A/N: So. I got this plot request on tumblr annddd decided to attempt this somewhat AU fic… Since This Isn't Dating is wrapping up, I figured I might as well overlap this and start another multi-chapter fic. Because I don't have enough going on in my life. Hahaha. So. Here we go. (: Feel free to comment with any questions or whatever. I try to respond to all my reviews.

Prologue

People thought she didn't understand when it happened. She was only eight, so why would she? It started off as it usually did: she woke up hungry. Santana was always hungry. There was never enough food. Never enough anything, really, but right now she was cold and tired and sore from the belt she'd taken to her backside earlier and she just wanted something little to munch on. Plus, she could take her mother's blanket if she was out. She didn't notice anything when she had the funny smelling drinks. As long as she put it back in the living room before she woke up again, she wouldn't get the belt.

At least not for that.

Slowly she crept out of the cramped room she'd been provided (it was actually a closet, but Santana didn't know that), hoping her mother had passed out by now and she could sneak some bread from the refrigerator. It was silent in the main room, only the static from the small TV's screen illuminating the way as she made to tip-toe towards the refrigerator in the corner. It mostly had the funny smelling drinks in that she didn't like, but there was always water from the bathroom sink and she only wanted some food anyways. A sound alerted her a second before she stepped into the TV's light and she froze, eyes darting over to the couch. Her mother was there, but so was a man. She didn't like when the men came over. They were never the same and they always did not-nice things with her mother. Sometimes it was the shots, needles sliding under skin at the elbow. Sometimes it was the funny smelling drinks, and lots of them. Sometimes they ate weird candies or smelled what looked like salt to Santana. And always, every time, the man would be on top of her mother, grunting, pushing into her, making weird noises. Santana had missed the first part and walked in on the second. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She hated the second part.

She must have hinted that she was there because suddenly they were freezing and Santana's mother was pushing the man off of her, rolling off the couch with her bleary eyes locked on Santana. "What're you doing out here, you little shit?" she slurred in Spanish, and Santana could tell that it was the salt today. Her small body tensed immediately and she stepped back away from her mother as the woman stood, swayed, stepped towards her. "Get back in your fuckin' bed. Get out!" She took another step forward, lurched towards her daughter before tripping over herself and crashing into a wall. The man stood then and yelled at her mother- not because of Santana, but because of the fact she'd stopped him in the middle of his pushing and grunting. Her mother yelled back. Every angry word had Santana backing slowly towards her little closet. The first time his fist came up and smashed into her mother's face, she ran back, shut the door, and curled up into a ball atop her little mat with a ratty stuffed dog gripped in one hand and pressed to her ear while her free hand pressed to the other.

That's how they found her.

Someone – a neighbor – mentioned to one of the cops that a child lived with Rosetta Lopez. They would have never guessed it looking at the apartment, as there was no sign of anyone other than the dead woman they'd just zipped up and carried out, but after a search, they found her huddled in the corner of the closet. She wasn't crying. Her dark, wide eyes were filled with shock, but they were dry as she stared at the officer who'd found her. He saw a small, too-thin, battered child ready to bolt, one who had been frightened so badly that she'd hid in a closet. Instantly there was pity.

She knew who he was. Or rather, she knew what he was. Her mother had taught her to never trust the police, but she couldn't figure out what she was supposed to be doing. She could only stare at the man in blue. He was talking to her, she realized, but Santana didn't know English. She watched him talk, watched his lips moving without any sort of comprehension. She wanted to ask him, but she didn't want to talk to him. He was a cop. He was a man. Cosas malas, she thought darkly as she squeezed her hands harder over her ears.

When the cops tried to lift her from the closet, she kicked and screamed and repeated all of her mother's meanest words in stuttered Spanish. Still, they carried her out. And then put her into the system, because who else was going to care for the child who only had a dead mother?

She wished her daddy was still around. When her daddy had been around, her mother had been happy. No one had yelled and he had loved her. She didn't know what had happened to him except that one day she'd woken up and he was gone. Her mother was drinking the funny smelling drinks saying, "no one goes to Heaven, mija. Heaven doesn't exist. God doesn't exist. Don't let them feed you that bullshit. There's no such thing as happiness." Her mother said a lot of things she didn't understand, but she remembered them all, and later they would make more sense. Way later.

They tried to reassure her by telling her that her mother was in Heaven now, but she didn't believe them. No Heaven, no God, no happy endings. That much she'd taken from her mother. She had loved her mother, even if she had made a lot of mistakes.

They thought she didn't understand, but she knew a lot more than people gave her credit for.