Pairing: Santana/Brittany, Sam/Quinn, Tina/Mike
Summary: "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." Friedrich Nietzsche
Spoilers: all to be safe
Warnings: Sexual abuse, rape, suicide, depression, angst, Canada.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Based on a prompt from the glee angst meme.
Requiem
Chapter One
In middle school Santana learned that she had a small problem. (And it wasn't petty crime, as Fabray liked to tell any who would listen during their enemy phase of frenemies.) No, her problem was the deep-seated urge to flee, often for days at a time.
During the seventh grade, one month after her mamá died, Santana literally ran away. She grabbed several hundred dollars of cash, put on some comfortable clothes, and double-knotted her running shoes. Luckily, it was spring and relatively warm.
Brittany was the only one not (overwhelmingly) concerned for Santana's safety; she knew Santana was always armed and dangerous. It also helped that Santana said good-bye to her before she jogged off into the sunset.
Santana ran away again in the eighth grade, this time for only three days. (Not many concerned themselves with this disappearance, as Santana had built a reputation for vanishing acts. Some lasted several hours, others a day or two.) Her mamá had died one year ago to the day and everyone blamed it on that tragedy. Santana, however, had a different reason, a reason which she told no one and called, The Incident.
In her junior year, Santana's bad habit reared its head at the worst possible moment: in the midst of sweet lady kisses with Brittany. It could be considered Brittany's fault, as she was just short of declaring her unyielding lesbian passion, but in reality? Santana realized it was her own damn fault. She was too afraid to commit and be gay and all that shit; and so, after she fled Brittany's room, she fucked Puck's brains out. It wasn't as satisfying as it should've been.
A road trip came a few months later, this time involving a thousand dollars cash of her stepfather's doctor money, his credit card, and his very expensive Range Rover to brave the treacherous wilderness. The reason for Santana's need to flee is a mystery, as she destroyed her solo at sectionals and moved up the cheerleading pyramid a few weeks prior.
Again, she told only Brittany she was leaving (via text message), and only Sam Evans worried she had been abducted by aliens.
It's Monday, and Katy Perry's "California Gurls" blasts from the enormous stereos.
Within seconds, Cheerios and a girl with a flaming hula hoop strut between two bike ramps, blue wigs a sharp contrast to the "victorious blood red" of their McKinley cheer uniforms.
To Brittany, everything is chaos: she just concentrates on the steps and the rhythm and Katy Perry's hot voice and not the strange contraptions that are shooting flames at the back of the gym. She wishes Santana were here; her best friend would love the crazy routine and her presence always keeps Brittany grounded and focused.
As quickly as it begins it ends, the Cheerios panting quietly but in perfect formation.
Watching from the sidelines, Coach Sylvester raises her bullhorn lethargically and declares: "I'm bored."
Two pairs of sparkling boobs fizzle out sadly.
"Ladies, I am at a loss," Sue says softly, eyeing them all with distaste. Her fierce blue eyes lock with Brittany's, and she gulps.
"Brittany, please remind me of how I single handedly put cheerleading on the map."
Oh, this one's easy.
"In 1979, you directed a made for TV movie about the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, called The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders," Brittany recites, fidgeting nervously.
"That is correct. In the meantime, what's changed?" Sue muses aloud.
"Personally grooming habits?" Quinn says sarcastically.
"What's changed is I have completely lost interest," Sue says quickly, ignoring Quinn, "and ladies, I blame you."
Sue turns to Becky, who holds a red bucket full of jiggly... things. "Becky, more silicone falsies."
"Got it, Coach," Becky responds, striding forward and handing each Cheerio a pair. Brittany gags at the slimy texture.
"You will each enhance your bust with an additional pair of chicken cutlets in an attempt to add jiggle to what is the most boring routine I have ever witnessed." Brittany shoots a quick glance to her right, where Santana should be.
Oh, right.
Canada.
Brittany occasionally forgets. It's only been a day, and she's so used to having Santana with her it's like they're one and the same. Of course, now that she's dating Artie, they've kind of drifted apart, but...
"But Coach Sylvester, this is the most elaborate routine the Cheerios have ever done," Quinn protests, hands on her hips (she refuses to take the 'chicken' cutlets). "We're shoe ins at Regionals next week, and the favorite to win at Nationals—"
"And yet, I am still, so very bored," Sue says through her bullhorn with a weary sigh. "Even things I used to think were hilarious... Case in point. Sandbags, slap yourself with the chicken cutlet."
A tense, ringing silence echoes throughout the gym.
"Where is Sandbags," Sylvester says menacingly.
"She's gone," Quinn answers irritably.
"Gone?" she repeats. "Where the hell is she?"
"Canada," Brittany provides. "At least, that's what she told me. I have a text. Want to see?"
Quinn hushes her.
Sue's eyes narrow. "Canada," she snarls venomously, "is homeland of the gays and is the most inferior nation in the Western Hemisphere. It is only slightly above France, vampires, and the class-five disaster that is Will Schuester's hair."
Brittany wonders what Coach Sylvester has against Canada. Didn't they give the Free World maple syrup?
"Becky, make a note."
"Yes, Coach," Becky replies automatically, picking up a conveniently placed clipboard and pen.
Blue eyes narrow in righteous fury. "First: due to Boobs McGee's defection to that lesser territory, her status as a Cheerio is under review. Second: demote her to the bottom of the pyramid, stat."
Becky salutes with her clipboard.
"But Coach, Santana is one of our best Cheerios—" Quinn begins, and Brittany bites her fingernails anxiously. They taste like silicone falsies and red polish.
"Fabray, I am not in the mood for your insubordination," Sue interrupts. Then, as if the previous tirade on Canada and Santana never occurred, Sue turns to Brittany and commands, "Brittany, slap yourself with a chicken cutlet. You are now replacing Sandbags as the object of my amusement."
Brittany glances around confusedly. Quinn rolls her eyes and nods, and she takes that as an affirmative to indulge their demented coach. Brittany slaps the silicone falsie against her face and her eyes water. She managed to smack herself in the nose rather hard.
Sylvester frowns. "Not even a chuckle..."
Quinn arches one of her infamous eyebrows in a challenge. "The problem is, you keep trying to make a bigger and bigger spectacle. No matter how hard we try, we can't make a routine work unless you find a way to make it interesting for you. You have to find a way to top yourself."
"Q, you just may have a point," Sue says.
Quinn smiles smugly.
"But to be sure... slap yourself with the chicken cutlet."
Quinn blinks.
The practice ends fifteen minutes later, Quinn furious and Brittany's nose smarting.
"I cannot believe her!" Quinn seethes, digging in her purse for her phone.
"I know," Brittany agrees. "I can't believe she made us slap ourselves with cutlets. That really hurt."
Quinn stares disbelieving at Brittany, who is massaging her bruised nose gently.
"No, Britt! I'm talking about Santana!"
"Oh." Brittany frowns. "What's wrong with Santana?"
Quinn throws her hands in the air exasperatedly. "She left us alone with a crazy Coach Sylvester! And went to Canada! Without telling anyone!"
"She told me," Brittany says. "Want to see the text?"
"No I do not want to see the text," Quinn hisses. "And you don't count!"
Brittany pouts.
The head cheerleader scowls. "Sorry, Britt, it's just—Santana is acting weird lately. And I'm tired of it."
Brittany shrugs, grabbing her phone. She's texting Santana about the practice no matter what her location.
"I'm going to text her," Quinn says to the empty locker room. "I'm going to text her, and I'm going to demand that she haul her scrawny Latina ass back here!"
Unfortunately, Santana turned her phone off and she's in, you know, Canada, so anything Quinn wants to nag about will have to wait until Santana's return.
Message successfully sent to Sanny
Sent: Mon Jan 31, 5:43 pm
Hey just sayin we did KP but coach hated it and made me slap myself :'( btw is it cold? cuz we have fire down hur lol
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Mon Jan 31, 5:50 pm
I am going to kill you. Coach is insane and if you don't haul your scrawny Latina ass down here in the next second I will come and get you MYSELF.
It's Tuesday, meaning the second full day of Santana's expedition to Canada. No one is overly concerned.
The student body is only worried about the big game on Friday since Finn fucked up last week's game like the moronic man-child that he is.
The faculty is equally worried about the game; they never came this close to football recognition under Tanaka's coaching, and, if they somehow fail miserably as is McKinley's tendency, then destructive riots will most certainly break out.
And if they, God help them, somehow win, joyful and inebriated riots will erupt reminiscent of a Britney Spears Sex Riot.
Either way, valuable property will be destroyed and Santana is the farthest thing from everyone's mind.
Excluding, of course, Brittany and Quinn, though the latter is less concerned and more vengeful. (Honest to God, Quinn is going to kill Santana.)
Brittany and Quinn stand outside in the cold during Tuesday's Cheerios practice, gazing in awe at a massive cannon. It's decorated with red and black flames, the typical Cheerio red, and a gold WMHS insignia.
It is one of the most fearsome sights Quinn has ever had the privilege of seeing.
Sue strokes the weapon lovingly.
"Ladies... meet my Suclear weapon."
Message successfully sent to Sanny
Sent: Tues Feb 1, 5:25 pm
Sanny Coach Sylvester is trying to shoot me out of her Suclear weapon you need to get back here now I'm scared I don't think Mr Schue can stop her
It's Wednesday, and rumors are spreading like wildfire.
This is mainly due to a poll on Jewfro's blog. The students have four options. Some are outrageous, some not at all reasonable. When Quinn finally looks up the site after school—due to Coach's shenanigans with an illegal German cannon, practice was canceled—she chokes on her water.
Poll on Santana's Disappearance! Please answer TRUTHFULLY! This is an extremely accurate poll and DEPENDS on Your HONESTY!
Santana Murdered someone, and was Forced to Flee from the Law: 51.3%
Santana Fled Lima with Samuel Evan's Bastard child: 33.7%
Prostitution: 31.9%
Santana Defected to the Inferior Land of Canada: 5.0%
There are so many things wrong with this poll, Quinn doesn't know where to start.
One: The biggest flaw in the actual poll is the percentage totals to 121.9%. Not 100%. It's mathematically incorrect.
Two: These options are completely illogical. Getting pregnant with Sam's bastard child? Santana has only insulted Quinn's boyfriend, showing no interest whatsoever in his somewhat adorable dorkiness and not at all 'trouty mouth.' And why is 'Bastard child' a link?
The only thing Quinn wants to mention about prostitution is the fact that it is one word, as opposed to a phrase like the rest. It bothers her to no end.
Canada is the truth, and it's the lowest percentage, meaning absolute ridiculousness. And speaking of Canada, why does everyone hate on it? Didn't it give the Free World maple syrup?
Three: There are way too many exclamation points. Enough said.
Four: Quinn's biggest problem, personally, is that out of the 936 people that took Jewfro's ridiculous sham of a poll, 480.17 of them think Santana's a murdering sociopath. Except seriously. She's reading the grammatically incorrect comments, and that's the gist.
Santana is not crazy. She may be possessive of Brittany, jealousy prone, violent, and need serious anger management and counseling, but she is not a murdering sociopath. There is a fine line, and Santana has yet to cross it.
(Quinn decided a long time ago that if she ever does, it will be for the sake of Brittany. That's why she's been keeping a close eye on Artie lately. The only thing stopping Santana from slitting the boy's throat with her carefully hidden razorblades is Brittany's proximity.)
When she discovers this mockery of the art of statistics, however, Santana will kill Jewfro. And possibly Sam, for being second on the list and garnering a whopping 33.7%. Quinn will probably kill her boyfriend, too, on principle. Theoretically, he got Santana pregnant.
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:17 pm
They made a poll about you loser and 936 people took it. 51% said you killed someone, 34% said you're preggo with Sam, 32% said prostitution, and 5% said you
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:17 pm
defected to the inferior land of Canada
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:40
I know it's 122%, so don't say anything.
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Wed Feb 2, 5:55
Btw, I don't think you could kill anyone. I know you're crazy, but not a raging sociopath
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Wed Feb 2, 7:29
But I WILL kill you if you don't get back IMMEDIATELY. Or if you sleep with Sam. Just sayin
It's Thursday, and now the faculty is concerned.
The news that Santana has fled the United States due to manslaughter is known by everyone, including the ignorant band geeks, socially inept AV nerds, and hopelessly oblivious teachers like Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell and Mr. Schuester.
As Santana's best friend and only known ally, Brittany has been interrogated more times than she can count. Her default answer: "She's in Canada. She sent me a text. Want to see?"
Quinn is occasionally asked questions, due to the somewhat limited knowledge that, until Santana's disappearance, they were in the friend stage of frenemies. Now Quinn is firmly aligned with the archnemesis aspect of frenemies, and she refuses to acknowledge anyone's questions unless with a frosty glare and/or Fabray Eyebrow of Judgment and Doom.
Brittany is facing inquiries yet again, and this time, it's Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell. Santana is far from her mind, because she remembers last year she had to see the guidance counselor three times a week, back when she was Ms. Pillsbury. The topic was mainly the baby duck in her locker and co-discrepancy with Santana. (Whatever that is.)
Santana is at the forefront of Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell's mind. The rumors about murder, unwanted pregnancies, prostitution, and Canada are alarming; she has pamphlets on all four, but now that Santana is gone she has no way of delivering them.
So Emma settles with fidgeting uncomfortably behind her desk. Her questioning of one Brittany Susan Pierce about one Santana Isabel Lopez is failing miserably.
"So, Brittany," Emma starts timidly, wondering how to broach the subject. "How has your day been?"
"Good," Brittany responds in her dreamy voice. "I don't have any birds in my locker, if that's what you want."
Emma winces at the memory. A poor baby duckling was trapped in Brittany's locker for seventy-hours and survived. "No, that's not why I called you in. I was curious about Santana, and her whereabouts and safety. Many of the student body and staff are worried about her."
Brittany's blank expression is mildly suspicious. "I told everyone everything I know. She's in Canada. And she hasn't murdered anyone."
An enormous weight flies off Emma's chest at Brittany's words. But—
"Santana's in Canada? Really?"
"Duh," Brittany says with an absentminded shrug. "How many times do I have to tell you people...?"
"I thought, I don't know," Emma splutters, unable to form a coherent response. Honestly, the ginger thought Santana fled South. That was her theory; unfortunately, it wasn't on Jacob's poll, and she had to choose "manslaughter" instead.
Brittany raises an eyebrow in a very Quinn Fabray-like manner.
"I thought she hated Canada," Emma mutters shamefully.
"Santana loves maple syrup, especially licking it off my abs," Brittany deadpans. "That's really racist of you, Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell."
"I apologize," Emma apologizes with a blush, though she's not sure why.
"It's okay." Brittany shrugs. "She sent me a text. Wanna see?"
Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell coughs and discreetly adjusts a pencil on her desk. "Um, yes, that would be nice."
Brittany beams, and quickly whips out her cell phone. "You're the first person to ask to see," she says happily, quickly tapping a few buttons on the touch screen. "Uh, okay. She said, 'Hey Britts, I'm going to Canada for a drug deal, don't worry, love Sanny.' And I said, 'Okay L-O-L, bring me some maple syrup, love you too Sanny, hugs and kisses, hugs and kisses, smiley face.' "
Emma blinks. Drug deal...?
"Is that good?"
Emma attempts to respond, "No, that is not 'good', on so many levels. Santana sent you a text about drug deals and everyone thinks she murdered someone or joined a prostitution ring."
Instead, she says eloquently, "Guh."
"I'll see you later!" Brittany chirps, departing in Emma's state of shock.
Message successfully sent to Sanny
Thurs Feb 3, 2:30 pm
Sanny come back soon ok? I miss you and everyone keeps asking me questions. And mrs. p-h is racist. :(
It's Thursday, 3:30 in the afternoon, meaning Glee practice and a late Mr. Schuester.
Quinn sits bored in her seat next to Sam as her boyfriend gushes about video games with Finn in a display of epic bromance. Mike cuddles with Tina lovingly while she jokes with Mercedes, the two girls allowing Mike to contribute occasionally to the conversation. Lauren and Puck do something in the back, while Berry rifles through sheet music at the piano.
Brittany sits next to Artie, dismissing his attempts at comfort while she stares forlornly at her cell phone. Brittany has been inconsolable since Tuesday, and she's bringing everyone's spirits down with her.
Quinn hears footsteps and glances towards to the doorway, only to see a giant of a man hovering anxiously. He's muscular and almost as tall as Finn, only without the teenager's oafish airs. The man is strangely familiar to Quinn, with his ruffled black hair and tanned skin. She feels intimidated and scared by the newcomer, though she's sitting in the risers with her boyfriend and Finn between them.
The man bites his lower lip in worry, and knocks on the door frame. Eleven pairs of eyes with varying levels of interest observe him, and Quinn is somewhat consoled to see that the other girls—minus Zizes—appear nervous as well.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but have you seen my daughter? I know she practices here every Thursday. I already tried talking to the cheerleading coach, but she wasn't very pleasant," he rambles.
The Glee club winces collectively at the mention of Sue Sylvester.
"It's been almost a week, and I'm beginning to get scared..."
The silence is stifling. Fortunately Brittany breaks it, her tone morose. "Don't worry, Dr. Rodriquez. She does this all the time. Remember?"
Sam is immediately confused. "Rodriquez? I thought Santana's last name is Lopez."
"I'm her stepfather," he clarifies.
"Oh." Sam feels like an ass. Then, he remembers what else Brittany said. "Hold on a sec. Santana 'disappears all the time'?"
"Of course. I had to hold her hostage to rehearse our duet," Mercedes grumbles. "Disappearing is one of her favorite things to do."
"Aside from sex," Puckerman snickers. He grunts in pain when Lauren socks him in the arm.
"It was really bad in middle school," Quinn says, in a disarmingly matter-of-fact way. "She barely made it to high school, she had so many absences."
"Yeah, dude. Didn't you know?" Puck comments, picking at a mysterious stain on his shirt, ignoring Lauren. He is apparently bored with the topic of Santana's whereabouts and safety.
"I wasn't here," Sam points out, still lost.
"No, now. She still pulls a Houdini once in a while."
"Oh," Sam repeats, feeling overwhelmed. Why does no one tell him things? And he really did notice the absences. Honestly. He thought she had a weak immune system, or liked skipping to vandalize and steal things with Puckerman.
"She sent me a text message before she left, Dr. Rodriquez. Wanna see?" Brittany offers.
Dr. Rodriquez sighs a polite, "No thank you," before glancing around the choir room. The only adult he spots is Brad at the piano, and the ginger is too surly and silent to be a teacher. "Where's your teacher?"
"He's always late," Artie answers. "Did she take a credit card? You can track her movements that way."
"It takes twenty-four hours for a purchase to show," Dr. Rodriquez says. "She's basically withdrawing large sums of money and converting it into Canadian dollars. She's done it twice thus far, once in Columbus and another in London, Canada?"
"Could you cancel it, to make her come home?"
"Yes, but how would she get home?" he responds wryly. "The damn car's a gas guzzler."
Sam quickly loses interest in the ensuing conversation. The Santana-conundrum is too intriguing to pass up.
Who, he muses, goes missing for a week, and spawns a whole host of harebrained theories? Including Sam himself impregnating her? (Yeah, that was a hard one to explain to his parents.)
Apparently, the answer to these questions is Santana.
And there is only one explanation as to why.
Sam sighs mentally. His accurate conclusion will most likely forever put him in bad graces with Quinn. Farewell, Quinn's delicious lipgloss. It will be some time before he tastes it and enjoys its vanilla cupcake-y flavor. (Quinn is like, the ultimate cockblock, especially when he 'nerds out'. It's totally unfair.)
"I know what happened," Sam announces.
Everyone looks at him. Sam pays careful attention to two people: Dr. Rodriquez's dark eyes shine with hope, and Quinn? Well, her eyes promise pain with an interesting mixture of anger and mortification.
"She was kidnapped." Dr. Rodriquez blanches. Quinn holds her head in her hands and sighs.
"By aliens."
Message successfully sent to Sanny
Sent: Thurs Feb 3, 3:59
Sam thought you were abducted by aliens like I was that one time. Don't let them probe you, it hurts. xoxo
Friday is the big game and they manage to win, but only with the help of zombies. Brittany is delighted at the prospect of both zombies and being able to wear regular clothes, as both her and Quinn have abandoned Sue's mad struggle for power.
Quinn is not so excited. She's not looking forward to telling Santana they quit the Cheerios. So, she'll just text her the news.
Message successfully sent to Sanny
Sent: Sat Feb 5, 12:51 am
We won the game! We got to dress up like zombies with the football players and it was like a zombie double rainbow! I wish you were here! :D
Message successfully sent to Lopez
Sent: Sat Feb 5, 2:15 pm
Britt and I quit the Cheerios because Sue tried to shoot Britt out of a cannon. FYI
When Santana arrives home late Sunday, she is equally relieved and afraid. She can hardly stand and the Range Rover is a little worse for wear; however, she is in one piece, and has not seen, heard of, nor been probed by any aliens. (For some reason, Santana is incredibly amused that Sam chose aliens as the reason for her leisurely adventure to Canada. She is not so amused by the other reasons that Quinn sent to her, available on Jewfro's blog. She promises him a very slow, very painful death.)
"Of all the things to blame," Santana says to herself, sprawled on her bed. "Aliens, prostitution, murder... What the fuck were they on?"
She also wonders what Brittany and Quinn were on when they decided to quit Cheerios; maybe it's her tired mind, but the texts about zombie double rainbows and Suclear weapons did not make sense. Most of those texts would actually be big hits on that "texts from last night" website.
Santana vows to destroy Quinn, for the hell of it. (And for sending all those death threats.)
She begins to drift off fully clothed, enjoying the darkness of her bedroom. She is so exhausted, and wants to sleep immediately; but she needs her bag, which she stupidly left in the foyer, and it's only seven o'clock. If she sleeps now, she'll wake up at two in the morning, or something equally awful.
Or she could fall asleep forever. That would be nice.
Santana groans and drags herself from her comfortable bed, down the flight of endless stairs, and through the maze of hallways. Santana wonders what kind of aliens Evans imagined and Brittany encountered.
Evans' aliens are probably enormous blue hippies with tails. After all, the tool speaks Na'vi and probably visits Pandora whenever he's high (not like Santana's watched the movie or anything).
Brittany's aliens are probably the typical green aliens, or enormous ducks, or a taco that poops ice cream. Who knows with Britt-Britt.
Santana stumbles into the gleaming kitchen. Someone occupies the large kitchen bar, and it reminds her of the real reason she fled to Canada.
It is much worse than any extraterrestrial Evans can imagine, the ice cream pooping tacos that probed Brittany, or even all the fucking dumbass reasons Jewfro invented on his blog.
"Santana." Her name sounds filthy on her stepfather's lips. "I missed you."
"Hey, Esteban," Santana greets. Inside, she is anxious and afraid. Outside, she is calm and collected. You know, the stereotypical behavior of the heroine facing her abusive stepfather.
Dr. Rodriquez rolls his eyes. "My name is Steven, Santana." He pours another shot of expensive tequila. "Please say my name properly, even though I know you love speaking Spanish to annoy me."
Santana smirks. "True." Her stepfather pretends to be Hispanic and married a Puerto Rican woman, but he's barely conversational in the language.
Esteban sighs. "I really did miss you, Santana. I was worried sick. Even though you are a pain in the ass."
Santana scoffs in disbelief.
"Why did you leave me?"
Santana dismisses the question, desperately staring at the doorway to the foyer where her red Cheerios bag waits.
"Santana," Esteban snaps, and she immediately faces him. She can't help it. His voice is deep and commanding and his very presence demands attention. He's taller than her by almost a foot, and easily over a hundred pounds heavier.
"Answer me," he growls, his tone more menacing. Santana checks and the shot is gone. He must have downed it in the second she looked away. Fanfuckingtastic.
Against her better judgment she mutters mutinously, "No contesto a ti, viejo. Sabes por qué me fui, así que no empezar a esa mierda."
His black eyes flash with fury, and yeah, Santana fucked up pretty bad.
"What did you say?"
Well, her worn out brain manages, might as well go out with a bang.
Santana rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "You know, if you were half as Hispanic as you pretend, you wouldn't need me to translate."
Esteban narrows his eyes. "Not all of us are lucky enough to be born in third world countries."
Santana clenches her fists. Don't say anything. Don't bait him. Don't say anything.
She exhales shakily. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Good," Esteban snorts. "You smell like you belong in that dirt poor country you're so proud of."
Santana merely grits her teeth and walks away.
It feels like Santana just fell asleep when she hears a grunt that sounds like a fucking bear collapsed on her bed. Santana is too tired to be alarmed; she merely glances at her clock. Bright red numbers illuminate the darkness. They read 1:44 am.
Santana groans. She did wake up at two am, even if it is because of a bear.
"So, you are awake?" a voice whispers hoarsely, and it is not a bear, but much worse, and she flinches at the tone. It makes Santana realize she's the helpless prey and he's the ferocious, invincible predator, and no matter how many times she hears it she always wants to cry.
Maybe if she plays dead it'll leave. Doesn't that work in the wild? Don't bears only want to play with live victims?
"Answer me," he hisses, his voice lower.
Santana steadies her breathing.
A vicious slap across her cheek startles her—stars swim in front of her eyes. He's never hit her on the face before. He knows better than to leave marks.
"Answer me."
"I'm awake," she whispers, her voice barely audible. Shit, her cheek hurts like a bitch. She hates that she answered in English. It feels like she betrays herself more with each passing moment.
"Good girl," he growls. He clumsily rolls on top of Santana's prone body, panting. Santana bites her tongue. He's crushing her, the air slowly escaping her lungs, and she can feel him through his boxers and her thin pajama pants. Through half-lidded eyes, she sees her alarm clock cast his face in an eerie, demonic light. She vows to get rid of the damn thing as soon as possible.
The beast exhales harshly, a rush of tequila invading her senses. The potency makes her dizzy and hot damn, how does he not have alcohol poisoning?
Santana doesn't speak and he appears to not care. He merely shifts his hips and moans. Santana stifles a whimper; tears pool, catching on her long eyelashes. No no no no no.
He turns ink black eyes to her face and delicately traces a thumb across her lower lip. "You look just like her..." he murmurs softly, almost lovingly, and Santana wants to vomit up her entire being.
He trails thick fingers across her face: delicate cheekbones, sloping nose, finely trimmed eyebrows, before finally settling back on her full lips.
"God, María," he whispers, and his rough whiskers scratch her cheek as his teeth latch onto her neck.
A hand brutally squeezes her breast and she hears him whisper into her marked neck, "I love you, María. So, so much..."
Santana refuses to let the tears fall as her stepfather quickly removes her pants. Once she hears his words, though, his chapped lips brushing against her soft skin as they whisper terms of endearment for her deceased mamá, hot tears streak down her tanned cheeks.
Her mind, buried so far beneath this, rationalizes that she shouldn't cry; she's sixteen, meaning she's too old to cry, especially over something that began when she was thirteen. A sob wrenches itself free of her throat. She's so tired of fighting, of everything.
As a rough hand scratches south, she wonders—not for the first time—how far she's willing to go to end this, and in a heartbeat, she knows.
A calloused palm muffles gasps of pain.
He enters her.
She wants to die.
Spanish: "I don't answer to you, old man. You know why I left, so don't start that shit."
I don't speak Spanish, I used Google Translator, so if any of it's totally butchered, I'm sorry.