Santana looked at herself in the mirror of her bathroom. She hardly recognized the person reflected back at her. Where her typical impeccable appearance usually stood, a solemn, disheveled figure blinked back at her with swollen, blood-shot eyes. Brittany's words echoed in her mind.
When Artie and I are together, we talk about stuff like feelings…
Because with feelings, it's better…
I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie…
If it weren't for Artie…
Artie…
"Stop it!" she screamed, hands fisting in her hair, knuckles white. She bent over, silent tears trailing down her cheeks, taking in ragged breaths. God, why couldn't she stop crying?
Her phone sounded beside her, breaking the eerie silence of the house. She let out a weary sigh. She really, reallywasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, but it could be one of her parents. She didn't want them coming home, worried. Ironic, she thought bitterly to herself.
She remembered all those nights, wishing her mother or father would come home early and make her dinner instead of locking themselves in their offices and arriving in the early hours of the morning. Now all she wanted was for them to leave her alone.
She rubbed a hand over her stinging eyes and answered the phone without looking at the caller ID. "Hello?" she answered, voice hoarse.
"San?" A beat. She knew that voice. She could recognize it anywhere. It was her.
"Santana?"
With an anguished cry, she threw the phone against the mirror, watching as it shattered into a million pieces of glass and feeling a sort of grotesque sense of satisfaction.
She picked up one of the bigger pieces that had scattered near her feet. It was heavier than it looked, the bathroom's cheap incandescent lighting flashing white as she tilted it at different angles. Almost robotically, she took out a tube of lipstick from her vanity, uncapped it, and wrote in big, capital letters against the glass, dyke.
Insult after insult, she wrote all her pain on the broken shards. It reminded her of her own heart, shattered and scarred.
Lez…
Abomination…
Loser…
Failure…
Lonely…
She lifted the final piece and brought it to her chest, right over where her heart should be. Tentatively, she pressed the jagged edge to her skin. The cold glass sank into her skin and a flash of pain shot through her. It felt good. Good to feel a different kind of pain to distract her from her bleeding, raw heart.
If only Brittany could see her now…
Brittany.
Her eyes shot open. Her hand stilled. "What am I doing?"
Throwing the piece of glass to the floor and pressing a palm to her wound, she collapsed and bile rose in her throat and past her lips. She crawled into the shower, turned on the water all the way to the right, and with a cold rain beating down on her, she pressed her cheek to the cool tile and fell into a fitful sleep…