My name is Santana Lopez, and I am an avid believer of ghosts.

Now, before you cast me off as some madwoman, just know that doing so would be nothing more than commonplace practice. For, you see, anyone I've confessed this not-so-subtle indulgence to has done the same. Blank stares have accompanied vacant faces, polite chuckles have preceded swift exits, and worried chatter has all too often drifted amongst the people I once held near and dear.

But no one's ever bothered for the more detailed, far more in depth account. If the majority of my confidantes hadn't been so quick to jump ship at the first hint of other worldly beings, then they would've come to understand that I never once mentioned your typical white-sheet apparition. Hell, I never really meant the spooky kind at all.

When I, Santana Lopez (because names are rather important, as I've learned), speak of or on an entity that has long since transposed this lifetime, I'm merely referring to the people we encounter each and every day. Those who cross our paths at odd points in our lives. The ones you'd swear that fate's hand had specifically picked and placed right on your door step.

When I, Santana Lopez, talk about ghosts, I'm referring to the people who swoop into our lives and act as a mirror. They not only show us who we're gradually becoming, but open the door to who we could one day be.

If you've got the time, I'd like to tell you about my experience. After all, the doctors have insisted that I record every detail of what happened. "A therapeutic means to a rather unsavory end" is what they're calling it. Me, I'm just going to do as I'm told.

I'm going to write about that night and every day following, and once all is said and done, I'm going to hope like hell that it makes sense.


"You're allowed to move with a little more purpose, you know."

The music blared too loudly, too rapidly, for the girl's words to elicit an immediate reaction. In fact, I was so entranced by the night club of Fifth Avenue's restroom ensemble that I was also oblivious to just about every external figure that passed all around us.

"Seriously, Rosario?"

It was damn near pitch black, mind the odd neon light that crept in through the frequently opening door. The restroom was packed—it always was on Thursday nights—and this girl and I (I forget her name) were forced to finagle in a lonely corner as opposed to an open stall.

I found myself laughing at "finagle" when an arm lashed out and connected with my shoulder. I blinked twice, unable to formulate words on account of the evening's antics. Thankfully, her index finger did the communicating. Back and forth it went between us, obviously trying to get the point across that we had long overshot the routine timeslot.

But then there was "finagle".

Again, she nudged me. My attention was then recaptured, but only momentarily, up until her tongue slivered outward. Atop the pink expanse of flesh sat a single, circular white tablet. As they always had when such an offer was extended, my senses kicked into overdrive and my intentions honed in. The Girl With No Name wanted me to act with purpose. In that moment, she'd given me all the motivation that I needed.

With little regard to the room's other occupants, I lunged straight for her mouth. Much like she often teased, the appendage with my prize tried slipping out of reach. It was a vain practice, considering that I was equally as quickly moving. My lips connected against hers, the smirk she bore most prevalent, and I claimed the pill with little more effort.

Having tasted all that was to come, my hands acted next. They fiercely pawed at her sides, drawing TGWNN's body in closer. Her raven hair fell in tufts around my own neck, a mere sentiment to our close proximity, and I soon gathered a handful. Like a rehearsed dance routine, she then attempted to flip our pair over. And like the tenured partner I'd become, I thwarted those efforts with more forward movement.

I assaulted her outstretched neck as best I could. Hot, heavy pants traveled the small distance and quickly formed beads of sweat against skin, a distraction necessary enough to creep my hand to the bottommost hem of her dress.

In clockwork fashion, she fidgeted when the thin lace cover was peeled back. I immediately ran a finger across the area she'd eventually beg for me to return to, and it took everything in TGWNN to not claw the absolute fuck out of my neck.

The air was stale, my hand coated in desire that I'd yet to personally experience in our increasingly frequent, yet compromising positions. Pinned against the crook of where wall met wall, the girl let out a whimper. I instantly froze, unsure of why the noise bothered me. Maybe it was too desperate, too needy. Then again, there was also this intimate quality about the sound. One reserved for two lovers in the privacy of their own home, conveying passionate emotions via the sincerest form of expression.

Whatever the case was, I said, "Please don't do that."

"Do what?" she grunted.

The question was followed by a swift plunge of my fingers into warmth, to which she again softly cried out. Too beyond repeating myself, I quickly weighed what few options existed. The first was to flip her body around, driving her so tightly into the wall that breathing would be far too strenuous a feat to accomplish, let alone making any noise.

Instead, though, I opted for the second, which was a hand fitted forcefully over her mouth. TGWNN must've found it to be somewhat risqué, because she smiled against my palm, moans growing louder. This only fueled me to some ungodly status, and I began moving as rapidly as possible.

Two fingers in; then three. Thumb moving briskly against her clit. Knee lodged underneath one of her thighs as to make the transition easier for both. Hand still plastered against that trap of a mouth that absolutely refused to do what I'd explicitly asked.

Thankfully, any and all noises were stifled by her orgasm. Instead of causing any further unnecessary ruckus, when she finally tipped over the edge, her breath hitched, sending her body crumpling forward.

I only caught it and held on long enough for her to come back to. When her head lifted, smile creeping along the edges of her mouth, I dug a hand into the gap that existed between her breasts. A small baggie filled with white residue came to fruition, and I immediately peeled the edges open, emptying a thin streak across the skin that rested before my eyes.

She giggled, I inhaled. Her head rested back against the nearest wall, and my top gum quickly became coated in the chalky substance.

"Consider giving me a call sometime," the girl said.

I grinned slyly, but only because I didn't have the nerve to tell her that being the girl-with-no-name subsequently made her the girl-with-no-phone-number.

The atmosphere was just as lively as I'd left it not thirty minutes before. Lowly beings drifted from cramped space to cramped space, downing their drinks with tireless energy. The bass music thumped, my newly heightened senses tried reciprocating. The funny thing was, however, that despite the actual tunes carrying minimal vibrations to my ear drums, each note became rather visual. That's what both the powder and pills did. They made everything move so quickly that it all seemed to slow down.

Like when Tony, the bartender, cocked an eyebrow my way. My hand barely floated through the air, holding what appeared to be a peace sign, signaling the number two. No sooner than I neared the counter were two small glasses slid across its polished wooden expanse.

They lit a fire in the back of my throat. In fact, for the briefest of moments, they reminded what it felt like to be human. To feel even the slightest twinge of internal pain.

Another peace sign later and the feeling disappeared.

Outside, Lima, Ohio shown in all its glory. That being, the muggy August air weighed down heavily. Even at roughly two, three o'clock in the morning, mosquitos ran rampant. The nightlife had since subsided into the deadened state that rested before me, and I dug feverishly into my pants pocket. Thirteen missed calls were broadcasted onscreen.

A text message read: You know how I feel about you staying out on school nights.

Another: Meet me at Breadstix for dinner.

The last: Please come home, hija.

I sighed and shoved the remnants of my mother back to where they came from. She was back at it, making me feel guilty, and I simply wasn't having it. Especially since I would have gone to meet her, or I would have gone home, if I had seen the messages earlier.

That's the way Maribel Lopez operated. She dug her way into your head and clamped on for dear life. What became even more substantial was that my mother had grown accustomed to believing her accusations. In fact, she said the most transit things with such conviction that even I began to take them as truth.

Her favorite—that I was a runner. And not your pound-the-pavement type, but more so quick to dodge any and all accountability. I was feeble in her eyes, though she'd long since given up in trying to see me as any different. "Weak" had become synonymous with Santana Lopez. A coward who'd forfeited her right to any lasting accreditation.

There was a slight air of reason in her admissions, though. Namely, that my newly acquired lifestyle was that of someone surviving a grave natural disaster. Neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. Just a simple girl trying to fuck up a little less than the next person.

If anyone had bothered asking, I might've told them the truth. That my cup was empty. That my spirit had been sucked clean by an exterior force whose face I couldn't place, let alone stare into. Maribel was right to assume that I was spending far too much time away from home. But I'd not been doing so in vain. I was simply trying to weed through the foggy tangle of my own mind.

Then again, I would've also ventured to say that it's very possible for a person to become lost in searching for themselves.

"That's all this is, Ms. Cruz," I mumbled in pawing the keys to my car. Climbing inside, I stared into the rearview mirror. "You're just trying to figure out where you're headed. To hell with anyone who can't keep up."

And with that, I sped off into the night.


The minutes that passed did so of their own accord. My mind had become lost in a foggy haze, and I failed in making sense of what was up and what was down. All I had become aware of was the white line that rested in the road's center, and how it both doubled and tripled in location.

I hung a right at the stoplight nearest Jefferson Street, though turning left would've led me straight to Maribel. Something about returning to the Lopez abode didn't particularly strike my fancy. So instead of stumbling inside, keen on hiding the sack currently nestled in my back pocket, I cranked the stereo as high as it would allow. Wind crept in through each window, engulfing my face.

Freedom is what it felt like. The clubs, their shady inhabitants, home, and all that being there entailed—none of those factors mattered. All that registered on the Santana Lopez Spectrum of Importance was the fact that I was incredibly alone. I was left to my own devices, and I'd never felt more comfortable in such a state.

I dared to close my eyes and soak in the sensation. My foot propelled me to yet another stoplight, where I barely slowed. And just as a glob of red transformed into the most pungent hue of green, a boisterous thud rang out.


Somewhat broken from my previous stupor, I threw the vehicle into park. Deer and other wildlife had always been a problem on the back roads of Ohio, and I figured that if the damage was minimal, I would have no problem in asking my father to foot the repair bill.

In rounding the front, though, headlights on their brightest setting, a quick survey proved problems of a much larger measure. I mean, when was the last time anyone's seen a creature of the woods that walked on two legs and possessed long, flowing blonde hair?

It took roughly twelve seconds for the panic to set in. The creature, a girl, lay sprawled out on the ground. She seemed to be teetering between consciousness and sleep when the latter suddenly won over. Face first on the pavement, I considered that a getaway wouldn't be nearly as difficult if she'd been capable of paying attention.

Unfortunately, the thought of becoming an accessory to someone's death was slightly unethical, even to my hindered rationale. The instance was beginning to take its sobering toll, but the lull that still existed managed to double alongside the adrenaline of being caught in a crisis, and with those elements working in tandem, I lifted the girl. She was tall, had a decent build, and fit awkwardly into the backseat of my car.

I slammed to a halt in the parking lot of a nearby gas station. Unbeknownst to my current train of thought, tears were falling freely. No one was around to witness the spectacle. If they had been, I would've appeared as nothing more than your average high-schooler having a meltdown in the front seat of her car. They might have considered it to be the aftermath of a bad breakup.

Never this, though. Never this.

I entertained the idea of calling Maribel, who would undoubtedly still be awake, anxiously awaiting my return. But reaching out to her under those circumstances would've been too low down, even for me. After all, I'd only been brushing her off religiously over the past month. She would have been elated to hear my voice, or to know that I was still as much her child as ever; still in desperate need of a mother's unmatched knowledge.

Hospitals were too messy. They'd be filled with questions and people whose instincts would know to exploit my increasingly bloodshot eyes.

Something had led me astray that night, this much is certain, and it continued in doing so as I remained idle in the gas station parking lot.

Dawn crept in soon enough. My back was plastered against leather, baking in the scorching sun that had long since risen. On a whim, I turned, half expecting to see the mysterious figure lying lifeless in the back seat. Without prior consent and per the most ravishing force known to man, I'd already accepted my fate.

Maybe it was a sign of what was to come, of the uncertainty that my life would soon be plagued with, but it seemed as though the universe was throwing yours truly a bone. Because as my eyes strewn across the backmost leather interior, lips dripping with explanations and heartfelt apologies, a vast emptiness succumbed me just as quickly.

Like a ghost, the girl had vanished.


Hangovers have, and always will be, the individual straws that broke my back. They are the reasons I'd long vowed to give up eccentric, on-the-go lifestyles. In fact, accompanying a pulsating headache and surge of vomit that often tickled the back of my throat, threatening to explode without a moment's notice, hangovers were one Santana Lopez's reason for getting out of bed each morning.

But the late afternoon after that fateful night, after I'd stumbled in and crashed into bed, was something else entirely. Sure, the usual side effects were still prevalent, but a foreign sense of urgency rested atop my skin. It scratched and it itched. It made well for a particularly ill-fitting, fleshed-colored skin suit.

"Good evening, dear," Maribel sheepishly muttered, lingering in the upstairs doorway. "I suspect you won't be joining me for dinner."

I groaned as loudly as physically possible. Remember what I said about the guilt trips? Well, there was one in its natural habitat.

She was a lonely woman, constantly vying for the breadcrumbs of company others were throwing out. I, serving as the only offspring to this decrepit soul, was the likely candidate. But as I've said before, Santana Lopez has not once been in the business of mending others.

Sooner or later, Maribel would have to learn that I could soothe her spirit, that I could keep Dad from going on his frequent "business trips", no more than I could keep the sun from setting.

Still, though, I rose from bed. The kitchen smells were nauseating, and yet I continued venturing downstairs. If it meant pretending that the night before hadn't occurred, then I would've trekked to the ends of this earth.

"I must say," she began, scooping piles of mushy potatoes onto my plate, "that your return home was a bit of a surprise. If I'd of known, then I assure that your entry would've been much easier."

Passive aggressive. Her strong suit. "Forgot my key is all," I offered with a mouthful.

"You broke a window, Santana," she snapped more insistently. "Again."

Surely enough, there was a gaping hole in our front wall. The glass pane possessed a jagged cut-out, and I found myself somewhat intrigued by the sight. Thought I couldn't recall the incident, there was a certain twinge of pain that coursed throughout my left wrist. And much like the wounded animal that I was, I offered a simple, "Sorry."

"No, you're not." Maribel smugly winked. "Mother's intuition."

I planned on coming back with a snarky remark, but a frolicking shadow instantly captured my attention. It danced quickly along the back kitchen wall, along the den's fireplace mantle, and back again. Illuminated by the interior lights, it rapidly grew and dwindled in size.

Maribel probably would've noticed the spectacle had she not been ranting on and on and on about the dangers of this and that. It was exhausting.

Anyway, the shadow's source proved itself to be carrying on all too joyously, for a series of boom, crash, and bangs sounded from just outside. I sprinted up and to the doorway, utterly oblivious to what nighttime shadowy threats could mean, only to find a lanky character flopping around on my porch like a fish out of water. Back and forth, over and under, it moved.

"Are you—" I started, only to be cut off when the fish took on new life.

She hopped up in one fluid motion, smile plastered across her face. A hand hesitantly made its way outward, but as an afterthought, retracted.

The girl then lifted her head fully for the first time since our encounter, and two hauntingly familiar blue eyes silenced me beyond submission.

A deep, reddened gash rested just above her brow. I considered turning on a heel and avoiding any further confrontation altogether, but the spritely character was back at her eager methods. She danced what felt like a twelve-minute jig, seemingly jubilant about (something?), all while digging into her back pocket.

Seconds later, my face was floating through the air on a small plastic rectangle. "You stole my license?"

She appeared somewhat confused. "You hit me with a car?"

Instinctively, I lashed out for her arm, dragging the gathered limb across my front lawn. Nearest the street, under the cover of but one flickering light, I released and folded both arms. "No one's going to believe a word you say."

"And I'm not trying to convince anyone of anything, either," she added whimsically, playing off a state of faux-offense. "Even if you were clearly intoxicated and decided that holding a stranger captive in your car was a bright idea."

I could've smacked her right then and there. And I would have, too, if Maribel hadn't again made a grand entrance. The woman approached our pair like a ballerina skating on a rink made of clouds.

The blonde watched with great enthusiasm.

"I assume that all's well on the Lopez front?" Maribel asked suspiciously.

I nodded, attempting to shoo her away. But the girl was unrelenting, like a stray puppy. She bobbed up and down, so obviously high off of life. It took damn near forever for her to settle into one place. And when she finally did, her hand shot back out. It engulfed Maribel's right, relaxing as the girl cleared her throat.

"You'll have to forgive me, as I am not usually so succumbed with attention as to forget my manners," she said with an airy verve. Then, following an ever so sly grin, she hummed out, "My name is Brittany Susan Pierce, and I have a feeling that your daughter and I are about to become really good friends."