Her sense of 'humour' was definitely sardonic.
Her hips swayed from side to side.
Her head was held up high.
People feared her in her Cheerios uniform, they feared the slew of insults only Sue was better at. (And Sue wasn't around in the corridors all the time.)
But when she changed out of that uniform, she was just Santana (not Satan anymore), who wished she had the innocence or long, blonde hair of Brittany.
Maybe then, she's be dating her instead of Artie.
If Brittany would rather date scrawny Artie over her (he looked like a five year old runt in a wheelchair that dressed up in his father's clothing. With mummy's makeup.) then she needed to change.
She needed to work out more. Be even sassier, hotter, sexier.
She could do this. After all, she was Satan Lopez.
...
Wet sock smell.
Sweat.
Tears.
Blood?
Satan Lopez would've have been surprised if she was crying blood by now. Even Sue probably would've wanted her to stop.
Light-headedness.
Metal.
Highest settings.
You can do this, Satan.
You're powerful.
Screw what anyone says about this.
Satan didn't care about anyone but Brittany.
She didn't really care much about Quinn, (okay, teen pregnancy must be difficult...but all Quinn freaking cared about was being Prom Queen. It was insufferable .) she didn't care about Glee Club assholes, those other wannabes on the Cheerios could go get screwed. (mind you, they'd enjoy that. Who wouldn't?) Her parents obviously despised her, so nope...
Plus, she obviously didn't care about herself. She knew she was hot, but it wasn't enough. She didn't know what enough was, but she thought it was like finding real love. You know what it's like when you get there.
She had real love. She was going to have Brittany if it ended in her downfall into hell. Brittany was the only thing she wanted in her empty, pointless life.
Brittany was her goddess. Trying to be perfect for her was detrimental to her health, but she didn't care much about herself anyway.
Do young, hot, stupid teenagers without real futures that only follow glorious true love and tempting lust ever care about their damn health?
Hell no.
...
Forget the fact that people hear you puking occasionally when you can't work everything off.
Forget the fact that people know it's you when you retch.
Forget the fact that clothes that hang off you aren't sexy, forget the fact that nothing's working.
Just be cocky, sarcastic, sultry Satan.
Santana had taken to teasing Finn about his weight even more. It makes her feel a million times better about hers for a second.
It's nasty, it's catty, but she was stuck in her persona, and she guessed that it worked for her.
She tried to push away guilt and regret. The rulers of the world have no regrets. Satan has no regrets. Doesn't everyone want to party with Satan?
...
Brittany was oblivious.
She was always with Artie, his sweet compliments luring her in, she realised.
But, you know, compliments weren't her thing. She sacrificed things for the people she loved in other ways.
Like passing out constantly on dusty treadmills, a sick way of trying to garner attention, but she was used to sinking to the lowest of lows.
She had done that the majority of her life.
She didn't get the attention from Brittany that she needed from all of her efforts.
Fresh tears pushed her through dull, black skies, blurry vision, hours upon hours of highest-level workouts. (There sure as hell weren't any parties anymore.)
...
She had tried.
She had failed.
Satan was too powerful to fail.
But in reality, she wasn't Satan.
She was Santana.
But she despised Santana more than everyone she had always insulted combined.
Santana.
She didn't want to be Santana.
Cold-blooded Satan was better.
Cold-blooded Satan wouldn't be destroying herself over Brittany, though.
She even failed at denial. Denial could've kept her safe, a comforting sin.
Another sin to keep her alive.
A phone rings, calling out into the darkness, that annoying ringtone that she's never in the mood for anymore.
"Santana." Brittany wailed, "I get it now. I want to be yours. Artie's sweet...but he's a better friend." Her angelic voice was cracking.
"I know what you're doing. You don't need to. I always noticed you. I was scared of you. But I love you so..."
Santana had messed up.
She broke herself without needing to, scared off Brittany, and now she was...
Alone.
Without Satan.
Without her only true love.
Without any point in her life- without any plans.
All she had was her gentle side.
The side that always resulted in failure.
"I hate to see you like this, so much. I love you so much. But I can't do this. I can't fix you."
"You could fix me by being with me! I self-destructed for you!"
It wasn't rage. It sounded like rage, but it was desperation.
"You can't fix a broken unicorn, Santana! Broken unicorns lose their magic forever!"
A soft whisper could hardly be heard, not on the phone, but Brittany heard it.
"You're right."
"Oh my god, I didn't mean it, it was heat of the moment, I've messed everything up, everything, everything, don't do it, I love you, I can't fix you but I can help, this is our dream-"
Santana hung up.
There was a singular light shining, the moon held no hope though. It was simply another sign of her insignificance. Of her deadly faliures.
She deserved to die. She knew that. Messed up. Messed up so much.
Blood.
"Messed up." Her slurred words evaporated into the unforgiving night.
Gasping.
Choking.
Peace.
Quiet.
No more failures.
No more personas.
No more mistakes.