Black eyes, blue tears. Dark hair matted against pale, clammy skin, contrasting against each other. Chapped lips, red lipstick-stained teeth. Black push up bra, black boy leg brief underwear, ripped and torn fishnet stockings, and high heeled, knee high 'come fuck me' boots. Scratches down toned stomach. A red lipstick-stained cigarette lying abandoned in a glass ashtray on the hard wooden floor, a half empty bottle of tequila kicked carelessly under the bed.
She walks to the living room, light escaping through bamboo blinds. Stench of smoke and alcohol; heavy, stale, sickly. Empty bottles and crushed cans lying on ugly, cigarette singed carpet. Coffee table littered with ash, lines of white substance and burn marks. A veil of smoke hanging under the light of a lamp shade in the corner of the room. TV playing unnoticed, music up loud blasting Stevie Nicks or Blondie or Joan Jett, she isn't sure which. Room crowded with people, young and old, most of them asleep.
Into the bathroom, door locking behind her. Undressing slowly, she takes a shower. Scrubbing the smell of smoke and alcohol and sex from her frail body. Bags packed, already waiting by the front door. Santana can't take it anymore. She's leaving. Leaving this life, one of drugs and alcohol and promiscuity. Leaving to make a new life, a new name for herself. A new, fresh, clean start.