"Santana, where's your half of the rent this month?" Quinn cried, staring at the envelope on the table.

The latina's digging in the fridge, when she hears those words. Instantly, she freezes. Swiveling around, she faces the blonde, who's now looking at her. "I-umm-I-"

"Santana, it's due tomorrow. You can't be serious. Again?"

"I'll have it." Santana says quickly. She tries to forget she used the same excuse the month before. "It'll just be a couple days."

"What are you buying?" Quinn growls. "Because you work and make plenty more than me, and I manage to have the money on time."

Santana swallows thickly, backing out of the kitchen. "Tomorrow. I'll have it by tomorrow night. I'm sorry Quinn."

Two hours later, she's at Damien's apartment. Knocking on the door nervously she steps back. A second later he answers, a pair of basketball shorts thrown on haphazardly. His hairs standing up everywhere, eyes bloodshot. "Lopez, what's up?"

"I need my money back." Santana blurts.

He laughs after she says that, realizing she's serious.. "I don't do refunds. You should know that."

"I need my money back." Santana insists. "I have rent due. I can't-I can't do this anymore. Just take this back and give me my money."

Damien steps back, ushering her in. "Look, I don't do refunds. Ever. I'll give you the money to cover rent, but I'm not taking it back. You'll pay me back when you get paid again."

"No, I really can't do this anymore. It's- I'm not this person." Santana argues. Damien snorts, pulling the money from a jar and handing it over.. "You kind of are."

"No! I'm not." Santana yells. Her voice lowers and she grabs the money out of his hand, shoving it in her pocket. "I'm not a addict."

Damien laughs, shaking his hair. "News flash chica, you are. Otherwise, you would have dropped that bag your clutching like a lifeline on the table and left as soon as you got your money."

"No." Santana refuses. "I'm not."

"You are." Damien says with a smirk. "But it's ok. Cause' I have your back."

When she hands Quinn the money the next afternoon, she tries to ignore the churning in her stomach. She sits in her room later, staring at the baggy in her hand. She's not an addict. She's not. Sure, she uses, but she can totally stop. Whenever she wants.

Even as she's leaning toward the powder now lined up on her desk, she's saying the same thing. I can stop this. Anytime I want. I'm not an addict. I'm not.

But she knows the truth.

She is. She's an addict and is ruining her life. But she can't help it. She has nothing to fight for, nothing that's making it worth not doing what she's doing.

It's three months later that everything changes.

Quinn comes home from school, dropping all her books by the door. She's about to call out for Santana, wondering if she wasn't there again, when she spots a lone shoe on the floor.

Eyes furrowing she spots its mate down the hall toward her friends bedroom. Following it, she spots a pair of jeans laying in a pile, a t-shirt on top of the pile. Looking up, she sees the bathroom door is closed, the sounds of the shower telling her where Santana's at. She's honestly a little surprised she's there. It's been over a week since she's even saw her. The past few months she's noticed how different she's become. She's been hanging out with her work friends a lot more, barely spending time with any of her high school friends.

At first Quinn thought it was good. She was glad she was meeting people. She didn't like seeing her so depressed about Brittany. But the longer time that passed, the more she realized how different she was. She'd lost weight, she looked like a zombie, and she always came home drunk.

Scooping the clothes up, she drops them in the laundry hamper outside the bathroom door. Only then does she hear it. The shower doesn't cover it.

Crying.

Santana's crying.

Knocking lightly on the door, she doesn't hear a response. Knocking again she listens, but when all she hears is her friends sobs, she opens the door gently. "Santana, are you ok?"

"Quinn?" Santana whimpers.

"Santana, what's wro-" Quinn's eyes land on the towel laying on the counter, the crimson stain showing up against the white. "Is that blood? What's wrong?"

"Quinn." Santana repeats, another round of sobs escaping. "I didn't mean too."

Brushing aside the fact that her friends in the shower, Quinn crosses the room and pulls the curtain back. Santana's sitting in the bottom of the bathtub, knees pulled up to her chest. She's still wearing her bra and panties, but that's not where Quinn's looking.

She spots the busted lip first. It's hard not to, when it's still bleeding a little. Above it, she sees a bruise on her cheek bone, leading up to make her eye swelled up. Her neck is covered in bruises, and indentions, which she realizes are teeth marks. Letting her eyes travel down, she sees the same marks on her chest, stopping where her bra covers. She imagines there still there. She inhales sharply, mind reeling as she takes in the sight of her friend. "Santana what happened?"

"I-I didn't mean-" she can't finish her sentence because she starts gasping for breathe. Quinn bends down, shutting the water off while grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her friends shoulders. "Come on sweetie, let's get you out of here."

"I tried to stop, I swear. I said I couldn't do it anymore. I tried!"

"I know, it's ok. Calm down." Quinn repeats over and over again, leading her from the room and into her bedroom, she sits her on the bed. Running to her dresser she returns quickly, helping her into a pair of sweats and a big t-shirt. When she's tucked into bed, and she hears the breathing that means she's asleep, the blondes stands from the bed.

She's almost to the door, planning on calling Rachel and cancelling there date when she trips over a jacket. Reaching down to pick it up, she pauses and stares when a baggy falls out of the pocket. Reaching down and picking it up, her eyes widen in realization. Looking back toward the bed, she clutches the baggy in her hand, praying she's wrong.

Something tells her she's not. Because it all makes sense, as she thinks about it. All the money disappearing, the new friends, the passing out for hours, the mood swings, red eyes that she'd blamed on drinking. It's all summed up by the baggy in her hand.

Closing her eyes, she takes deep breathes. There's got to be some big explanation behind it, she tells herself. But at this moment, it doesn't matter. What matters is Santana's hurt, in more ways than one. Her current state, which looks like a punching bag, is the question. Something tells her the two go together. Either way, she's going to be there for her friend. She's going to need someone, and Quinn will be there.

No matter what.

Yeah, it was shorter, but more happened...kind of. Thoughts? Ideas? Suggestions?