Jumpstart
Violence ripples under her skin again. It's been so since she remembers. And not only that, almost since she remembers, only one thing tames it. Small things set her off repeatedly, and alone, she requires all her strength to quell it.
Separation, she's found, resembles amputation. Phantom pain lurches where a heart should be beating. More than once, she's imagined those fingers shuffling into her own, just to be able to take another step.
So it's back to basics: First you breathe.
It's ridiculous; it should be easy. Babies are born knowing almost nothing else. But it's hard at first. It takes an effort of will and force at first, to release the abdominal walls enough to expand her lungs. Imagine: having to use force for autonomic functions. Like she could will her still heart to resume.
Part of getting the breathing back on track is reinvesting in cheerleading. Every kick, every aerial requires a deep yell and the consequent expulsion of breath. It's a trick: because the breath that forgets to be breathed in always fights to get back in when you have kicked it out.
(And fighting to get back in is what she needs right now.)
Lately her head has been full of static, like something short-circuited in the moment she broke up with Brittany— she should have sucked up all the air in the room to take back the words in the moment before they traversed the twenty-one inches between them. But the breath forgot. And now her system seems underconnected. Today at practice all the violence running under her skin tried to erupt at once. Mistakes were made. By the end of practice her hand was purple and swollen. Fortunately nobody else was damaged.
The pain is oddly satisfying. The sting brings her back from the ache she's been living with, and the breathing gets easier. Handsprings will hurt tomorrow, but maybe that will make her breathe better, too. Homework, what's homework? She gets enough done. She makes it to most of her classes, and there are a couple geeks she's been secretly cultivating who give her notes to the ones she's missed. She can bang out a paper in a couple hours usually, so those can all wait until the last minute. What's important is expelling air and taking it back in again. She's never been so conscious about it in her life, not even when singing.
She remembers being able to feel, singing, actually being able to feel the vibration not only in her chest and face, but throughout, up through her scalp and down through her chest and legs through the soles of her feet. And it's not like she's ever quit singing, she just stopped feeling, at some point, its echoes through her body. Maybe since the moment Mine became a lie.
For a while, everybody else had a plan for her. Brittany wanted her to go to college, Quinn wanted her to beg Brittany to come back, Mr. Schue wanted her to go to law school. Abuela wanted her to disappear. Library Girl wanted… something. Now she's at her own inciting incident. That's what she's thinking today anyway, but sometimes she thinks it was when she first quickened in Brittany's presence. Maybe this is the inciting incident for the rest of the story.
Maybe her hand will heal up by the time she goes home for winter break. Maybe she'll be able to breathe enough by then to think. Maybe she'll be able to stand on her own feet by then. And then what? And then?
Breathe. One foot in front of the other. Breathe. What does it take to jumpstart your own heart?
Other people sometimes help. Sometimes. Sometimes a lot. But they involve risk. Risking that her heart shuts down even tighter. Risking that the phantom pain overwhelms everything else again. People are risky. They have volition, triggers, agendas. So does she. The combination is sometimes a mess.
Ha. It could all be solved with Brittany by her side. But does that really solve anything?
She has always soothed the hurt. She has almost always calmed the violence. If she could get her back by her side, would it be so again? Or has the damage over time crossed the tipping point? When did "doing the mature thing" become such a crock?
She's in a shadowy mirrored room, afraid of something. A shadow moves, and she shoots it with a laser weapon. Cutting herself in two. Where did that come from? That's something Sam would dream up. But he wouldn't now, not now that he's sleeping beside the girl who takes the nightmares away.
Santana finds herself in aerial splits from the top of the pyramid. Her body knows well enough what to do, and fortunately her mind lets it while she catches up. Coach is right, she has to stop phoning it in. Deep yell. Kick out all the breath so it fights to get back.
But Brittany is not fighting. Santana is not fighting. They are doing the mature thing. It's a fucking crock.
She lands hard, on her back. Nothing is really injured, but it takes quite a few moments before she is able to take any air in. Before she is able to breathe.
And when she can breathe again, she's going to stop phoning it in. But first: she needs to use the phone.