I wait for the postman to bring me a letter
And wait for the good Lord to make it feel better
And I carry the weight of the world on y shoulders
A family in crisis that only grows older

-Confessions of a Broken Heart (Father to Daughter), Lindsay Lohan

.

.

.

Dana Cruz likes to see her world in simple black and white. Sure, colour is there, but colour is just too fucking bright and painful. Black and white is just easier for her to settle for.

.

.

.

Dana Whitney Cruz is born in San Diego in February 1991 but she will always crave for New York.

San Diego brings up bad memories of Spanglish-riddled arguments permeated through her dark purple and light lavender walls. Her ten-year-old ears can't take it so she's being strong. She's being a girl even though the sounds of her mommy and daddy screeching at her get louder and louder. Big girls don't cry, Daddy says. Big girls are tough and don't break, Dana.

So, Dana swallows her damn pride and she's so shaking so badly, hugging her seven-year-old brother, Patrick close to her because she'll protect him. Dana will fucking protect him even though she can't do anything influential for a ten-year-old.

"Dana," Patrick says, and he's latching onto her. His eyes are wide and they gleam in the seemingly tangible darkness, despite the sliver of light from the hallway that slices through it. But god, they're so brown and wise beyond his seven years of footie Power Ranger pajamas and cartoon-watching Saturdays. "Daddy's making Mama cry. I'm scared," he pauses, studying her. "And you are too."

"No, I'm not."

Because big girls don't cry. Big girls aren't scared. Big girls don't complain and they don't tremble wishing the bad to go away. She's not scared of anything.

"Yes, you are."

"Shut up, Patrick," Dana bites out but it lacks something and god, she's hearing the sniffles. She's feeling the wetness go down the apple of her cheeks. He grips her a little tighter, resting his head in the crook of her neck. "I'm not scared."

But she really is, but only wants to make her daddy dearest happy.

The sniffles and tears are hers and happiness is pretty fucking intangible now.

.

.

.

Her father, Manny is standing at the door and her mother, Theresa, is almost hyperventilating, crying and actually silent as the doorway to their San Diego apartment is open and oh so inviting.

Dana isn't stupid because she knows. She knows what's happening and her parents are looking at her like they're fucking apologizing because mommy and daddy don't love each other anymore. They're looking at her with silent apologizes and actually understand it's okay for daddy to cheat on mommy and get his big boobed, horse-faced secretary pregnant. Again. There's a nine year old half-sister Dana hates but never meets. She's made up her mind already.

Long Lost Half-Sister is probably horse-faced and on her way to being big boobed too.

"I'm so sorry, mija," Manny says with a softness that makes her cringe against her will. Because he's lying. Everything's a damn lie and there are no such things as fairytales. "I love you and Patrick so much."

Liar, liar and today, Dana realizes that his pants are definitely on fire.

Maybe it's her pointed glare as he sighs and leaves contributing to it.

.

.

.

Patrick looks at the empty park space, the ghost of Manny's car almost there. And their mother's car is now all alone and solitary, just them.

"Patrick," Dana says, looking off to the side, standing in the doorway because she's done crying. That's what she likes to tell herself. Actually, not even close.

He turns around and speaks in an unusually eerie calm voice too old for his seven years. "Daddy left."

"Yep."

That's all she needs to say, because Dana just knows.

And hell, she's seeing a lot of blurred red too. It's okay, but it also sucks.

.

.

.

Three months later, seven-year-old Patrick is in trouble with picking his…the administration has officially lost count on how many times the first grader is pried off another boy in another schoolyard fight. Meanwhile Dana is in equally serious trouble for flipping the teacher off and chucking the blackboard.

And for the first time, she beats up, Savannah Tomlin, the meanest, most obnoxious girl in fourth grade.

"Hey Dana."

"What?" she glares, not tearing her gaze from her notebook because she's developed a habit of writing during recess.

Savannah smiles and it's one of goddamn pity – and make it fucking stop. Dana doesn't want the damn pity stares and the soft, uncomfortable apologies like she's walking on eggshells.

"So," the other girl is snickering and Dana feels her pencil bend in her grasp, her writing getting darker from the increasing pressure. Savannah's voice is sickeningly happy and mocking and for the first time in a while, Dana actually wants to go to confession and say a couple of Hail Mary's for insurance beforehand. "My mom was talking with her friends, and I heard your mom and dad split up. Seems her dad got tired of your mom and is dating his secretary now."

"And your mom likes to visit the doctor to have needles to put in her face," she shoots back, sarcastic smile plastered on her face. Listen closely. There's the sound of her teeth grinding in anger and her jaw set. It disappears quickly and her brown eyes are a slow building ember of rage. "So, get out of my face and we'll see if I don't break your legs."

"Fine, I'll leave, Dana," Savannah says, and flips her sparkly blonde hair off her shoulders. "But it's not my loss. It would damage my rep if I were to be seen with a couple of losers like you and your little brother anyway."

Dana's pencil breaks into two and her fist apparently has a mind of its own.

Because in the span of two minutes, she punches Savannah Tomlin in the mouth and the feeling has never been more intoxicatingly tranquil.

And then she sort of blacks out – never physically in the middle of a fight.

All she remembers is a lot of Savannah's high-pitched, dog whistle sounding screaming and a clump of blonde hair clutched tightly in her fist when one of the teachers pry her off.

Now, Savannah's hurt. Patrick is getting school counseling and Dana's suspended for three weeks.

.

.

.

Manny tries to scold Dana trying to tell her the difference between right and wrong.

"What you did was wrong, Dana," her father's voice sounds. It's a mess of words that stay messy when they weave themselves through her left ear and come out her right.

She doesn't care and doesn't want any more games of House.

But Dana laughs in his face because she really doesn't care anymore. The whole damn system is hypocritical: daddy trying to be a parent and mommy nodding as if to agree with him.

Lies, lies, lies.

.

.

.

Sometimes, Theresa cries. Even when it's been three years later – the fifteenth.

Dana is tougher and thirteen with pretty strong walls. Patrick just turns ten this May.

And Dana can hear it because her walls are way too thin for her liking and maybe she's born with the ability of super-acutely, overly-sensitive hearing, but Dana hears her mother sob – some nights are quieter than others.

Dana has empathic tendencies when Theresa cries and some nights she curses her mother for being such a fucking pushover. Patrick is neutral and just doesn't care. Anger bubbles up on the inside of her when she clutches her pillow a little tighter, her nails almost digging into the fabric to the stuffing below.

Dana doesn't really understand how Theresa takes her father back after her younger-by-one-year half sister, Stephanie is the product of the whole damn affair, and there's three-year-old, irritatingly adorable half-brother, Evan. And it's sad because her mother is driving more frequently to the liquor store. There are more half-drunk bottles of vintage red wine and glass bottles of Corona clink together that take up space in their semi-white fridge when she's really hungry and needs to make something for her and Patrick to eat.

With the sleeplessness that seems to never really end, Dana looks up at the ceiling and vows to never turn out to be a carbon copy of her push-over mother.

.

.

.

"You know something, Dana?" says soft-spoken Stephanie, glancing down at the kitchen island. She's slamming the glasses a little harder, closing the fridge a little harder with her foot because everyone who has an ounce of swagger closes fridges and doors with the point of their toes. Who wants to close door the conventional way? There's no one home because Patrick is hanging out with friends on a weekend. Theresa is out and suddenly it's Dana that's left to bond with her little sister – uh, half-sister not to get it twisted – on one of the weirdest days of her life.

She almost wants to glance around and play stupid because surely Stephanie isn't breaking her mouse-like silence to address her. No, she's not.

Those damned tequila and gin bottles clink when she gets to the apple juice and it makes Dana roll her eyes, muttering an inaudible, "Fuck."

A curl falls in her face and she roughly brushes it away when she pours the juice and leaves the carton on the counter.

"What?" she returns, voice snapping with a sting. The apple juice gleams and Dana's just drinking it for show.

Stephanie looks up and her hazel eyes look nearly orangey-green in the kitchen light – almost like a cat and godamnit, Dana is not that much of a dog person so it's not fair that her eyes vaguely remind her of a scruffy, stray cat who rubs her against her ankle as she tries to walk away silently begging, please please please love me.

"My brother and I never asked to be born," and she tucks a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ears, eyes shining behind her black-rimmed glasses. "Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

"Yes," Stephanie's adamant, those eyes almost seeing past her. "You shun us. You and Patrick are the only older siblings I know, and my brother is too little to understand. At least, Patrick is nice to us. But you shun us completely – me especially. Does it matter that we share the same father?"

"It matters when your mom made you and Evan," she says, pointedly. " – with my dad when he was still married to my mom."

"Again, Dana," Stephanie sighs like she's actually angry. "I didn't ask for that. Neither did my little brother."

"Okay," and she's laughing. In the back of her mind, Dana's wondering how the hell she becomes somewhat bitter and venomous. It's a damn rush through her veins, and god, it's so fucking sadistic at the same time. "So, you're okay with being a bastard child?"

"Don't."

She smirks, "Don't what? Dish out the truth? Tell you like it – "

"Stop it!" the twelve-year-old shrieks, breathing rapidly and tears finally escaping her. "Don't you go patronizing us! I don't deserve that especially from you!"

"And what the hell makes me so special?"

"You're my sister for fuck's sake!"

"Half!" Dana corrects, and they're standing nose-to-nose. Stephanie's stubborn and she can admire her that much for being solid but other than that, there's nothing else. Patrick is the only full sibling she knows and has.

And then Stephanie backs up and smiles through her tears, "Wow, you do hate me."

She sighs, wiping her tears away but her cheeks are still wet while Dana crosses her arms over her chest.

Dana's eyes narrow as a defensive force of habit and her fingers twitch and curl into a fist. "You should be happy I didn't kick your ass out of here right in your backyard pool and make you crash into your pretty French doors."

"I guess, I'm lucky then."

"Maybe," Dana whispers and again her voice lacks that freaking bite because she really wants Half-Sister With the Cat-Eyes to go home stung, shattered and a little broken.

She's seen the house her dad lives in with Double D-Horse Face Lady. Everyone else calls her Gina.

It's four times the size of their three-bedroom San Diego apartment-townhouse. The walls are just so perfectly painted and painfully white with splash of beige and all of these coordinating colours that are prefect and merged together in perfect harmony. There are French doors that are like fragile and glassy and that's the one time, Dana is actually scared. Manny and Gina pose and smile in beautifully framed pictures and look so lovey-dovey and sober while Theresa is almost borderline alcoholic.

A car horn sounds in the distance, "There's my mom. I'm gonna go."

"Whatever, Stephanie," she shrugs, and Sad, Wounded Half-Sister with the Pretty Kitty Eyes blinks before heading to the apartment door and it closes.

There's pressure building at the back of her eyes and the apple juice still leaves bitter, crappy residue in her mouth.

Fuck.

.

.

.

Patrick is ten and still has that wise, ominous, silent brilliance about him.

His skin is tanner, littered with small brown freckles mostly on his arm. But he's more level-headed than she is. His dark brown curls darken slightly and get shaggier. Patrick walks into her room at night when he's restless and he's asleep in her bed. Any other guy within a ten mile radius and to be brutally blunt, Dana would have him neutered without any sedatives.

His laughter rings out in the darkness, their only light source being the digital clocks that glows 2:06 am.

"You made Stephanie bawl like a baby who's cutting teeth," he says. "Poor girl literally ran by me when I was coming back was hanging out with Josh at the skate park."

She opens one eye and finds a new creative way to glare at her little brother.

"And?"

He blinks and that knowing smile is so bright even though the room is dark.

"You're just straight up cold, sis."

"Then go sleep in your own bed."

"Nah. It's warmer than mine and you know I like doing that thing," he pauses. "You know, where I flip the pillow over when one side gets too warm because it's better to sleep on the cold side."

"You and everybody else," Dana replies, airily and yawns. "But question: when the hell did you get so chummy with Stephanie, Evan and their mom?"

Patrick shifts in bed a little, rubbing the crust out of his eyes, "Face it. It would be lame to wail on a three-year-old kid that is pretty freaking oblivious to whatever's going on."

"He'll know soon enough. A lot of therapy that will go nowhere."

"You said it, sister," Patrick agrees, nodding slightly, and then grins mischievously. That is why Dana says he's her little brother. His eyes have this crazy, endearingly insane gleam in them like those of a killer before he slashes the unsuspecting victim's throat ear-to-ear. "Nothing says BFFs Forever like hawking up a couple of unsuspecting loogies in their drinks. And I peed in their nice pool just to make the pool guy's life difficult. Would have blown a couple farts in there but," he shrugs, full of nonchalance. "You know."

A smirk stretches on her face and both of her eyes are open both.

"You're gross."

"No," he corrects, feigning innocence. "I'm ten years old, and I'm in the fourth grade. I don't know what I'm doing."

She laughs genuinely, and it's scarce. Thank God because she almost forgets what her laughter sounds like.

"You're going to Hell."

Patrick yawns with a sleepy smile between turning over, "Oh, well. So are you."

Dana rolls over in the opposite direction and with her arm hanging lazily across Patrick's torso and her leg hanging there as she sleeps, she's falling asleep to silence because Theresa is quiet this time.

.

.

.

In August 2004, there's a letter saying that Dana has been accepted to a boarding school in Malibu called Pacific Coast Academy and that they are just starting to accept girls.

Patrick is looking at her with silent reassurance with a slight nod of his head because he's starting fifth grade in the fall. He's a big boy and can handle himself because his big sister teaches him everything in his arsenal.

"This is a great opportunity," Theresa says, with a smile that doesn't have the brightness it used to before – when things are happy and so close to perfection they could take family pictures and frame them. They could be framed not with pricey, shiny, over-blinged frames but ones that are just simple and just as good, plus sentimental value. Not like this. "PCA is not that far of a drive and I know you'll be enjoying yourself there."

Dana really needs to get away from here and she nods back at her brother who smiles like it's a secret. It's one of those sibling secrets that can't be told but they just know.

Rolling her eyes, she puts the letter on the table, "Yeah, Mama. Whatever. I'm pumped about being in a huffy boarding school full of snobby rich kids."

Theresa's smile deflates a little, Dana notices while Patrick goes upstairs. But it's always flat to begin with. It always is.

But whatever. Her life is about to change somewhat and there's packing to do.


A/N: And there it is. I hope you all enjoyed the first part of this three shot. I'm doing in three different periods in Dana's life: pre-series which was this one, her time at PCA going into when she leaves for Paris, and then the last one about her future. I'm not going to do anything else until this is finished but it's not a chore for me because I had fun with it. And I'll be working on the second part tomorrow into the next weekend. If I pound it out fast enough, it'll be done by Monday.

Everyone that was introduced here will make an appearance. For example, Patrick will definitely be sprinkled in the story as well as the intricate family situation and everyone matures and gets older. I already have the picture of an older Patrick in my head.

Plus some new curveballs thrown Dana's way. I hope I got her character down enough.

Presley, I hope you especially liked it. I spent all week on it and since I know you love Dana hardcore…BAM! A whole three-shot devoted to her.

To everyone else, y'all know the drill. Review. I don't expect it, nor do I really care but it would be rude of you to favourite, alert and then not leave me a review saying WHY you added it to your favourites and such. Understand? Like I will stalk you and ask why, so review if you don't want me to.

-Erika