I run, ignoring the sharp thorns that hook into my skin and rake long, scarlet scars across my arms. The woods close in on me, menacing and dark, preparing to silently smother me to death. I fight my way through, breath rasping out in little puffs and feet skimming the ground, dodging the fallen logs and sharp stones.
The baying of hounds sounds behind me, closer than before, and I pour on extra speed, zigzagging my way down the mountain so I won't tumble head over heels. I keep telling myself if I can only burst into the clearing at the bottom, I'll be alright, but the forest ahead only becomes more tangled. A hunting horn calls behind me, and I stumble in fear. They're hunting me. I'm always, always chased, never given rest, the pounding of the horses' hooves only echoing closer and closer and the oncoming branches growing thicker and thicker.
I stop so hard I almost flip over when I encounter a wall of thorns, sharper than knives. I force my hands in, trying to wrench them apart, before withdrawing them with a shriek as bright red dots of blood appear scattered like berries across my palm.
I'm trapped.
But underneath the ever-mounting fear is a strange calm. Deep down within me, I know it's a dream. One I've had many times before, always racing on a smoky mountain with the hunters gaining ground until I get stuck. So although my heart is ready to break my ribs with the force of its beating, inside I am floating, waiting patiently.
Because I've had these nightmares before, and you always come to save me. It differs how each time. Sometimes you gallop by on a horse and snatch me away, sometimes I feel your hand on me from behind as you pull me into the safety of the thicket. Either way, it doesn't matter. You're always there.
So I take a shaky breath and back as far as I can into the growth behind me, eyes darting everywhere, searching for you, waiting as I block out the sounds of the dogs wavering louder still through the air. I wait, breath curling in the chilly mist before me, even as the branches just ahead of me begin to tremble as the hunting party approaches. I wait, even as the first dog bursts baying into the clearing followed by a swarm of beagles and horses and humans.
I wait, even as they approach me with bared teeth, dangerous hooves and glinting guns. Where are you? You're always here by now. I force down the panic and gaze at them, my face lifted in a challenge that belies my shaking body.
Then the first dog leaps on me and I wake up, screaming and kicking the sheets violently off the bed. Something is wrong.
You're still not here.
I sit up, glancing around the room anxiously. Ever since the outing, you've been spending every night here, at my house, as I nestle into you and try to calm my fearful heart with the comforting sound of your own beat thrumming through your chest. We've woken up side by side every morning, and for a second I let myself believe that we're already joined together forever, rings on our hands and everything, and this is just another day where I'll get up to work and you'll get up to dance. Dancing isn't work, in your opinion, and I can't argue with you. It's too effortless for you to be considered labor of any kind.
But then I remember we're still in high school, and we're getting up to face the "talks and the looks." My own words, thrown back in my face every day.
A heavy sense of foreboding settles over me as I realize that your side of the bed is growing cold. You must have left sometime earlier in the night, and I can't imagine why you're not back in bed unless you fell asleep in a chair waiting for hot chocolate to warm up or your dance instructor to text you back (I can't count how many times I've been woken up by my phone purring in my ear with your name on the screen). I slide my feet onto the floor, cold in the early autumn morning chill that permeates the house and pull open the door, glancing around the silent hall for you. My parents aren't here. They haven't been all week. Business trip or vacation or something. I couldn't care less, because it means they haven't seen the commercial.
The fear that clenches my stomach in an iron grip at the thought has not lessened in the days since the incident, but I force it down. Finding you is more important.
"Britt?"
I curse at myself for sounding like a terrified toddler, but worry continues to seep through the cracks in my false bravado as I hear no answering call. I slip down the stairs, anxiety increasing when I see no sleeping form crashed out on the couch.
"Brittany!"
My voice cracks slightly in desperation. I can't remember a time when you've ever left me in the middle of the night. Either you went outside to look at the stars because you couldn't sleep, or something really bad has happened.
I force myself to believe the first one. Before checking the rest of the house, I quietly let myself outside where my breath steams into patterns that flirt with the stars. I can't yell for you anymore. There's no telling who (or what) could be outside at this time of the night in Lima Heights, and I really don't want to find out. So instead I peer through the gloom, looking for a flash of blonde to guide me to where you are. When I find you, I'll chastise you before helping you inside, gently picking the twigs from your tangles and guiding you to bed. I comfort myself with this scenario as I hunt through the garden.
Again, you are nowhere to be found.
And now the fear is writhing within me, threatening to burst through my mouth in a bloodcurdling scream that will only bring more demons my way. Real ones, not just imagined worst-case scenarios. Hurriedly I go inside and flick on all the lights.
It's when I brush through the kitchen on my way to search through the basement that I see it. A note, lying serenely on the table. I draw closer and recognize your childish scrawl, beckoning the kind of calm out of me that only you can induce.
San,
Mom texted. Mac got sick and she wanted me. I told them I could only go over for a bit. I wouldn't have gone but I don't see her that often anymore. I'm sure I'll be back before you wake up.
I love you,
Britt
Well, at least there's an explanation now. You love your sister, and I feel a bit bad that I've been keeping you away from her. But despite one side of my brain telling me to calm down, I can't help the ripples of panic that still shoot through me. Something feels off.
I force down the feeling, imagining you scolding me. You hate it when I'm scared, especially when it involves you. You think I worry too much.
Have you ever wanted to switch off your brain?
You think too much, San.
I can't not think, Britt. I don't know how you do it.
I do think. I just don't worry that much.
Why not?
As long as I have you, I can't.
I push away the memory, because thinking of things like that will only keep me awake. Slowly, I shuffle back to bed, resigned to the fact that I can't do anything else now but wait.
That's when the phone rings.
The house phone.
You only ever call on my cell phone, but I ignore that as I stride towards it. Who else could it be? After all, it's nearing four in the morning. Hope and despair are battling within me as I pick up the phone without checking for caller ID.
"Brittany?"
"Santana?"
It's your mother, and for a second hope wins. She must be calling to tell me that you dozed off at your house and she doesn't want to wake you to send you back here.
"Yeah, it's me." There's silence on the other line, and a black cloud settles over me.
"I… I have some bad news," she says, and I can hear sorrow choking her voice. "Brittany was… in a car accident on the way back to your house."
The world tilts, and I clutch the corner of the wall for support. I cling to the phone, waiting for more details, but the tears seem to have prevented her from speaking. So I whisper the question that I have to ask, one I really am not sure I want to hear the answer to.
"Is she alive?"
"Yes," comes the response, and my whole body sags as delicious relief flows over me. "But," I freeze up again. "She's in the hospital. They're preparing to operate."
"What?"
"I'm not even there yet. I'm driving as fast as I can. Santana… if she were awake, she'd want you there."
It's not like anything could stop me from racing to your side. This time, I'm going to be the hero, be the one who gallops by on the white horse to save you from your nightmares. I hang up the phone with a brief goodbye. My hands are shaking hard while the only thought in my brain is to reach you somehow, as fast as I can.
"Clothes, clothes," I mutter to myself as my entire body vibrates with nervous energy. I don't care what I look like as I frantically dig through my closet to toss on whatever appears first, before shoving on a pair of ratty sneakers I snatch from my floor and flying out the door.
My knuckles are stark white as I clutch the steering wheel, wisps of ghosts in the darkness of early morning. I really shouldn't be driving. The speedometer hovers near 70, 75, sputtering up past 80 before I am careening into the hospital parking lot. It's quiet as I stop the car, a near deathly silence not helped by the bright sterile lights that flood the tarmac, too crisp and clean to bring any comfort.
I get to the door of the hospital and stop. I don't know where you are, or where your family is. And you're about to be operated on. There's nothing I can do for you. That thought nearly sends me crumbling as hopelessness rules over me. I'm supposed to protect you.
I'm already too late.
Sinking to the ground against the building, I cover my eyes and try to focus only on colors. It's something you taught me a while ago, when we were both young and innocent and pink could fix everything. When life got to be too much, you would simply close your eyes and live in a nonsense rainbow world, creating your own fireworks show behind your eyelids that no one could steal from you. The first time I obeyed your pleas and closed my eyes with you, I found it so stupid. Words floated in front of me, not colors, hurtful words that I would never dare to speak to you.
And then your hand found mine and squeezed, and my vision burst into life. Soft, warm peach, radiating up from where your hand clasped mine and mingling into the blue my sadness had painted. Green, soaking into me from the grass we sat on. Purple, the color of royalty. All mixing together into a kaleidoscope of vibrancy that reminded me of finger paintings.
It worked, Britt. I let the colors wash everything else away. The world was easier to understand in hues instead of spoken tones. And I could never think anything about you stupid again.
So I try the same technique again, tilting my head back and flooding my eyes with the white burning down at me from the lights up above. It works, for a second, and then red paints its way across my vision, stark like a cardinal's feather settling on snow, before turning to a sooty black and crumbling away. My eyes shoot open and I realize my breathing is heavy.
I guess it only works with you.
My body acts of its own accord and swings me into the hospital, where the cloying stench of clean shoves into my nose.
"Can I help you?"
A man sits at the desk ahead of me, his eyes and tone drooping. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The realization crashes down on me. You've been in an accident. You're being operated on. You could die.
A pitiful whimper escapes my throat, and I want to claw myself for showing my vulnerability. Before I can gather my thoughts, a voice whispers down the hall.
"Santana?"
Your sister, Mackenzie, is peeping around from behind a grey wall with wide blue eyes.
"Hey," I say softly before going over to her. "You feeling better?"
"Santana," she says, then bursts into tears. The man at the desk gives me a simpering smile and I shoot daggers at him before returning my gaze to the child currently grasping my hand. I have no idea how to handle this. Mac is normally even brighter and crazier than you, and I know I'm not good with kids. Especially considering the current state I'm in.
"What's wrong?" I say softly, and immediately feel like Finn Hudson. Of course I know what's wrong. The thought of what's wrong almost sends me over the edge to join Mac, and I cling tightly to the last strands of sanity I have.
"It's my fault," Mac whispers, and my heart plummets like a stone in water. I open my mouth to protest, but Mac cuts in. "I was faking. I only felt a little sick, but Britt's always there and I wanted her and then she crashed and-"
Panic and rage flare up within me but I force them down, hard. "Mac," I say, hoping the gentle way I'm stroking her back will cover up my anger, "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong." I don't know what else to say and instead smooth my fingers over tangled yellow hair. "Where are your parents, hmm?"
Mac says nothing, only points down the hall. I slip my fingers into her sticky palm and ask her to take me to them.
"Santana?"
Your father is slumped in a chair, worry lines etched permanently into his face despite the news being only a few hours old. At least he makes an effort to seem presentable when I appear, straightening up and quickly squeezing the hand of his wife who greets me silently. I say nothing, leading Mac over to them before taking a seat in a stiff grey chair. I hold onto her hand, fingers playing up and down her palm like they're trying to beat out a steady rhythm our hearts can match.
For a place where people are supposedly healed, hospitals are pretty damn life-draining.
But I can't do anything to fix that, and neither can your family. So we sit here in quiet desperation, only beeping and ticking clocks routinely breaking the silence with the occasional click of nurses further down the hall. We still don't know where you are. Somewhere in a room with men leaning over you and tugging at your innards.
The thought almost makes me throw up. You're delicate, a dancer, who flits through life like a hummingbird. Hummingbirds can't be easily healed. Their bones are too fragile.
When sleep comes to claim me, I don't even bother to fight. Sleep passes the time. Worrying would only lengthen it.
A hand rouses me. A man's hand, palm calloused and so unlike your smooth one that I start away from it before even opening my eyes.
"Santana?"
Your father's voice, rumbling and low. I open my eyes to grey walls in confusion before jolting upright.
"Brittany! Where is she?" My panic spills over into my tone and I wince inwardly. Only you should be able to see my fear, because only you can tame it.
"Out of the operating room. She's still sedated. We already checked in on her." He nods toward your mother who is hovering nearby, thin and nervous with worry. "Santana, we have to tell you what happened."
I shake my head firmly once and twist away from his hand. "I'd rather see her, thanks," I say, my tone clipped and frosty. "As long as she's alive, I want to look at her."
"She alive," your mother breaks in tremulously. I can tell she wants to say more but I cut her off, asking for directions and setting off immediately. I scan the monotonous walls for #451. There's no way to tell time, no windows that could at least help me know how long I've been sleeping.
Trapped, as usual.
That's when I round the corner and your room number is staring me down, across from a few chairs and table that I recognize will become my home for the next few days, weeks, however long it takes you to recover.
The realization that I don't even know what you need to recover from hits me hard, and I glance around quickly for any prying eyes before resting my hand on the doorknob. There are probably rules regarding hospital visits, but you have made me defy the rules since day one; the day I didn't greet you with an insult, but instead a soft hello.
The door is cracked before I hear a shout echoing out behind me and I turn to glare at a man with crooked glasses and a lion's scowl. I size him up, taking in at a glance what his insecurities are – the acne dotting his face, the mop of hair he clearly can't control, the cross tattooed on his wrist that sends a twinge of apprehension through my body– and prepare to sling my arsenal of insults.
"You're not allowed to go in there. Family only, and a nurse must be present."
A smirk plasters its way across my face and I lean into him. "I'm more than family. And I'm also a nurse. I've saved more kids from mono than you have pimples on your face."
Blank shock flits across his face before the corners of his mouth turn down further. Inside, my heart is beating rapidly, trying to leap through the door to where you are.
"I'm sorry, but family only. No friends."
"Oh, please. Let me in before I use that mop perched precariously on your head to wipe up the blood I spill when the razorblades in my hair cut that plus sign out of your skin. I told you I'm more than a friend." The dogs that hunted me are back, this time preparing to rip out his throat. My heart hammers faster, recognizing the trap I've landed in.
"You're going to have to be clearer than that." Ice cinches my chest. You're supposed to be here when I tell people, your fingers laced through mine sending quick squeezes that will keep my heart on track. I puff out my chest and look the idiot in the eye.
"I'm her girlfriend."
It's wrong, wrong, everything's wrong. I'm not supposed to come out with spite. I'm not supposed to lose my head and spill my secrets to everyone out of anger. When I'm angry, I tell other people's secrets. That's how the system works.
The man looks at me for a split second before leering at me. "Doesn't count, hun," he says, honeyed sarcasm oozing from his tone. "Family and significant others only. Can't let you in for a little girl crush."
Everything is white, white hot, a thousand suns blazing within me and radiating throughout the building. I reach out to grab his wrist, fingers closing around his cross, and I can feel myself scalding him.
"I'm her significant other."
He withdraws his hand from my grasp and shakes it as if flinging off something disgusting, his face mirroring his actions. Cold floods my palm as the chilled hospital air hits it and it travels through my body until we are fighting, fire and ice.
"Dykes don't count. How many times do I have to say that?"
And then I snap and strings of Spanish curses pour out of my mouth, wrapping around his neck and choking him with pure fury. I advance on him and I can see his pupils dilate with fear before suddenly hands are grasping my arms, pulling me back, and I remember yelling at Rachel and you were there holding me back with your touch calming me and everything collapses. I go slack, the strong hands curled around my biceps the only things holding me up, and finally tears blur my vision.
Sounds swirl around me, your family arguing with the bigoted fool, but I just look in desperation at the door. I need to see you. Maybe then this nightmare will end.
But your father's hands are still buttressing me, turning me into a castle that I know is sand and that will be erased with the slightest ripple of the ocean.
"What happened."
My voice is raw, grating like sandpaper across the ongoing argument. "I need to know. If I can't see her – please."
The nurse looks at me with venom and my knees go weak. A Grinch sneer curls across his features, prepared to ruin anyone's Christmas.
"Brittany was in a car crash. We're still not sure how it happened – probably a drunk driver – but they sped off. She was grievously injured, especially from her waist down. The loss of blood might have been enough to kill her, but she's alive." He pauses, and I can tell he's about to play his trump card. "She's paralyzed."
Everything slows to a trickle – the feel of your mother's hand grasping mine comfortingly, the brightening smirk on the nurse's face, even the clock ticking incessantly somewhere I can't see. My first thought isn't that you'll be in a wheelchair, or wondering where you still have feeling, or even if you're okay beyond that (those thoughts will come later). It's that your dream is gone.
You'll never dance again.