it would be like, to have a mother who would hold you, a mother who would stroke your hair.

Tucked safely in Miss Pillsbury's arms, you're certain you never want this feeling to go away.

You pull away eventually, weak and trembling as you try to stand on your own. "I-I think I need to sit down," you mumble, your voice thick with mucous.

Your eyes dart to the decrepit picnic bench resting a few yards away, Miss Pillsbury's gaze following yours. She wrinkles her nose at the sight of the filthy bench.

"Why don't you come sit in my car with me for a little bit...we won't, um, drive anywhere, or anything...but we can get out of the cold for a minute..." she trails off, trying to sound nonchalant about her offer. You know she could probably lose her job for having a student in her vehicle.

You nod, following her to the black Volvo parked in the lot. She turns on the heat as you slide into the passenger seat, pulling your knees your chest as your body begins to thaw. Neither of you say anything for a moment as the car becomes warm and toasty.

"Thank you," you mumble after a moment, turning your face to look at her.

"Of course, Santana," she smiles. "You know I'm here for you anytime you need me."

Your meager "thank you" suddenly doesn't feel adequate enough. You want to let this woman know how much you trust her, how much she means to you.

"I want to tell you," you mutter suddenly, realizing how much you need to relieve your burden, realizing that you've been waiting for someone like Miss Pillsbury for so long.

She doesn't look confused, like she's been waiting for you to utter those words all along. She reaches to take your hand in hers, rubbing it reassuringly as you take in a shaky breath.

"My Mama had a lot a boyfriends when I was little," you begin, keeping your eyes locked with hers for support as she squeezes your hand. "She had me when she was only seventeen, and she was hardly ready to give up her lifestyle and devote the time and attention to me that a child needed. Most of her boyfriends were nice enough, and they left me alone. But there was this one guy when I was five," your voice cracks here, and Miss Pillsbury's hand tightens around yours.

"He said it was only a game," your voice is an octave higher the shrill words escape you lips. "He told me it was a game that big girls got to play. And I believed him. I believed every fucking word."

"Oh, Santana," her voice breaks as she leans over the seat divider to wrap you in her arms once again. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault at all."

"Yes, it is," you whisper into her neck, hot tears spilling down your cheeks once again. "It's all my fault, because I was stupid enough to trust him. I should've pulled away. I should've told him that he couldn't touch me like that..."

"Santana, sweetheart," she soothes, fingers running through your hair once again. "You didn't know. You were only five, and he was wrong to take advantage of you like that. There's nothing you could've done, and I want you to believe that."

Her words make you feel better—make you think about the situation in a new light. "It still makes me feel sick every time I think about what I let him do to me..."

"Sweetie," she reasons with you. "That's only normal. You went through a horrible experience, and you've been keeping it cooped up inside for so long now. Healing from something like this is a long, long process...and I want you to realize that you are not alone. It's terrible how many girls go through experiences like this—and how many of them are convinced it's all there fault. But you can heal, you can overcome it."

You sniffle, a wave of relief washing over you. A wave of relief you didn't even know you needed so badly. It's a strange feeling, to no longer carry your burden alone.

"I was mad today," you mutter quietly. "I was mad when you linked my sexuality—my problem with trusting boys—to what happened to me. It made me angry to think that maybe if that bastard had left me alone, that if I could've stood up and said no like I wish I could've...that maybe I would've turned out normal."

"Santa—" she begins, but you cut her off.

"But then I realized that maybe it all happened for a reason—because I probably would've never realized how much I loved Brittany if it never happened, if I never needed her so much."

She seems hardly surprised as you say Brittany's name for the first time, as if she suspected your best friend was the one all along. "It's strange how the incidents that seem the worst, the situations we wish we would've never had to experience are the ones that end up changing our lives for the better—prompting us to make decisions we wouldn't have made before. It was a couple of situations I would've never wished upon someone else that made me become a guidance counselor," she tells you.

"And if you never became a guidance counselor, than I would've never met you," you mutter.

You feel her smile as she tightens her grasp around you, keeping you safe.

XXXX

It's harder, once Miss Pillsbury is gone.

You feel like you've opened a hole in your chest, and it hurts when you have no where there to fill it. You keep replaying the conversation with Miss Pillsbury in your mind, and soon memories of Andre begin to slip in as well. You're strangely glad when Puck texts you, reminding you of the evening activities you have planned.

It's fast. You come quickly, falling against Puck's sculpted chest before you want to, your memories flooding back with sudden force. You're sobbing before you can help it, loud, racking cries that make your whole body tremble. Puck is at a loss. You always keep these instances purely physical, never daring to let any emotion seep in.

As you continue to bawl, Puck hesitantly reaches out, beginning to stroke your hair. You pull away, feeling hot as you struggle back into the tight spandex of your Cheerio uniform, leaving before Puck can utter a word.

XXXX

The walk to Brittany's is long, but you hardly care are you jog through the frigid winter night.

You're exhausted by the time you reach her backyard, struggling to climb up to her second floor balcony, but you've had good practice with your own roof. You pull yourself up over the ledge, your legs feeling weak as you knock against the sliding glass door, praying that Brittany will let you in.

She appears a moment later, looking sleepy as she slides open the door. She doesn't ask anything as she ushers you inside, pulling you gently into the bed with her. She doesn't ask why you're here so late, appearing on her balcony without warning. She doesn't ask why you're sweaty. She doesn't even ask why you're crying, as the endless sobs tear through you once again.

She just holds you against her, saying nothing as she tugs the tie from your hair, letting your ponytail fall loose. As her fingers work gently through your hair, you snuggle closer to her, allowing yourself to fall asleep in her arms.

XXXX

Miss Pillsbury cancels your next appointment, giving you a minor flash of panic. You've been counting the days until you could see her again, fighting the urge to burst into her office on your own accord.

You conversation feels unfinished. There's suddenly so much more you want to tell her, so much more pent up emotion that needs to come out. You feel sick when you receive the note the period before you're supposed to go down, telling you that she won't be able to meet with you today. In her perfect handwriting, she assures you that it's nothing to do with you. Something has come up, and she's very sorry that you'll have to wait until next week.

You can't concentrate on anything for the remainder of the day. Even Brittany can't pull you from your anxious state. You begin to wonder if you've gone too far, trusting Miss Pillsbury like this. It was the hardest thing you've ever told anyone, and you certainly don't want it to be brushed under the rug. You remind yourself that she told you it had nothing to do with you. Of course Miss Pillsbury would have other concerns, other issues cropping up that wouldn't concern you. You struggle to remain reasonable as you wait for your appointment next week.

But after three days, you can hardly stand it. During your lunch period, you throw open the door to her office, earning a shocked expression from your guidance counselor. Her eyes are slightly red, a little swollen, as though she were crying only moments before. You notice a large bouquet of varied flowers resting on the far side of her desk. She leans away from them, as if the beautiful assortment makes her uneasy.

She coughs, smoothing the knitted material of her Eiffel Tower cardigan. "Santana, now's not a really good time..." she trails off, her voice heavy with emotion.

You stomach sinks as she says the words, and you realize just how out of line you are, bursting through the doors like this. "I'm sorry," you mumble, leaving immediately, tears streaming down your cheeks as you slip into the girl's bathroom.

That's all you've been doing this past week. Crying like a leaky faucet. You can't stop the tears anymore—not like you used to, and it aggravates you, only making you cry more.

You hate Miss Pillsbury.

You want her to be there for you, despite the other situations she must deal with. You want her to comfort you, to tell you everything's going to be okay. You want her to be so much more than she can be for you, and as you slide down the wall of the bathroom stall, pulling your knees to your chest, you realize it's not Miss Pillsbury you hate at all.

The person you loathe is yourself.

XXXX

You deliberately skip your appointment with Miss Pillsbury the following week, vowing that you'll never go back.

You don't want to inconvenience her, and you don't want to hurt yourself, building up a trust that can so easily be broken. You receive another note, the next day during Spanish class in that fucking perfect handwriting, asking you to come down to her office right away. You want nothing more than to crumple the note, ripping it into a thousand pieces, but Mr. Schue stands in front of you, waiting for you to pack up your books and leave.

You take the long way around the back of the school, prolonging the confrontation for as long as you can manage. You sulk, trudging into the office, refusing to look at her as you take your usual seat. You pull your knees to your chest, feeling foolish and vulnerable. You tell yourself you don't want to be here, but that is a lie.

"Santana," Miss Pillsbury sighs. You're waiting for her to reprimand you for skipping yesterday, so you're surprised, even though you really shouldn't be, when she apologizes instead. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what happened the other day. I was a little bit of a...mess," she offers, trying to explain her actions. "But that was no excuse for me to kick you out without even seeing what you needed. I told you I'd be here for you, especially during school hours, I need to keep that promise. So I hope you'll accept my apology."

You've already forgiven her before she finishes. She's impossible to stay angry with, impossible to hate. "No, I'm sorry," you sigh. "I understand that you can't be there every time I need you. That you have other students and yourself to take care of too. I just got a little scared, when I realized that after opening up to you. I've never really opened up to anyone before, and I was afraid you were just going to turn out like everyone else in my life. I didn't really need you the other day—I just wanted you." Your voice rises slightly as you ineffectively try to suppress a wave of tears.

She comes around the desk, rubbing your shoulder as you cry.

"I feel horrible, Santana," she tells you. "That's the last way I wanted you to feel, and I should realized you'd need me more than ever after what you told me."

"It's okay, Miss Pillsbury," you tell her. You know how much she truly does care—you've always known, even if you've been blocking out the truth for the past week. "You're only human."

Her face melts into a soft smile as she continues to rub your arm. "You know, Santana, you can't keep beating yourself up about all these things, either. You're only human, too."

You know that better than ever, watching as every ounce of your control has slipped from your fingers. As you've allowed yourself to express emotions you haven't in ages. As you have finally let yourself cry. As you've allowed yourself to realize that feeling so weak is sometimes okay.

You let her rub your shoulder a little bit longer, both feeling a little vulnerable and very, very human.

XXXX

You awake in the middle of the night to a shriek. Startled, you rise from your bed, making sure that Lourdes is still sleeping soundly.

The light from your Mama and Anton's room stretches from beneath the door frame, leaving a soft glow of light across the hallways. You hear another shriek, a whimper, seep from behind the closed door.

Your Mama.

You remember her bruised face from months before, the anger you felt then now resurfacing with vengeance. You creep over to the door, quietly cracking it open, shaking as you see Anton standing over your Mama's trembling body, his hand raised as he swats her across the face. Something inside of you cracks, watching him beat her this way. You wonder how often her hurts her, how long your mother has been hiding this.

It doesn't matter that she's never been there for you, that Miss Pillsbury has been more of a mother to you in the past month than your Mama has been in sixteen years. That she was never there to protect you. That she never knew. Never cared enough to find out.

But she's your Mama, and you love her. And no one should have to suffer through what Anton's doing to her right now.

"Don't you touch her," you tell him, your voice commanding, but not out of control.

You mother gasps, looking frightened, looking embarrassed. Anton turns to you, his eyes wild with fury. "What did you say to me?"

"I said, don't you dare touch her," you voice is louder, your rage seeping in this time. You step in front of your mother's broken body, glaring fiercely at this man you hate so much.

"You don't want me to touch her? Fine then, how about I give you a good beating then?" He slaps his hand across your face before you even have time to react. His hand stings, causing you to wince. As you stumbled back in pain, a smug smile crosses his face.

"Anton, don't," your mother says weakly, trying to rise from the floor.

He pays her no heed, taking your arm roughly in his as he drag you out the door, away from your mother, away from her unconvincing pleas. In the hall, he slams you head against the wall, a rush of dizziness sweeping over you.

"Stop!" you tell him, flailing your arms as you try to escape his grasp. You've promised yourself you're never going to let another man hurt you. You've promised yourself that you wouldn't let another man control you in way you don't want. But as he continues to hit you, keeping you firmly jammed against the wall, your eyes catch your mother, dragging her trembling body from the floor as the crawls toward the door. You want to tell her to turn back. You're scared he's going to notice her, dragging her injured body to give the last of her strength to safe you.

And suddenly, his hard fist across your face doesn't mean the same thing anymore. It doesn't mean you're weak. It doesn't mean that you have lost control, or that he's winning. Because for each blow he gives you, it's one he's not giving your Mama. You're doing this to protect her. Your young, able body can handle it much better than her broken one.

"Hit me harder," you manage to gasp. He grins sadistically, some horror within him unleashed as he brings his knees to your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. You've taken your place as the family protector once more. You're in so much pain that you can hardly feel the onslaught of the new jabs, letting your body go limp as he continues to pound you. He thinks he winning. He thinks he's in control.

But each time his fist hits you, you remind yourself that you're the one in charge. You can't even keep your eyes open to see where you mother is, her soft, gasping pleas persisting, but as long as you feel his hands against your body, you know she is safe. Your knees give out, unexpectedly, the force of his blow sends you stumbling over the edge of the stairs. You fall to the ground in a tangled heap, your head slamming against the wall. You want to open your eyes, want to scream, but your world goes black before you can even try.

XXXX

When you try to push your eyelids open, they feel as though they weigh a thousand pounds.

And the light is too bright. Too bright to be your dark hallway.

You open your mouth, but your throat is too dry to form a sound. When you finally manage to open your eyes, the first thing you notice is a figure sitting beside you, too blurry to make out. But as the red hair, the embellished cardigan shimmer into focus, your find your voice, faint and raspy. "Miss Pillsbury."

"Oh, sweetie, you're awake!" he voice is too loud, too clear as your head pounds, trying to make sense of this all.

"Wh-what happened?" you mutter, realizing for the first time that this bright white room is mostly likely a hospital. You have no recollection of coming here.

"How much do you remember?" she asks you, her brow furrowing as she leans closer to you.

"Anton...hitting me. And then everything went black," you manage, shuddering at the mere memory. Her hand finds yours, warm and soft, making it easier for you to focus. "Why are you here?"

"Because of Brittany," she explains, leaving you more confused. "She came into my office yesterday morning, hysterical, telling me that we had to go to Santana's house, right now. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong—I don't think she really knew, but when you didn't show up at school, she knew something was wrong. You're very lucky—she seems to have a sixth sense that's linked to you." You smile faintly. Of course Brittany would know if there was something wrong with you. She's never failed you before. "Against my better judgement, I drove with Brittany over to your house, and I'm so glad I did..."

You tremble slightly, trying to imagine the scene.

"I'm so glad we came when we did, because I don't think you would've lasted much longer, all twisted the way you were..." she quivers, and you can tell she's trying to erase the imagine from her mind.

"What happened...to Anton?" you whisper, the raging image of your stepfather causing your heart to stop for a moment.

Miss Pillsbury's eyes darken for a moment, and you're surprised to see so much hate there. "He's been taken into custody until your mother and you are healthy enough to testify against him."

"My mama?" you ask, suddenly fearful about what happened after you lost consciousness.

"She's in the room right next to yours," Miss Pillsbury informs you.

"Is she okay?" Your voice is weak.

"She's in better shape than you are," she tells you. "She has a sprained wrist and a few bruised ribs, and her face is pretty beat up, but she'll be fine. They'll probably send her home soon."

"What about me?" you dare to ask, trying to access the damage done to your body. You don't feel much of anything, and you imagine you're on more pain meds than you can even wrap your mind around.

She sighs, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as she rattles off the list of your injuries. "You have a fractured tibia, three broken ribs, a mild concussion, and countless bruises."

It takes you a moment to process it all, feeling overwhelmed as you even imagine the healing process.

But you have other things to worry about. "Where are Lourie and Manny?" you voice your concern out loud. Mama's here, and Anton's in prison, leaving no one for your little siblings.

"Brittany's mother is taking care of them until your mother comes home," Miss Pillsbury immediately assures you, and you relax, almost everyone accounted for.

"Brittany?" You suddenly wonder where your savior is in all of this.

"At school, but her mother's bringing straight to the hospital when it's over."

"Shouldn't you be at school, then?" you mutter, suddenly feeling guilty that she's by your side.

"I'm right where I'm supposed to be," she tells you simply, reaching to brush your hair away from your eyes.

You smile, the simple motion putting you at ease. "Sometimes," you whisper, sure that you're probably going to say something you regret in your clouded state. "I like to pretend that you're my mom."

Her hand stops for a brief moment, but she continues her stroking, sighing as she speaks. "Santana, you have a mother."

You know that, and suddenly you wish you would've had the sense to keep your mouth shut.

"Your mother cares about you, Santana," she tells you softly. "I know you might not think that right now, after all that has happened. But she's a hurting woman - hurting just like you are."

"I told Anton to hurt me, not her," you whisper, your subconscious need to protect her coming back to you. She might be your birth mother, and you can't deny that you do love her, but that doesn't mean you want her to be the person who tells you everything is going to be okay, the person who will be there for you. "That's why I'm like...this right now."

"I know," she replies softly. "You mother told me."

"Wh-what else did she say?"

"That she wished she could've had the strength to step back in front of you like you did for her. That she doesn't know how she's going to live this way, knowing how hurt you got at her expense...Santana, she loves you. She's just had a hard time showing it."

"I love her, too," you mumble, but you look down at Miss Pillsbury's hand, still resting in yours as you say the words.

"I can't take her place, Santana," she tells you, slipping her hand from your grasp, leaving a painful hole in your stomach for a brief moment. "It wouldn't be fair of me...wouldn't be right of me, even if it were possible. But I can promise that I will be here for you in anyway that I can—as some one who cares about you, but that's all I can ever be."

You nod. It hurts, but you understand.

"Ca-can you stroke my hair again?" you stutter, hoping you haven't crossed a line.

"Of course, sweetheart," she whispers, bringing her slender hand back to your forehead. You struggle to keep your eyes open as you fight exhaustion. "Sleep," she tells you softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."

You let her promise settle around you, falling into a dreamless sleep.

XXXX

You're surprised by the number of cards you receive, the number of "get well" wishes, some from people you hardly even know.

The most meaningful ones come from your fellow Glee club members, telling you how much they genuinely miss you. Even Rachel Berry makes you a plate of her famous cookies, and you see a side to her you refused to see before, deciding that maybe you won't hate her so much anymore. Even Quinn and you have begun to look at each other again, exchanging an occasional smile. Perhaps you'll become friends again, this time pursuing a relationship in a genuine way instead.

Coach Sylvester, who tolerates no injuries, has been strangely kind to you after a heated discussion with Miss Pillsbury, ensuring that you'll have a spot on the Cheerios when you recover. You don't know what Miss Pillsbury said, but you're glad she's looking out for you.

You're back at home, with Manny and Lourdes fascinated by your cast. It's decorated with indistinguishable pictures drawn by their unsteady hands with Sharpie markers. You're completely dependent on your mother, for things you never needed help with before, like showers and merely climbing the steps, and as you're forced to spend time together, you see a budding relationship forming. It's long overdue, but you're glad you didn't lose your chance.

It helps that Anton isn't around anymore. He's been convicted to prison, and without his overbearing force on the household, you can finally breathe again.

You still visit Miss Pillsbury weekly. There's still so much you've kept locked inside, and even more you're beginning to discover. You don't need her the way you used to, though. You have finally come to terms that all she'll ever be is your guidance counselor, someone who will never stop caring about you, and you're okay with that now.

As you stand in the hallway, right outside your locker, leaning on a pair of crutches, you hear a squeaky noise approaching your from the opposite end of the corridor. You turn to see Brittany, hobbling on a pair of crutches that are much too small for her. "Britt?" you ask quizzically as she comes up beside you.

"They're from when I broke my ankle in seventh grade. I dug them out of my basement. I thought we could be crutch buddies, you know, so you wouldn't feel so alone."

A wide grin sweeps across your face. You hop over to Brittany, pecking a soft kiss to her cheek, not caring if anyone sees you. "I love you, you know that, right?"

She only smiles. "Yeah, but I love you more."

You feel a burst of pride, a burst of contentment.

Because you've found yourself. You've found yourself, somewhere between your uncertainties, on the cusp of the horizon, somewhere between sunrise and sunset. A place where all the not-quites and maybes don't matter, a place where you don't have to fit a mold.

You can be yourself, even though you're not quite sure who that is right now. But you're learning, you're healing. You're becoming that beautiful woman that Miss Pillsbury is certain you are, the beautiful girl Brittany has already found.

You're no longer pretending, no longer hiding from that part of yourself you used to fear. You're finally daring to discover who you are, finding yourself somewhere on the edge.