Title: Beautiful Today
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Summary: 'She hates what she sees. She hates it all, because Quinn told her to.' Santana needs saving, but no one seems to notice. Brittana.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Deals with self harm and eating disorders throughout.
Authors Note: I have never been through this myself, and so I am not writing from experience. I have helped friends going through similar situations, but never experienced it personally. I know that some details may be inaccurate, but I am simply going off what I have read and seen. I am sorry if I don't get this right for some people, as I know that this story touches on many sensitive issues, and I don't mean to offend anyone with what I write. I have researched, but I am still writing something that is completely new for me.
Anyway, on with the story! Santana's boob job really stunted me. The whole thing just seemed so random, and it seems like the writers of the show simply used it for a plot line in one episode and then dropped it completely (apart from a few remarks here and there). I don't like that. I think that if someone that seems as self-assured as Santana changes something about herself like that, then there is a reason. I thought that there was insecurity there, and I wanted to explore that. Only then did the stories of anorexia/bulimia and self-harm/suicide start to surface all over the internet and news, and this went from exploring Santana's body issues into something deeper. That makes it slightly A/U, but it still ties in with her character, relationship with others on the show, and storyline(s). Nothing too drastic is changed.
...that whole thing was like, more words than the story. So I'll shut up and simply say thank you for reading :)
Contains self-harm and eating disorders. If either of these things are a trigger for you, please think before reading on.
CHAPTER ONE
I'm losing myself...
Santana was twelve when it began. She remembers it well, the first day that she heard a name thrown in her direction and the muted giggles of multiple people follow. The muted giggles of who she thought were her friends. It only took her wearing the wrong thing that day; wearing the sweatshirt that her mother had bought her, and that she had actually quite liked, to make them turn on her. They told her she dressed like a five year old, told her that she belonged in kindergarten, that the she looked ugly in the apparently offending outfit.
Her friends. The friends that she had made during her first week in middle school, that she had been with throughout the whole first year and was just beginning her second year with. Her friends. The friends that had been to her house and met her parents, that had laughed and joked with her, were now the ones laughing at her.
It hurt. It hurt more than she could ever remember anything hurting before.
It wasn't so bad the first time, she managed to laugh along, hiding the pain that every word struck in her chest. She even made sure to pick her outfit out carefully the following day; wearing something that she knew they liked, that she knew Quinn liked. Quinn was the one who was hurling the abuse, was the mastermind behind the comments that elicited so much hushed laughter. But Quinn would like this, she was sure. Quinn wouldn't say another bad word and it would all be forgotten, just playground games.
She was wrong.
It happened again that day, and the next, and then the week after that. Every day was filled with comments, laughter. She had only a small group of friends, and she and Quinn were always the leaders. If there were to be a sleepover, it would be at either of their houses. Any activities would be organised by the two girls. If someone new wanted to come along and join in their games during recess, it was always Quinn or Santana that would send them on their way or let them cautiously in. But now, Quinn was the sole leader of the pack. She had decided to focus all of her attention on Santana; decided that she would be pushed out, that she would be victimised.
Santana doesn't know what she's done wrong. She regrets the day that she wore that sweater every second, wishes that she hasn't, but she knows that it is not that simple. She knows, even at the tender age of twelve, that Quinn was probably just waiting for a reason to become the top girl, waiting to eliminate her competition. The sweater gave her something to aim for, something to use against her.
She wishes it was still only that one thing that Qinn had in her repertoire, had to alienate her with.
"Oh my god!" she heard the blonde almost scream as she walked in one Monday morning, her head instantly falling to the ground, trying to somehow move her hair further onto her face to hide what she knew they had seen. "I didn't know Satan had four eyes!"
The whole class erupts into laughter as Santana heads to her seat, still refusing to look up, to face their giggles or their stares. She never once looks up, she just listens to the insults and pretends they don't exist. She hears Quinn, she hears the bombardment of comments and the amused reactions, but she doesn't once see her judgemental eyes as she speaks.
She wishes she could. She wishes she could retort, that she could somehow find the voice within her dry throat to retaliate. But she never does. She can't even find the strength to lift her head, her gaze. So she allows her hair to blanket the world around her, to cover her eyes, and she takes it.
She finally turns thirteen, telling her mother that she simply doesn't want a party and would rather do something as a family, cleverly missing out the part about having absolutely nobody to invite. She is told that her mom and dad can't get the same time off, and so it would have to be just the two of them or nothing at all. Santana is used to this, used to her parents hardly ever crossing paths, so she simply nods with a smile.
She jumps into her mother's waiting car that night, having completed her first day of school as a thirteen year old. She thought it would change something, but it hasn't. She lets out a sigh of relief as she buckles her seatbelt, the excitement of the prospect of a night spent bowling and eating pizza making the day not seem all that bad, when her mother speaks. "I've been called into work, sweetie. I have to drop you off at the sitters."
She wants to remind her mother of their plans, tell her that it is so not okay to do that. She wants to object, but instead she nods. She nods, looks at her hands lying limply on her lap, and allows her hair to fall comfortingly beside her face. It always feels better when she can't see anything.
Her next birthday is the same, as is every single day leading up to it.
"Satan," Quinn cackles every day as she walks through the door, this day no different. Santana instantly looks away, focusing solely on her desk as she quickly walks towards it. She stays silent, of course. Because nothing ever changes. Nothing will ever change. "Wow, someone treated themselves this weekend," the blonde girl continues, perched upon a boys desk at the back of the room, surrounded by adoring fans. One thing had changed, Santana notes, and that was Quinn's almost rapid rise in popularity. She was untouchable, even at fourteen. "You might want to lay off the calories for a while, honey. Just an idea."
That ones new, and that one cuts even deeper. She almost feels it physically knock the wind out of her as she forces the emerging tears to go back to where they came from. She had never once cried in school, never once cried in front of them. She likes to think that it's because she will not give them the satisfaction; that she won't let them see what they want to see, to achieve their goal, when really it's only because she knows she would never be able to stop. Every night, the only thing that stops the steady stream of tears is sleep. She wishes she could always escape that way, that she could always just be asleep.
She thinks the fat joke was just for that day, just so Quinn could spice up and vary her slander. She thinks, and she wishes, but she's wrong. She says it again the next day, a quick "those jeans are looking tighter" following the day after. Santana knows it is wrong, but it gets to her. It gets to her so much that she finds her thirteen-year-old self stripped bare and staring at her reflection in her mother's mirror, finds herself scanning her body through bloodshot eyes, finds a tear dropping from her damp face and falling to the ground in front of her. She hates what she sees. She hates her glasses, she hates her hair, she hates her body, she hates her teeth, she hates her nose, her arms, her legs, her feet. She hates it all, because Quinn told her to. She hates the blonde for pointing out all of her flaws, for making her notice them, for making her face the truth. She hates her, and she hates herself.
So she turns fourteen, finally matching Quinn's final digit, and again hopes that it might change something. It doesn't. If anything, it makes it worse. "You're going to be in high school next year, Satan. Ugly girls barely survive high school," she had sneered as she passed her in the bathroom, her fan-club following not far behind and making sure to emphasise their evil laughter. "You don't have much time to lose that, Satan," she had said another day, "you can't blame puppy fat any more."
They had only just begun their last year of middle school, but already Santana spent almost every night in worry of her future in high school. 'Ugly girls barely survive' is a constant in her mind as she stares at herself yet again, taking in every inch of the body that she hates so much, of the body that seems to be hers. She wishes it wasn't, wishes she could swap for someone else's. But it is, and she can't, so she cries.
She doesn't spend much time with her mother, or her father for that matter. They always make sure that there is someone in the house with her, but they usually work from the moment they she gets in from school until after she goes to bed at night. They offer her dinner, out of courtesy she's sure, and then disappear back into their office. She hates it, but it's all she's known for a while now, so it's okay. At least they're there, she figures, and one of them hasn't just up and left. Sometimes she wishes they weren't together any more. They avoid each other like the plague, so maybe if one were gone then the other would be around more. She shakes those thoughts from her head as she sits in front of the TV, ice cream in one hand and spoon in the other. It's then that she hears the office door open, her mother poking her head into the room moments later. "It's time for bed, honey," she smiles, turning her attention to the screen for a second before pulling out of the room. "Oh," she remembers as she begins to walk, backtracking and again peering around the door frame. "Try to stop eating so much junk food, Santana. You don't want it all catching up to you."
That is when it all goes so horribly badly.
She sends her mother a fake smile, enough to get the woman back to her office, and upon hearing the door close she heads to the kitchen. She almost races to the trash can, flinging it open and throwing away the half-eaten tub. She feels tears stinging, burning her face as she throws the spoon into the sink, leaning over it wish heavy breaths. It seems like such an easy option right now, to stick her fingers to the back of her throat and force everything she has just eaten back into the sink. It seems so easy, so okay, that it terrifies her. She feels dizzy, gripping the counter desperately to keep her standing, tears falling into the sink and slowly finding their way to the plug hole. It's like everything is moving so slowly, yet so incredibly fast. She could do it, right now. She could finally take charge of herself, be the one controlling how she feels, what she does, who she is. She could just do it, make herself feel better, make it all go away. She could do it and her mother would never care. She could do it and maybe, just maybe, Quinn's voice inside of her head will go away. Maybe the laughs will get a little quieter, maybe her chest will hurt a little less.
So she does.
Santana hopes; once she has cleared up the mess and calmed her frantic, terrified breaths, poking her head through her mother's office door to say goodnight, that the woman will notice. That she will be able to tell. The thought scares her, almost makes her race up to bed without saying a word, but she could notice. She could notice and care. Actually care. "Goodnight mom," she says with a smile, an unintentional quiver in her voice as she speaks. Her hands are still shaking, she notices, clearly her body not recovering from her previous actions.
"Night honey," she replies, not once looking away from the sheet of paper that currently has her undivided attention. Santana hovers for a moment, hoping, before pulling the door shut again and slowly walking the stairs to her bedroom. Of course she wouldn't notice. Of course she wouldn't care. Santana hates herself for the false hope.
She walks into school the next day without her eyes staring down at the ground. As wrong as she knows it is, she feels different. She feels confident, confident that Quinn will notice the change, will see that Santana is in control.
"You're not supposed to eat the whole tub of ice-cream in one go, you know that right?"
The ground suddenly becomes her one focus yet again, her shoulders slumping as she quickly takes her seat. She feels stupid for thinking that it might change, that Quinn would see. But she can feel it. She knows that no matter what they say, they will see it one day. She knows that she is in control, that she can prove Quinn wrong, prove her mother wrong. They might not know now, but they will know. She will have the body that she wants, she will have a body that everyone wants. She will be that person.
"That was mean..."
Her eyes almost bulge from their sockets at the sound of a small, timid voice interrupting the dying laughter of the rest of the class. She allows her hair to continue safely curtaining her face as she stops trying to block out the noise, the insults. She doesn't recognise the voice, but Quinn's snappy reply is just as quick as ever. "Nobody asked you...and who the hell are you, anyway?" Her voice sounded genuinely confused, like this girl had been planted in this room out of nowhere. Which, in all fairness, did seem to be the case.
"But you were being a bully, and bullies are bad," she replied simply, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. Santana couldn't help but lift her head a little now, trying to turn around slightly without being noticed by Quinn. "And I'm Brittany," the girl completed. When Santana finally saw her, sat only a few chairs away from the desk that housed Quinn, she was actually smiling. Smiling like she hadn't just answered back to the head bitch, like she hadn't just been handed a death sentence and sealed her fate all in one small sentence.
Santana saw Quinn rise from the desk, crossing her arms tightly and raising an questioning eyebrow. "You're new, right?"
Brittany's smile grew as she nodded, getting to hear feet much like Quinn, taking a few bouncy steps until she was almost face to face with the girl. "We moved here last week," she beamed.
Quinn paused for a moment, simply staring at her. The rest of her group seemed to do the same, a few turning their noses up at the girl, others with shocked expressions on their faces. It had been a long time, if ever, since they heard anyone speak so casually to Quinn. Everyone was cautious about what they they said to her, absolutely everybody, and they had good reason to be. "Okay, whatever," the shorter blonde finally sighed, unfolding her arms. "Let me make this simple for you. That thing," she almost spat, pointing a harsh finger in Santana's direction. The latina instantly looked away, pretending not to have been watching the girl in the first place. "You don't speak to her, you don't even acknowledge her, and you definitely don't defend her." Brittany's face crumpled instantly, confusion within every inch of her features. She didn't understand why this girl was being so mean, or why she hated the other girl so much. And also; acknowledge? "Get that straight, and me and you won't have a problem."
Brittany thought for a moment longer, until it hurt in fact, but she still couldn't work it out. "Why?" she finally asked, her confusion only growing when a few of the people sat around them gasped. She didn't understand how they would find the word 'why' to be so shocking, people said it all the time.
"Why?" Quinn shot back, brows almost flying from her forehead as they shot up. "Look at her!" she laughed bitterly, not alone in her notion as a hand full of people around her did the same.
Brittany turned to look. She couldn't see her face, just the back of her head. She had very dark hair, almost black, and she seemed to be ducking down a little, her shoulders slumped forward. Brittany didn't understand what was wrong with her. "What am I looking for?" she asked, genuinely baffled.
There was silence again, and Quinn's arms had returned to tightly fold across her chest. "She's a loser," she replied, "and if you don't want to be one too, I would shut up."
Brittany's eyebrows furrowed, a frown appearing on her lips almost instantly. "Don't call her that."
Santana couldn't help it when she was rendered almost breathless. She actually felt like crying. Those simple, four words were all she had been hoping so badly to hear for so, so long. For someone to care, to defend her. It's all she had hoped for, prayed for, cried herself to sleep imagining. She didn't even know who this girl was, and she didn't know Santana either, but she cared enough to do something. She cared.
"She hasn't done anything wrong," Brittany continued, glancing quickly at the back of Santana's head before looking back into the furious hazel of Quinn's eyes.
"How the hell would you know what she's done?" she replied violently, hands falling beside herself in clenched fists as she took a step forwards.
Brittany didn't even seem phased by the movement, her expression unchanging. "She just walked in and you called her names," she pointed out, the same frown still on her face. She didn't understand why anyone would be mean to someone else, especially when the other person didn't deserve to be picked on in the first place. She knew that she had missed something, and that maybe the small, dark haired girl had done something in the past, but no one else was saying anything to help. She was sat at her desk, almost flinching when anything was said about her. She looked sad, even from behind, and Brittany didn't like that at all. "You shouldn't call people names. It makes them sad."
Santana couldn't help but notice that the girl sounded so young. It may have had something to do with the fact that she was used to the all too knowledgeable Quinn Fabray; that she was used to almost instant retorts and snappy remarks, used to attitudes that went well beyond their fourteen years. But Brittany sounded so innocent as she spoke. It made Santana smile.
"To be honest, I don't really care," Quinn replied in a tone that tried to be nonchalant, but came out dripping with anger. She completed it with a quick shrug. "She's a loser, and she knows it. That's why she never says anything back, isn't that right Satan?"
Santana's smile disappeared, her jaw clenching. She wanted desperately to have some of the strength that Brittany had, but she knew she didn't. Instead, she slumped even further forwards, pretending not to be paying attention yet again. She felt like this was it, that the glimmer of hope that seemed to come her way in the form of Brittany would soon be taken away. That Quinn will have her throwing insults at Santana, in perfect harmony with the rest of the class, within days. She was talking about her to Brittany like she wasn't even in the room, like she didn't even exist, didn't matter. She hated it.
"Satan?" Brittany's confused voice chimed in. "That's a funny name."
There was disbelieving silence again. "Great, so now we have a loser and a retard?"
There was a few gasps that accompanied the inevitable snickering this time, a few people clearly thinking the girl had taken things too far. Not that they would ever voice their opinions. Brittany's frown just reappeared on her lips, shaking her head slightly. "I'm not a retard," she defended weakly.
"It's a good job, really," Quinn continued regardless. "I mean, Satan couldn't be alone forever. She needed someone else that would actually bother to waste their time with her. Probably best that it's someone as...special as you."
"Thank you!" the cheery reply came, clearly not grasping the sarcasm that filled Quinn's words. Her smile was wide, and nearly everyone in the room burst into laughter.
Santana couldn't take it. She couldn't the fact that the first person to stand up for her had instantly become a victim, that she had caused somebody else to become a target. It was her fault. No one else would help her now, no one else would talk to her. She would be alone, just like she felt she always had been. She couldn't remember a time that she woke up in the morning and looked forward to her day, that she walked through the doors and wasn't greeted with bitter remarks thrown from her former friend and all those surrounding her. She doesn't remember anything but this. Anything but the constant, unrivalled, cruel pain that she carried with her throughout every second of the day, that was so sharp and unrelenting in her chest.
She rose from her chair, seeing a tear land softly on the desk in front of her. She was unable to contain the sob that accompanied her actions, that sounded throughout the room. She quickly ran, ran for the door, ran for air. She ran away from Quinn, away from the people that taunted her, the people that watched and did nothing, the girl that she had now caused to feel just as awful as she did every day. She didn't stop once she had reached the outside, the quick call of 'finally, exercise!' only pushing her further through the almost empty hallways. Her head was spinning as she crashed through the door of the girls bathroom, only glancing to see that all of the stalls were empty before falling into one and locking the door behind her.
She hadn't planned to do it, but even when she was half way there she knew what was coming. She ached to do it, she needed to. It made her feel better, feel more confident. She slowed her breathing for a moment, making sure that she could hear no one else in the room, before she lifted her fingers to her mouth.
Suddenly she heard the door open, pausing as her hand hovered close to her lips. She stayed silent, waiting for the person to do what they needed to do and leave. She needed to do this. There was a few moments of silence, confusing silence. Why wasn't the girl doing anything?
"...Satan?"
She pulled her hand away completely at the sound of the familiar, yet completely new, voice. It was soft, unsure, questioning. Santana turned herself away from the bowl, towards the door. She couldn't see Brittany, obviously, but she could see the girl's shadow becoming larger as she neared the door. The latina slowly stood, as silent as possible, and quickly began to wipe her eyes with her sleeve. She hadn't even noticed the tears that seemed to have pooled on her cheeks during all the commotion, and she was sure that her eyes were as red and puffy as they felt.
"Satan, is that you?" the voice came again, the shadow stopping and two feet now visible through the gap at the bottom of her stall.
Santana couldn't help but laugh, inwardly of course. The name that she had been called so harshly over the years, that had been used as an insult against her, and Brittany was now saying it so calmly, almost friendly in her tone. It was ironic, but remembering the earlier clash of the two blondes, she realised that Brittany seemed to take it as Santana's actual name. She couldn't help the dry laugh that escaped her lips this time. "It's Santana," she offered meekly, standing completely still as the feet below the door confirmed that Brittany was doing the same.
"That's good," the blonde sighed with relief on the other side, shifting slightly. Santana could hear a smile in her voice. "Satan's a boys name, but I didn't want to be mean and tell you. I think I knew someone with that name before, but I don't really remember who. I feel like I have heard it before, y'know?" she wondered out loud, Santana's lips slowly curling into something that vaguely resembled a smile. "Santana is much prettier."
Nearly two years. It had been nearly two years since someone did that, since someone complimented her. Sure, she got the occasional, and mandatory, admiring comment from her parents. But that always seemed so fake. Her mother would look up from her cellphone for a moment, brush Santana's cheek and tell her she was growing into a 'beautiful young woman', and then be gone again. She doesn't remember the last time that someone genuinely complimented her, with meaning, even if it was for something as trivial as her name. The only time, in school, that she ever received a compliment was when a teacher graded her paper. That just didn't feel the same. The small hint of a smile that had found it's way to her lips earlier grew. "Thank you," she replied eventually, as sincere as she could possibly be.
"How come they don't use your real name?" Brittany asked eventually, and Santana heard her lean against the door.
She sighed, though the grin on her face wouldn't leave. "They do it because they know I don't like it," she began, taking a slow step and turning sideways, leaning herself against the other side of the door. She knew it was weird, because there was at least half an inch of thick wood between them, but Santana could feel the warmth from the girl stood outside. She was sure she could. She didn't know whether it was because this was the closest she had intentionally stood next to anyone in school for a very long time without being tormented, or because she was finally talking to someone who was willing, and seemed to cherish the chance, to listen to her. She decided not to over-analyse. It felt nice, this feeling that she had. New, but nice. Almost like friendship.
"Why would they do that?" Brittany's shocked, yet still unbelievably soft, voice came again.
Santana wondered where the hell the girl came from, why she seemed to shocked that one person could be so mean towards another. She wanted to transfer to whatever school that was, taking Brittany back with her. Taking her away from the impending doom that she faced by even talking to Santana civilly, let alone standing up to Quinn Fabray in her defence. She thought it must have been the best place to be, her old school, especially if everybody there was just like Brittany. "They don't like me," she answered after a short silence. "We were friends up until about two years ago, and then they all just sorta'...decided I wasn't a part of that any more."
There was another pause. "That sucks," the reply came, simple yet full of empathy. "My mom always says that your true friends are the ones that stick by you no matter what."
Santana really wanted to meet her mother, too. She sounded like what her mom should be, what she used to be. She smiled a sad smile. "I don't think I've ever had a true friend," she sighed. "I don't really have any friends."
She was sure she heard a gasp, and the weight on the other side of the door suddenly disappeared. "You don't have friends?" she asked in disbelief. Santana blushed, embarrassed at her admittance and the reaction it received. As if she needed to feel even more ridiculous than she knew she looked. She glanced to her left momentarily, the bowl of the toilet again catching her eye. She felt her stomach turn. "Who do you talk to?"
She didn't stop looking to her left, to the object that she had been leaning over just moments earlier, fingers ready to force their way against her gag reflex just like they had the night before. "Nobody," she answered, voice guarded and cold with her simple reply.
There was more silence, this time lasting for much longer. Santana found herself gravitating towards the toilet. She was only a half-step away from where she was previously, but she had moved. She felt pulled towards it, like it was tempting her, telling her to just do it and make herself feel better. It worked last night, her mind pointed out, so it would no doubt work again. She could go back to class with her head held just a little higher, because she was in control, not Quinn. She didn't decide who she was any more, she wouldn't let her.
There was a soft knock on the stall door, pulling Santana from her thoughts and stopping her foot from taking the next step that she had already begun. She paused, turning her head, half expecting Brittany to be watching her every move. She sighed with relief when she was met with the murky white of the stall door. She hesitantly edged forwards, wordlessly reaching for the lock and letting her hand hover there for a moment. She could let Brittany in; let her see her sad eyes, the tracks that her tears had left behind on her cheek. Or she could do what her head was screaming at her do to, to push her away so that she could get on with it. Brittany was not a sure-fire way to happiness, to a feeling of satisfaction. Brittany wasn't a certainty, not like her own ability to simply turn her away and return to the toilet. She was a certainty, because she was in control. She needed certainty.
She didn't understand, then, why she found herself opening the lock, new tears emerging in her eyes as her trembling hand slowly allowed the blonde to come into view. Brittany was simply looking at her, slightly sympathetic but also full of intrigue. Santana wasn't sure if she liked it, the scrutiny. Wasn't sure if she liked the way the girl's blue eyes were piercing as they looked into hers. She didn't have much time to think it through, however, because she quickly found herself falling helplessly into the already strong arms in front of her, crying into the shoulder of her heroic stranger.
A/N: Also, anyone that watched the trailer for this fic on Youtube, the reaction seemed really good. So I hope this didn't disappoint too much!
The next chapter is written, along with the two after that. Updates should be constant :)
