I took the bag out of the garage. Threw it over my back and looked back to see if anyone was there. It was empty. A cold breeze hit me, telling me to hurry up. The darkness was surrounding. I closed the garage door and locked the car. The neighborhood she was located in the lower class part of New York, as soon as I parked the car there I felt the dark clouds just pour rain over my head. It's amazing how much your surroundings can control the way you feel, your mood and thoughts. I made my way closer to the house with quick yet quiet steps. Soon, I was standing right before the rather small yellow painted house. I walked towards the door and knocked. Silence. I knocked again. She opened the door. The dark brown hair was tied up in a ponytail, the circles around her brown deep eyes were darker than ever before and her voice cracked at her first sentence.

"Is everything in here?" she said, looking into the bag I handed over to her.

"Every single one of them"

She looked up at me and squinted with her eyes. It was very obvious that she was ready to go to bed. She was wearing a big black t-shirt and pyjamas pants. I had never seen her in such dirty clothes.

"Alright," she started "how much?"

"Um-," I cleared my throat "it's okay.. I can let this one pass"

"How - much?" she intensly asked.

"For this time, 50 dollars, for the two last times 100.. so, 150 dollars" I looked at her face. She was shocked.

"150 dollars, seriously?" she looked disappointed.

"Yeah," I said "look, Santana, it's okay.. I'll take it when you can pay me"

"I'll never have that much money to spend on this, I can't take it" she said and handed me the bag. "Take it, go" the sharp voice cracked again.

"Hey, wait," I stopped her before going back in "take it. It's a gift from me. And the money, it's okay. Forget about it, it's on me. My treat"

"No, no. I can't accept that" she said.

I put the bag in her hands and her face was beyond surprised. For a moment I thought she had tears in her eyes, I didn't look long enough to notice.

"Merry Christmas, Santana" I said and gave her a smile. I receieved a warm one back.

The hours flew by and before I knew it I was sitting at the rooftop, watching the city turn to families, drunks and Santa Claus balloons all over. I was thinking about her. Santana. How she was doing after I left.. I knew she was in desperate need of the drugs. She was depressed, and the antidepressants were her only way to feeling natural. And me - I could get them from a friend of mine who had a mother who was a psychologists/doctor. He used to steal from her and then we sold them as a team to gather more money. Not my proudest achievement, no.
As a person who had known Santana since high school - I knew she was unstable, a very depressed girl. Somehow, whenever I met her - which wasn't very often - I became easily atrabilious. It was the mood you got when you were around her, especially ever since the incident.

Christmas night - me and my family were just seated around the kitchen table - sharing old stories and laughing about them. My grandmother flew in from Dallas as well. She hated the city, she said all the time. Little did she know the city disliked her as much as she disliked it. It was pretty funny, the looks she got on the streets. It was as if the people around her knew she hated all of them.

"Quinn, will you pass me the butter, love?" mother smiled at me from across the table.

"Of course" I smiled.

"Where were you earlier, Tammy (Queenie)?" my mother asked.

"At a friends house"

"Rachel?"

"No, mother" I kept eating.

"Who then? That pretty blonde one?"

"She's not that pretty, damn it" I jeered. My mother liked Brittany, my high school friend as well, a bit too much. "I was not with Brittany. It was Santana, the prettier dark haired one" I said on purpose with my lips curved into a smile.

"Oh, you know I don't care too much for her.. She seems like a bad influence"

"Don't they all?"

"Well Marl- (Britt-)"

"Please" I looked at my mother and watched her lower her head, looking down at her plate and finally understanding that I didn't want to speak about Brittany.

Dinner went on normally after that. The stories kept coming, my cousin Jude was talking about her perfect boyfriend, my grandmother and grandfather were praising her. My parents were involved in their conversation. I tried to be a part of it but I just kept throwing chicken pieces to our dog Bitsy who was standing right beside me, waving her little tail. It was sad when I watched them all, caught up in the moment – not knowing how much they'll regret all the hate in their hearts one day. And I say this becuase I can see it through their eyes, I'm family, I have a bit of it kept inside me – hidden. The happiest, truest and most loyal person is, well it's not really a person, but Bitsy. The dog. She screams 'happy' and just being around her changes my mood as well. It's hard to believe but it's true.

After dinner, I went into my room. I sat down on my cold bed, picked up my diary, so to speak. I don't really like calling it a diary, it makes me feel childish. But it was just what it was. I flipped through the pages of the black coloured diary until I reached an empty page for me to fill. I had a pen ready beside me on the bed. However, something felt wrong. I couldn't write down what I felt and thought like I usually did. It was hard to even touch the page with the tip of the pen in my hand. I forced myself to it and wrote down nothing but the letter 'I', I gave up. I dropped the pen on the nightstand and closed the diary. I leaned back at my pillow and stared up at the cieling – closed my eyes and pretended to be somewhere else. With her.