A/N: Chapter one sucked. This is better. Not supremely, but better. Longer. It usually gets better the further in because I get more comfortable in my writing. Anyways. If you hate Santana, stick around for Blaine. Not much else to say. Review? If you feel like it!

In all those dumb movies, the people always hear voices before they see people when they become conscious.

Santana felt her eyelids subconsciously pull open, her vision blurry. Her ears weren't ringing anymore but sounds felt muffled.

"Hey!" She heard a close voice, maybe matching one of the blurs in front of her, "Hey, she's conscious."

Definitely a guy. One of the blurs that was partially reddish.

"Just because her eyes are open doesn't mean she's conscious." said another, higher voice, "Could be reflexes."

"Honey, she's not comatose. She fainted." Unrecognizable voice.

Her vision slowly came to as the shapes moved.

Damn it. School nurse in a purple sweater under a white jacket.

"'m fine!" She tried to exclaim out of reflex. It came out slightly slurred.

There was a pause and she felt a cold hand on her arm. She immediately jerked in the opposite direction.

"Hey, whoa, sorry." Anyone could identify that annoyingly unique male falsetto. Or partially male. She rolled her eyes instinctively. Kurt Hummel tilted his head, his mouth in a line. He looked up at the other person opposite, on the other side of her bed. Or... cot, it felt painfully like.

Wonderful. Dave Karofsky in a red letterman jacket. He was looking back at Kurt with wide eyes. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Kurt narrowed his eyes and gestured to Santana, "Well, she's your girlfriend, say something!"

Santana didn't miss the emphasis on the word "girlfriend".

Karofsky swallowed visibly, looking down at her. She rolled her eyes and tried to sit up. "Are you okay?" He said quietly, under his breath. He put a hand on her shoulder as she sat up. Her head spun slightly.

She looked him over. He looked defeated, hunched slightly, and his eyes were sad. She raised a hand and rubbed it over his on her shoulder. "I'm okay - good." She turned away from Kurt, pulling her legs off the cot and sitting with her back to him, "How you doing?" She added quietly, keeping her hand on his on her own shoulder.

"I'm okay."

She reached up and ruffled his hair slightly, successfully faking a smile his way. He glanced up at her and smiled back sheepishly.

Kurt's mouth was slightly open. His eyes were narrowed and had eyebrow raised.

It was so easy to bounce back. Santana could pop a few aspirin at her locker and numb out the buzz in her head and the knife in her gut, and make it through most of the day. She'd try to pretend to look like she and Karofsky had any kind of affection at lunch or in the halls and he would do the same. She knew he felt the same way in his own head. Mr Schuester looked at her suspiciously but she knew he'd get over it and move on. It was in his nature.

What she couldn't very well block out was Hummel. Every once and a while, when she clenched her fists under her seat in frustration when she realized - well, when some thoughts hit her, or she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood on the inside, or when she faltered her quiet singing when she started to think again, Kurt always seemed to just be there. He'd be giving her a concerned look or grab her arm when it seemed like she'd topple. It was annoying. As if Santana Lopez had anything wrong with her.

"I know you all hate when I start on the older bands but..."

Mr Schuester's voice faded into a low murmur in Santana's ears. She swallowed stiffly and stared at the piano straight ahead. Straight face. Game face. Poker face.

She was Santana Lopez. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was smoking hot and popular and smart. She had any and every guy.

She knew it wasn't true. She made it that way. She felt sick and hollow every day. She hated her every move. She was just so scared. So scared of how awful everything was. Scared of how much more awful everything could and would get. Scared of dealing with it but scared of not dealing with it and scared of being so scared and scared of feeling so helpless and scared of all the pain.

Her head spun. No, not again. Not twice in one week. It drawed too much attention. She pulled on her sleeve absentmindedly. Mr Schue definitely glanced her way. No. No, she was imagining things. As usual.

You're disgusting. Lesbians are just gross. Nobody would like you anyway. So you'll be living your life alone either way. Your girl friends will abandon you because they'll know you'll just check them out. Your guy friends will abandon you because you'll never sleep with them anyways.

She felt a wrenching feeling rip through her chest, and she doubled over, gasping. Every word in her head, every repeating mantra, every painful chant struck her hard in the lungs.

Oh God. Oh God. Usually this only happened at night.

"Santana." Mr Schuester dropped his whiteboard marker and rushed over, stumbling in his haste. Santana heard Kurt's chair drag behind her.

Her head was cluttered and she felt dazed. There was a rushing in her ears. She gasped for air, panicking instinctively. She leaned over her knees, arms wrapped around her torso.

"Santana." Mr Schue was right beside her, kneeling beside her chair, one hand on her back, "Santana. Are you listening to me?"

Her head spun. She swallowed and felt her breathing escalate to hyperventilating. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Hey - Rachel, sit down! All of you!" Mr Schue shouted behind her. Then the sounds of chairs. "Santana, I need you to - are you okay?"

Her eyes burned. A lone tear squeezed out of her shut eyelids, sliding down her eyelashes and falling onto her legs. The words in her head were too loud. She shook her head, breathing heavily and feeling a wrenching sob hitching in her chest.

Mr Schue took her arm under her elbow and lifted her up. She didn't dare open her eyes. She knew they were staring. He led her out the door and into the hall.

She could barely breathe. Every heaving breath refused to give relief to the aching in her lungs and the tighter she squeezed around her own waist, the less it gave relief to the aching emptiness there. Her head was spinning, her throat was tight. She could double over and have a fit but there was no way in hell Santana Lopez would cry. She didn't need to. She didn't deserve to. She was freaking out over literally nothing and it was just... almost punishable.

Her legs stumbled along with Mr Schue. His hand was sitting firmly under her elbow. "I need you to open your eyes, Santana."

Her breath was shaking. If she opened her eyes she would fall. If she opened her eyes she gave tears full liberty to escape when they wanted. But next thing, Mr Schue would panic and drag her back to the nurse.

"No, no, I'm fine." She said, wincing when her voice came out a high whimper, "I don't - stop, stop."

She opened her eyes, finding that they were in the long hallway. She pulled away from Mr Schuester's hand and fell back against the wall. He leapt forward and made a move like he was going to grab her.

"I'm okay." She muttered, curling in on herself as she slid down the wall. She sat with her knees up to her chest. "Just give me a minute."

"What's going on, Santana?" Mr Schue stayed where he was, looking down at her, eyes full of ridiculous concern. She didn't need his concern. It made her feel sick.

"I said I'm fine."

"That wasn't fine, Santana." He said sternly, "What's going on? Are you sick?"

As if she wanted to spill her rainbow feelings to Mr William Schuester. She squeezed her eyes shut again. Her breaths were hitching again, her lungs constricting painfully with each one. She just had to stop thinking.

Yes, I'm sick. Sick in the head. Sick for feeling this way, sick for wanting what I do.

She doubled over, head down.

"Hey, whoa, calm down." said Mr Schue cautiously, his lack of knowledge blaring through his good-teacher facade. "I'm going to go get the nurse."

"No!" She couldn't help it, "Please, don't, I don't need the nurse, I just - just... need a few minutes, okay? It's just, it happens sometimes, when I think too much, which - I just need a break, okay? I need to -" She could barely understand what she was saying. She was hyperventilating, her air coming in shaking, panicking breaths.

"Just, hang on, Santana, I'm going to get someone to stay with you while I -"

"Please, please, Mr Schue - I just, I can't, please don't - oh God, I think I'm going to puke - I shouldn't have this - they'll all turn their damn... backs on me, or -" She couldn't stop the rush of words coming from her mouth, she didn't think they were even making sense.

"What's going on?" said a loud, different voice. It sounded echoey, coming from slightly down the hall. She heard quick, steady footsteps. Looking up, she saw Karofsky in his stupid red jacket, though it looked like he was carrying his ugly pink Bully Whips one. She inhaled sharply as a stupid tear trailed down her cheek. She could slap herself for that, god.

"David, stop." Mr Schue walked up to him so fast he almost ran. He shoved a hand hard on Karofsky's chest and gestured blatantly at her.

"Come on, don't." He was trying to speak quietly, quickly, and his voice was angry and slightly desperate, "Even you've got to be above this."

Karofsky tilted his head at him, mouth open, incredulous. He looked confused for a second.

God, he had to be going through the same thing, but he wasn't breaking down like this. She was just pathetic. She felt a horrible sob rising in her throat. If she let that out, that was it. She hated herself forever. She was choking on it.

He rolled his eyes and gave him a look of disappointed disbelief and walked around him, away from him. Slowly, he walked towards Santana, arms slightly stiff.

"David, I'm not messing around." Mr Schue put his hand on Karofsky's shoulder, "You might pick on other kids, but come on. Don't kick her while she's down -"

Karofsky jerked his shoulder away and knelt down before Santana. He looked at her, his eyes concerned but most of all full of knowing. "C'mere."

She pushed herself off the wall, too tired and shaky to be a bitch. He took her hand and helped her up.

Mr Schue stood to the side, leaning a little toward the direction of the offices but looking cautious. His arm was still out. He opened his mouth to say something but Santana never heard.

It just bubbled up inside of her, pushing past her barriers and a sob breaking through her facade. Karofsky pulled her in and she clung to his jacket.

"I know." He said quietly, wrapping his arms around her and holding her against him as she sobbed, all terrors swirling in her head.

Dave knew. Of all the stupid people she hated and all the stupid people he hated, he knew. He knew what it was like, at least a little bit.

"I know." He repeated quietly. She clung to the fabric of his jacket and buried her face in his chest. At least neither had to explain anything.

"I don't need to talk to you." snapped Santana. She wanted to be mean but she was tired and her words were soft.

"I'm trying to help you, Santana." said the woman softly, her voice annoyingly comforting, "I won't judge or... anything like that. I only want to help."

"You can't help me." She said, words sounding odd as they burst past her frown, "You can't."

Ms Pillsbury leaned over her desk, crossing her hands together, "I can try."

Santana aimed a glare her way, "Can't you just give me a damn pamphlet and let me go?"

"I can't give you a pamphlet if I don't know what you need help with."

"I told you, I don't need help."

Ms Pillsbury leaned back again, sighing quietly. Santana was utterly frustrated to find that the woman was not frustrated. "Let's just talk, then. Is that okay?"

A shiver climbed up Santana's spine. Talking would lead to spilling, because she had nothing that wasn't a horrible, painful secret. But she wasn't going to get out of this and so she nodded silently, staring at the carpet, fighting the terrors at the back of her mind.

"How's Glee Club?" Ms Pillsbury asked kindly, crossing her arms in a soft kind of way.

Well, Brittany's in it, keeping tight with The Cripple. So, painful. The Asians are pitifully in love. So, nauseating. Kurt keeps watching me like I'm a bomb that could blow at any second. So, scary.

"Weird." She replied quietly, keeping her eyes on the ground, "I mean - fine. Just, yeah. Fine."

Ms Pillsbury placed her arms on the desk quietly, leaning forward. She nodded in a thoughtful kind of way. "You're dating Dave Karofsky, right?"

Her back stiffened out of reflex. Something in her stomach tightened. Nobody would know a secret like that, like what she was really doing with Dave Karofsky, no way in hell. She nodded, jaw tight. She was 'dating' him.

"And how's that -"

"Fine. Good. Great. Why are we talking about my dating life?" She snapped, finally looking up. It made her too tense to talk about that. For all she knew, she was a thread away from puking up a secret. All it would take was one word.

"I would be lying if I said I was just curious." Ms Pillsbury said, not unkindly, voice soft, "It's just that you and I both know he's never exactly had a good reputation. At least with the Glee Club."

"No." replied Santana coldly, "No, stop. Everybody thinks he's just a bully - that he's just mean for no reason and it isn't true. It's not true and he's just - he's the same as -"

"Santana, I wasn't - just, calm down, okay?"

Ah. She'd spun off into a panicky ramble.

"Santana, we really do need to talk about something." Ms Pillsbury's voice was agonizingly soft and innocent, no anger or hatred. Santana suppressed a shudder. "You - look, Santana, it looks like... you just... had a full blown panic attack. Right in the middle of Glee Club. Mr Schuester said it was just... sudden. We need to talk about it."

No, no, no, no, no. Talking about it made everything clench and it made Santana sweat. It made her dizzy and panicky and it made her freak out and feel sick and dread everything. She had to block it all out. She squeezed her eyes shut, head facing the floor.

There was a long silent pause. The lady's extensive psychology pamphlet reading kicking in.

"It's okay." she said softly, "I don't want to scare you."

Santana's arms felt weak. She clasped them tightly together on her lap. She wasn't scared. She wasn't. She couldn't be. Still, her breaths already came faster and more shakily. Her chest rose and fell with a small tremor each time. Ms Pillsbury was too good at this. She almost sounded like she understood.

But she didn't.

"You need to talk to someone, Santana. I'm only here to talk -"

"You can't." She managed, swallowing dryly, "You can't do anything."

She nearly tripped over herself in her haste to get up and out of that room.