Hi, everyone. I'd like to thank you in advance for reading this. I'd like to make this a multichapter fic, about Santana's life and why she's so defensive and mean. It's M for themes and sex in later chapters. Please leave a review if you enjoy it! Brittana.

"If I had to choose between physical and verbal abuse, I'd take a beating anytime. You can see the marks, so at least people feel sorry for you. With the verbal stuff, it just makes you crazy. The wounds are invisible. Nobody cares. Real bruises heal a hell of a lot faster than insults."

- Susan Forward

Starting school is scary. A new environment, a bunch of new faces, being away from your parents for the first time. I wasn't quite sure what to think about starting school, I'd never been to preschool and never really been around other kids. I remember it though, my first day of school. The first day I met her.

I had found my way to my class by myself with little trouble (My abuela had dropped me off at the school and driven away) and sat down in a seat. Soon class started, and I found myself beside a blonde haired girl with freckles strewn across her face. She turned to me and smiled.

"Hi! I'm Brittany S. Pierce. Your hair is really pretty."

The teacher called for our attention before I could respond. I turned in my little desk and listened to her half way, sneaking small glances at Brittany every few minutes.

She always seemed to notice though, flashing me a bright smile when my eyes caught hers. I'd flip my head right back towards the front of the class, glaring at the chalkboard as the teacher introduced herself with a grinning face. I'd still look again, trying my best not to be noticed, just moving my eyes to scrutinize the girl's face. And she'd look at me, again, grinning broad and wide as I averted my gaze away.

During recess I'd clambered up on a swing, watching my feet dangle back and forth. Birttany'd walked over to me and sat on the swing beside me, long legs nearly brushing the ground. My eyes moved up to look at her face as she piped out a bright 'Hi'.

"Hi." I wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Well, what's your name? You never got to tell me in class, 'cause Miss Teacher started talking."

My name. I was sure it wasn't the obscene words my abuela screeched at me, but I was rarely called anything else as my mother and father worked all day, picking me up from her house once I was already asleep.

"Santana." Yes, there it was. Low murmurs of it being cooed to me by my mother as she tucked me into my own bed.

"Santana, that's a nice name." I smiled at her, and blue eyes sparkled back. It was a good start to a friendship that would turn into more than innocent playground games.

We became closer in that year, and Brittany taught me how to swing myself on the swings. I could never quite get my legs to pump myself as high as her long ones could, but it never mattered to me. She told me about her kitten and her baby sister. Her mom and her dad. She told me about the time she got stuck under her couch and about how her cat could read minds. I found it endearing.

We'd meet outside our class before the bell rang, find our seats and do our work once class started. (Brittany mostly doodled on the worksheets.) Then we'd have lunch together, sitting with another girl we'd made friends with, Quinn Fabray. At recess the three of us would climb and sit on top of the monkey bars, watching boys and making faces as they pushed each other around in some mindless horseplay. After school, the two of us would walk together to her mom's car and then I'd wait for my mom to pick me up on her way home from work. It was a routine.

My mother had gotten a new job, allowing her to be able to pick me up and take me home and stay with me for an hour or two before my dad came home and she rushed off to another job. I loved being around my mom, her thick Puerto Rican accent a comfort to me. She was sweet and loving. My dad was different from my mother, distant and angry. He was nice enough, but all that needed to be done to make him upset was a door closed too loudly, the dropping of a book while putting my things away. It was always my fault when he got angry, though. Always my fault for a wanting a snack or needing help with my homework. I shouldn't have bothered him in the first place.

I knew when to leave my father alone entirely, not worry about eating dinner and curl up in my room, fending off addition and subtraction by myself. He'd come in the house, having a bad day at work and send my mother away without a kiss. I'd scramble up to my hideout and there I'd stay for the rest of the night, afraid to face the angry words I'd be sure to face if I left it.

One day I came to school with bruises on my arms.

Brittany noticed, of course she noticed. The thick, finger like marks on my arm, the way I winced- only slightly- as she poked at them.

"What happened, San?" It was an innocent question.

"I tripped going down the stairs." The words had tumbled out, and I wasn't sure why I said it. That most definitely wasn't true; my father had gotten angry after I asked him for help with a science question. I shouldn't have asked him, but I couldn't seem to figure out the answer. He'd grabbed onto my arm, fumbling as he stood, and yelled. I closed my eyes, trying to wriggle out of his iron-like vice. He had yelled at me before, but had never made a grab at me. After he pushed me away, I'd scampered back to my room, rubbing my sore arms and thinking about what he'd called me. The words ate away at me, though I did my best to forget the degrading Spanish words he had screeched.

When my mom came home late that night, she found me in the same position. I told her what happened and she brushed it off somewhat nervously, telling me 'that Papi had just had a bad night and didn't mean to hurt you'. I nodded solemnly as she tucked me in, falling into a dreamless rest.

Brittany lapped it up and I stayed with her, doing my best to seem normal for the rest of the day. I didn't realize it then, but that one lie started a chain that I would wrap myself tighter and tighter in for years to come.