Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or anything associated with Glee. And because I hate writing it over and over this disclaimer applies to all following chapters.

AN: Thanks to The Imperfectionist for being a wonderful Beta. You made me glad I finally got around to using one. =) If there are mistakes to be found in this story it's because I changed a few things after it was beta'd and are all on me.

When The Storm Comes

Prologue

Her body had become a statue, its dead weight pressing down into the mattress.

The phone vibrated across the desk for the fifth time that morning, but Santana made no move to answer it from beneath the covers of her bed. She knew who it was and she knew she should get up and answer it.

But try as she might she just couldn't find the energy to lift her head from the pillow.

She hadn't moved since crawling into bed the night before, not to change out of her clothes, not even to turn off her alarm, which was still beeping intermittently on the bedside table, and not to brush away the tears that had long since left the pillow damp. Her mind was having trouble focusing. It had only been the last hour or so that the noise of her alarm and phone had made it through the fog to register in her head. She told herself again she really needed to get up and answer the phone, but her brain seemed stuck on the command of 'move,' like a record needle caught in a groove, unable to continue the thought.

It took almost another hour before she finally managed to get her hands to push back the blankets, at which point it took all her willpower not to immediately pull them back over her head and check out again. For it was with movement that the pain came back and it took the cool air of the bedroom on her skin to remind her that the chill was reaching parts of her body that her clothes should have protected. She swung her legs to the floor and found herself choking back a sob.

The phone started its dance across the desk again and Santana forced her body to move towards it. If she didn't answer soon Brittany might very well invite herself over to check up on her. The thought of Brittany or anyone seeing her like this was alarming enough to allow her to stumble to the desk and type a brief response to the half dozen worried messages. Santana was never sick and almost never missed school. Brittany was only acting like any best friend would.

"Sorry B. Feeling punk. Don't come over- don't want you to get sick too."

Santana knew if she asked Brittany would be over as fast as she could, and it wasn't like her best friend hadn't seen her vulnerable before, but she couldn't handle the idea of anyone knowing what had happened- knowing that she'd been weak and helpless and that it was her own damn fault. Besides, Brittany had left the party early last night with Artie at Santana's insistence that she was perfectly fine by herself and didn't need a baby-sitter. Truthfully, Santana just couldn't stand to see the two of them together anymore, but she knew that Brittany would feel guilty for leaving her if she found out.

Santana dropped her phone back on the desk and pulled the alarm clock's cord from the wall on her way to the bathroom. She stopped in the doorway, her mind rebelling again at the thought of removing her clothes or catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. As long as she didn't see herself or acknowledge her current disarray she could remain in a weird semi-state of denial. She thought faintly that she should be tearing at her clothes and scrubbing her skin raw. Isn't that what they did on TV- desperate to get clean?

Instead she seemed to take refuge in inertia. If she stayed still enough her body began to feel like something that no longer belonged to her. It became something foreign, detached, and detachment was safe.

She wasn't sure how long she stood in the doorway to her bathroom, but the faint buzzing of the phone behind her brought her back to herself again, made her picture Brittany's sweet face and Santana clung to that image with every fiber of her being as she stripped the torn clothes from her body and stepped under the hot spray of the shower.

The water stung the raw places on her body and that pain was an excellent catalyst for dispelling the fog of shock that had been clouding her mind. Santana felt herself clenching her teeth against the sting and in place of the shock came a sense of detachment that was altogether different than before- this felt cold. This felt almost comfortable, familiar. Before Santana had opened herself up to Brittany this was how she had felt almost all the time. To her surprise there was less damage to this part of herself than she would have thought since she had cast it aside in her attempt to bare her heart and win over Brittany. Santana could feel the numbness and anger settling back into their familiar places in her chest, doing their job to keep any other emotions at bay.

Whereas minutes before she probably would have been a blubbering mess as she washed the dried white substance from her thighs, fingers brushing bruises and the faint red spots where she'd bled, instead there was nothing.

There was nothing, because nothing happened.

So she'd fucked a couple of guys last night. She'd been drunk out of her mind, downing shot after shot in a desperate attempt to push a certain blonde from her head, and she'd fucked some guys. No big deal, nothing she hadn't done before.

That's all it was- after all you couldn't rape a girl who never said 'no,' right?

All reviews, comments, and critiques are welcomed with open arms. Thanks for reading.