When his hand made contact with her face, it sent her body reeling sideways. The shock from him hitting her seemed to outweigh the panic that gripped her heart when she realized that it wouldn't be a clean descent. She had no way of knowing how to catch herself from falling, and the arm she puts out does little to stop the corner of the coffee table from meeting her face. It was the last thing she saw before impact, and she was unconscious by the time her body tumbled heavily to the floor.

When she opened her eyes again, she was bent awkwardly over the table, something warm and thick sliding into her left eye and sitting heavy on her lashes. She noticed then, when trying to reach up to wipe away the offense, that her wrists were locked behind her by a firm hand. He was grunting angrily behind her, and she couldn't lift her head through the dizziness long enough to see what he was trying to do.

He was muttering things beneath his breath, things she could only recognize between the ringing in her ears. He seemed to be drunkenly babbling with an invisible someone, and she hears snippets about "These ungrateful women", and how he'll "Teach them all a lesson". She is nervous when she finally understands what he is grappling with, and before she could will herself into fighting, he'd managed to tie his belt around her wrists.

The fogginess from the cut above her eye dissipates when she realizes what he is about to do. She struggles as much as she can through the haze that's clouding her brain. She won't beg. She won't sacrifice her dignity to a man she's lost respect for. Her shoulders are straining against the belt, and she tries to lift her head from the coffee table. Seeing her own blood is enough to send her crashing back to the sticky surface.

He doesn't pull her panties down. He lifts her dress up over her tied hands and he pulls them roughly to the side. She's exposed, but she's disoriented and her vision is starting to blur in the eye she can still see through. She knows she should fight, but the concussion she was sure she had was stopping her from moving at all. Any protest she could have put up was thwarted when he pushes into her.

He works into a random pace, and he pulls her up by her hair to whisper lewd things to her between thrusts. She feels the pain coming from both ends of her body, and she thinks it should knock her out soon; she hopes it does at least.

"How small does it feel now, Santana? Hmm?"

The inquiry comes with a brutal thrust upward, and she can't keep the whimper from crawling out of her mouth. Her shoulders hurt, and she hates the man inside her more than she's ever hated anything. He chuckles, gripping her hair tighter than before. The 'Fuck you' she manages to grumble out earns her a rough shove back onto the coffee table, and she finally succumbs to blissful unconsciousness.

The next time she opens her eyes, there is a new weight crushing her chest. Her dress is bunched around her waist, her underwear gone and her hands are cramped and burning underneath her. Something unfamiliar is happening, and she wails groggily against the new assault. She can smell herself on his face as he hovers above her, and she feels nauseous at the thought of what he probably did when she was unconscious. He's grunting harshly in her ear, and she smells the alcohol his body is exuding.

His arm is taking away her air supply, and she doesn't know how long she has before she passes out. He keeps thrusting, oblivious to her current state. He starts moaning her name, then he groans out another name she can't decipher as he climaxes. She can feel the flutters of his girth expand and contract inside her. She despises him. He wasn't supposed to have this in him. A voice in the back of her mind tells her that she probably pushed him too far last night; but a voice that sounds like Brittany's whispers that she doesn't deserve this. She feels the corners of her vision darken, and before she blacks out completely, she does the only thing the position she is in allows her to.

She spits in his face.

He growls at her, and she feels him pull out of her, a stickiness running down her tired legs. She thinks it's over, and she wonders what he will do when he realizes the crime he's committed against her. His face juts into her peripheral, and he has a gleam in his eye that shouts insane. When he hits her, this time, he knocks her out. She doesn't wake up again.

000 0000 000

He's woken up confused too many times to count since his divorce. He has to remind himself not to expect breakfast that used to tickle his senses awake; he's had to forget the routine of having his clothes ironed and hung for him- he's had to stop rolling over in his bed to reach out for Teri in the night. This time, he's confused because he wakes up on the floor.

The sun is blaring through his open windows, and he feels the hangover force his eyes shut, his head banging loudly without pause. He opens them again and stares at the clock on above the mantle without moving his head. He has time to make it to school; he just needs to pull himself together. When he finally musters enough strength to sit upright; last night's events become clear in the clarity of morning.

He first notices her ankles. They are peaking from behind the couch. A lot of last night, he doesn't remember. But he feels the panic flutter in his stomach as he remembers the fury that built in the reaction of her harsh words. She was so good at hitting below the belt. He remembers the ill intent that his consumption turned into misplaced rage. He crawls over to her, his hangover instantly forgotten, and he lets the scene sink in. Her legs are bruised and spread open, with fingertip sized marks and crescent moons that dig deep into her flesh. Her inner thighs are littered with bite marks, and her body is vulgar against the accusations ringing in his head.

There is dried blood smeared on her inner thighs, crusted semen securing his place in hell. He can't comprehend what he's done, it's too heinous. That wasn't him last night. He follows the trail of bruises to her bust, which peak over the hem of her dress; torn at the top and around her cleavage. There are marks there too, angry welts and scratches; bite marks that tear intimate flesh. The heavy feeling in his chest sinks when he sees her face. Her bottom lip is split. There is a lot of blood dried and flaking near her left eye and in her hair. One side of her face is a puffy, a shadow of purple and black.

He sits there for so long, guiltily on his knees, before realizing that he should actually check to see if she's breathing, if what he did hasn't killed her. When he goes to her neck, she doesn't stir. He feels for a beat and instantly recoils when he finds none. He almost puts his head to her chest, but her undress has him uneasy to touch her again; without permission. His thoughts race at a frenzied speed. He looks for her wrists to check for a pulse, and realizes that her hands are tucked under her.

When he pushes her onto her side, she moans painfully, but doesn't wake. Her hands are blue. He unties the belt loop quickly and rubs circulation into her blackened wrists. He knows he should call an ambulance. He knows he should call the cops. But he doesn't know what he'd tell them. He doesn't remember most of this crime. Flashes of last night bombard him and the bitterness on his tongue tastes vaguely how Santana smells.

There is a beer bottle near her on the floor. There is something thick on the glass and when he goes to look at it, he can see the boldness of blood heavy around the edge of the rim, his mind trying to make sense of what he used it for the night before.

He picks her up, her weight close to nothing as he walks her toward his bedroom. He feels the tears running down his cheeks. Guilt doesn't suit the feeling he has. He is terrified. His panic outweighs the shame he feels about what he's done. About what he is about to do. He understands his crime, but he can't accept it. He will lose everything he's worked for. He will lose the trust of so many people. He will lose his job, his freedom.

The next thought leads him to the bathroom. He won't survive in jail. He sinks to the floor, still cradling his unconscious student in his arms. He turns on the water, and he lets it run through his fingertips until it's warm. He reaches blindly into the cabinet beneath his sink for the Epsom salt, rocking slowly back and forth. He doesn't know whose benefitting from the movement, but it seems to still his shaky hands as he peels the rest of her dress from her body.

She doesn't wake up until she is fully submerged in water. She groans painfully at the stinging from her wounds, as he dabs her forehead with a cloth that was on the edge of the bath tub. She claws at him to let her go when she realizes that it's him holding her still. A cloud of red is coming from somewhere, and he's worried that it's coming out of her. She starts hyperventilating, and he grabs a towel from the rack and picks her up again. She's found the fight in her voice, screaming and wailing against him, clawing at him to put her down, to let her go.

He has never been as scared as he was in that moment he sat her down on his bed. She wraps the towel around her and begins rocking, trying to take steadying breaths between gasps of fear. He sees the crimson spot collecting on the white towel, and he realizes solemnly that he may have broken something inside her. The shuddering breath he releases hurts his chest. He snaps out of the trance he has been in and moves to a bureau to find something that might fit her.

She is counting. She gets to twenty by the time he hands her the clothes, and she cowers away from him as he backs out of the room. He handles the task of calling into work, and he sits at the dining room table as he waits for her to emerge from the bedroom. He is warring with the advocates on his heavy shoulders. The bump on her head looked bad, and he knew that he had to take her to the hospital for the bleeding that's seeping from private places.

He could lie, he thinks. She was drunk. He took her from the bar and when he got back she'd left. He could get the police to believe him over someone like Santana. He could try to convince her that she showed up that way, that she called and needed a place to stay and he hadn't known about her injuries until morning. Maybe her head injury left her without pieces. He worries about the evidence he left all over her body. How easily they could incriminate him. Maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe she was drunk enough to let it fade into the haze of inebriation.

He can only hope. He is trembling by the time he hears the door click open. She looks tiny in his clothes, her hair knotted in a ponytail with what looks like a scrap of her torn dress. She avoids him completely, looking around for something in his now messy apartment. She finds her purse and her shoes and her jacket, and she tugs them on before walking past him for the first time to get to the front door.

He reaches out to stop her.

"Santana let's talk about this..."

She jumps back defensively, and he can't stop his nervous hand from shaking mid-air. It feels like she has his life in her palm.

"D-don't touch me. Ever again."

He treads lightly, trying not to upset her more than she is already.

"I don't-Santana what happened last night?"

She deflates. Then she laughs. It's a laugh he hears from her most when she's about to insult someone. It's unnerving.

"Figures. I guess you'll have to find out from Lima PD."

She moves around his arm, heading for the door. Before she grabs the knob, he says the one thing he hopes will stop her.

"They won't believe a slut like you, Santana. Especially over someone like me."

He watches her shoulders tense. He wonders how much pain she is in. She slouching, an arm over her stomach as she turns around.

"Is that right, Schuester? They won't find the semen inside me? They won't be able to match your teeth marks? You really think you can scare me into not putting you away you fucking, rapist? What are you going to tell them, Schue? Huh?"

He clears his throat. He knows she's right. He finds it commendable that she isn't in shock. She's still trying to keep herself together in front of him. He knows it's wrong, what he is about to say. He isn't proud of what he is about to do. But he can't go to jail.

"That's easy, Santana. Everyone saw you at that bar, I'll just say you seduced me. You wanted it, don't lie, Lopez. You got what you were dishing out, face it. And they'll see how big of a slut you are, the same whore you've always been. I washed away what was left of evidence, I'll tell them we had consensual sex... and that you disappeared right after. Because I'm sure they'll believe there was another Tom Dick and Harry waiting to go next. I'll get off with a slap on a wrist... and everyone else will know the truth."

He expected her to crumble. He expected her to agree that this wouldn't leave his apartment. She squares her shoulders and winces before speaking.

"Go to hell Schuester."

And suddenly, he's alone. And mortified.

Please review.