A/N: And here I present to you: Chapter Number 4! It's not as long as the last one I'm afraid but I got to a point where it felt right just to end the chapter. It also contains a flashback of Brittany and Santana (I figured since I can't quite bring Brittany back from Holland yet, sadly enough, I can at least bring her back in memory).

I hope you enjoy!

Warning: cussing, reference to rape and physical abuse as well as a good strong dose of Finn Cluelessness.

. . .

"A broken mess, just scattered pieces of who I am . . ."

- Pieces by Red

…

Earlier. . .

"Most of us live in a state of inner conflict which produces outer turmoil and confusion; many escape from conflict into illusion."

- Krishnamurti

It's easy enough to find Santana's place, mostly because he's already been there before – when he dropped her off that time after their one night together – but also because it has to be one of the only pink houses in Lima. Finn's not really sure since it's the only pink house he's ever seen in his life, so maybe it's the only pink house in Lima – no, the only one in the world even. That's kind of cool.

Finn smiles dopily to himself at the thought, pulling up outside Santana's pink house. He might have called her instead – he much rather would have preferred to call her – but he kind of doesn't have her number or, well, any way to contact her, in fact. Besides, if he calls Santana up on her phone she might just think he's some kind of creepy stalker dude . . . which he's not. Ever.

Of course, getting out of the car, it seems to escape his mind that showing up at the girl's house, uninvited, might just be considered creepier than calling her up. He hasn't really thought this through. In fact, he kind of just heard Burt's suggestion, spent a good hour in the bathroom trying to work up the courage to go or otherwise a way to get out of it, before, in a moment of obvious stupidity, grabbing his keys and jumping in the car. He kind of regrets that now.

He spends a good five minutes waiting outside the door of the Lopez's house, unable to find the guts to actually knock and go in. This is due to the fact that his mind can't seem to help itself from racing through the thousands of ways Santana could cause him bodily harm, pausing for long, uncomfortable lengths on the most painful, and basically skipping over the seemingly most humane. This isn't irrational, not really, as he's fairly certain Santana is capable of most of the possibilities he's imagining and she probably wouldn't have a qualm against doing any one of them either.

Finn's also kind of afraid that if he does knock on the door and Santana doesn't open it, the next worse thing will be there instead – her father. He's never met Mr. Lopez before – he assumes it's Mr. Lopez, since he's never heard a thing about him; in fact, he doesn't even know for sure if Santana has a father – but it goes mostly without saying that, as someone who has basically taken part in the spawning of Satan, that he wouldn't be pleasant company . . . or at all happy that a boy who has slept with his sixteen-year-old daughter is now on his doorstep. Santana has to have gotten her scariness from someone and all arrows, in Finn's mind, point to this guy.

He's going to die.

The football player shudders at thought before finally mastering up a good dose of courage and knocking on the door.

Luckily for Finn, neither of the two devils he's imagined open the door and instead it is pulled back by a young woman with flowing dark hair and blue eyes that stand out startling well on her face. She also looks a lot like Santana – bar the eyes which are, well, blue and kind of doe-like. A lot like her. in fact, the resemblance is so striking that Finn nearly falls over in shock. Seriously, he could be looking at Santana's older twin sister right now.

Wow.

Wait, can twin sisters be older?

Mrs. Lopez smiles at him and it's immediately disarming; mostly because it's just weird to see someone wearing the face of Santana smile – which the Latina doesn't normally do. Whoa. "Hi," she greets with a voice that sounds thick and warm, like honey, and puts a matching smile on Finn's face. "Can I help you?"

Finn's looks the woman up and down, trying not to be too obvious but he has a feeling he fails at that tremendously. Now that he's gotten over the apparent shock of Santana having a lookalike, he can really take in the woman's appearance.

Mrs. Lopez is wearing a low-cut purple halter top that doesn't quite cover her cleavage – not that he's looking – and make-up covers her face at every turn. The whole effect makes her kind of look like a hooker but Finn wipes this thought shamefully from his mind, not wanting to think of any of his friend's parents that way (not that Santana's his friend or, well, his anything really), it's actually kind of insulting and Finn sort of likes this woman. Although, if she is a hooker that would certainly explain a lot about Santana. Like a lot.

She's really young, too, for the mother of a sixteen-year-old anyway; in fact, he thinks she might be about a decade younger than his mum, not that Carol Hudsen is old or anything. No, his mother is perfect in Finn's eyes. But Mrs. Lopez is definitely young (maybe Mr. Shue's age?) and it's kind of weird. He tries not to glance back down at her chest, knowing it's something Puck would do and not wanting to be anything like the guy who was once his best friend. Besides, he's not really attracted to older chicks; even if he can already tell that Puck would probably say that this particular older chick would be prime MILF. Finn thinks over that, wondering what MILF actually means; all he knows is that Puck kind of says it a lot, and unnecessarily.

He looks into her blue eyes and finds himself taken aback by what he sees. He thinks there should be a bright glint in there, or a lukewarm glow to match the voice, but all he finds is a kind of ancient tiredness that matches his mum's own eyes – sort of like she lost something a little while back and doesn't have the means, or the will, to go back and retrieve it. Even more accurately, she looks like she started on the journey of her life, took all it had to throw at her, and then just kind of gave up a few miles back. Yeah, that's it.

It's rather unsettling.

"Uh, I was just looking for Santana Lopez." He resists the urge to kick himself for adding on that last part – of course Santana Lopez, like there would be any other Santanas living in this house. So stupid. "I'm Finn, by the way. Finn Hudsen."

Mrs. Lopez smiles at him, eyes lighting up with amusement. "Of course you are. You look just like Quinn described you, only dopier." There's no harshness in her words, only a light fondness, and Finn feels himself smiling despite himself. "She actually hasn't been around lately. I hope she's doing OK."

"Uh, yeah. I think she's OK. I mean, there's all that baby stuff . . . and stuff." He thinks for a moment, wondering how Quinn is now himself. He shouldn't really, though, not after what she did but he can't help himself. He loved her.

Sadness enters the woman's eyes for a moment and she clears her throat uncomfortably. "Yeah, I was sorry to hear about that. She's got a hard road ahead of her, I can see that. She deserves better."

Normally, after what Quinn did, Finn would deny this but, surprisingly, he finds himself nodding along in agreement with her, and kind of actually agreeing as well. Quinn's a bitch . . . but she also kind of has her moments as well and she doesn't really deserve this, no more than anyone else at any rate. "Yeah."

The smile returns to Mrs. Lopez's face, this time looking apologetic. "You say you were looking for Santana?"

"Yeah." Though, now he's feeling a little iffy on that front. After all, does he really want to risk life and limb just to apologise to some girl? His mind flits back to the anger in the Latina's eyes as she tore her hand out of his grip and now sees it for what it really was – hurt. Yes. He does want to do this.

The woman sighs. "I'm afraid she's not here."

Finn frowns, disheartened. "Do you know where she might be?"

She shrugs her shoulders carelessly. "She didn't leave a note or anything but I assume she would be at Brittany's or Puck's. That's where she usually disappears to. Or Matt's."

Finn doesn't feel the need to point out that Brittany is actually in Holland right now and Matt is visiting relatives in the next state over. He thinks, as her mother, that she should know this but decides that maybe it's just one of those relationships where the kids don't tell their parents everything (he's heard about those). It would make sense, after all, since a lot of the things Santana gets up to in her free time aren't exactly for a parent's ears.

"Oh." His spirits drop. "Thanks." Mrs. Lopez nods and he moves to turn away and go but stops, another thought occurring. "Um, I was just wondering whether you could maybe not mention this to Santana's dad. I mean, I just . . ." He tries to think of a delicate way of saying that he doesn't want to be beaten up by the Latina's father for sleeping with his daughter but finds none. Uh . . .

But she smiles, getting it, and Finn remembers that this is the mother of Santana and that she probably knows exactly what goes on in her daughter's life. Well, maybe not exactly; he doesn't think anyone knows exactly what goes on Santana's life. Well, maybe God (if he believed in God). "Don't worry. He's asleep upstairs in our room, so he'll probably never find out about this little visit. Though, I understand why you're nervous." She chuckles. "Garry's a sweetie but he can be rather old fashioned when it comes to relationships and teenagers. He's kind of like my father in that respect."

Finn nods his head not really knowing what to think of that but smiles in thanks anyway. Yeah, he kind of likes Santana's mum.

. . .

Three Years Ago

Santana and Brittany were laying on the blonde's bed, idly talking about their favourite movies and, if they could be anyone in the world, who would they be? Brittany had thought over the question, her thirteen-year-old face screwing up in concentration as she tried to decide. Santana found it adorable but didn't say so, instead choosing to wait patiently for an answer. Finally, the blonde had replied with a joyous 'Ariel, from the Little Mermaid,' before going on to explain that this was because then she would be able to swim under the ocean, have a fish friend called Flounder, a crab that followed her around and kept an eye on her (kind of like Santana) and she would be able to sing really well about things like legs and kissing girls (the Latina had snickered at that one).

"What about you?" Brittany asked with a smile, once she was done thinking over how wonderful it would be to be become a mermaid.

Santana didn't have to think about it. "The Tin Man from Wizard of Oz."

The blonde's face screwed up in distaste. "But, San, he's a boy. And besides, he doesn't have a heart."

"No, but it'd be perfect. I wouldn't have to feel a thing, ever, and no-one could ever hurt me," the brunette responded not to be dissuaded. She'd thought this over, every aspect, and was perfectly sold on her answer. "I'd be untouchable." Her eyes opened wide in wonder at the thought and she smiled slightly.

In contrast, Brittany didn't look too happy with the idea. "But . . . would you be able to feel this?" She reached out and ran a hand down the side of her best friend's face, eliciting a shiver and causing the brunette's eyes to flicker at the sensation. She'd always liked Brittany's touches.

"I don't know."

. . .

Present

Santana closes her eyes as the hot water sears her flesh, stinging the wound on her back and turning her skin an ugly red. This has become routine by now, washing him off her, washing it all off her. It's painful, just like it should be, kind of like being reborn or remade (if she was into that whole Christian born-again crap or whatever it is her grandfather's always going on about).

She listlessly watches as the blood runs smoothly down her body into the water at her feet, turning it a sickly shade of red. That's nothing new. It swirls around and around when it reaches the drain, disappearing down it only to be replaced by yet more crimson water. It never ends.

The brunette clenches her fingers and slams her eyes shut, gritting her teeth together. She wants to scream or cry or do something, something that will get rid of this terrible yet familiar tightness in her chest, squeezing and squashing until the point where she almost can't breathe anymore, but she can't bring herself to do any of those things. None will help. Screaming will just alert Quinn and Puck and crying will only turn her into a weak little marshmallow that people can stomp on. She's better than that.

She hopes she's better than that.

Eyes closed, Santana feels the gritty hands pushing their way beneath her Cheerio's uniform, roughly forcing up her skirt, and shudders. She'll never be able to get these images out of her head, not for as long as she lives. There's so many of them, spanning for more than a year, that she can't recall which ones happened where and how she fought back that day. Or whether she even fought back at all.

Lately, she hasn't been doing much of that, rather choosing to just take it as it comes; after all, it's always worse when she puts up a struggle anyway. The admittance of this still make her cringe with shame – since when has Santana not fought back, against anything? Tonight was different, though. Tonight she was pissed beyond reason and wasn't about to let that fucker trample all over her again, not without a fight. Blame it on Finn and his lack of finesse, blame it on Brittany's absence, blame it on teenage mood swings and uncontrollable hormones but there you have it.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Thinking of Brittany, even just for a second, just makes her feel worse and Santana clenches her fingers tighter, wishing the blonde was here with her. It's a stupid wish because her friend's in Holland and even if she wasn't she could never let Brittany see her like this. Not sweet, innocent Brittany who still thinks evil is kind of Jell-O served church (it's not completely insane; they just so happened to be doing the chapter on Hell in Sunday School when Jell-O was being passed around as a treat: totally easy to misunderstand).

That doesn't make her yearn for the other girl's company any less, though. She presses a hand up against the shower wall and closes her eyes again. "I need you," she lets out painfully, hating herself for admitting such a weakness. She doesn't need anyone but herself, she's all she's got.

Santana nearly snorts at the notion. Yeah, you don't need anyone; that's why you're camped out in fucking Puck's fucking bathroom. "Stupid."

She still doesn't know what possessed her to show up at the Puckerman's in her condition. It isn't that she needed their help, despite what Quinn said, she just needed somewhere to go, somewhere away from Him.

She's never felt so conflicted in her life. She wants Brittany – she doesn't want Brittay; She wants Puck and Quinn's help – she loathes the very idea of asking anyone for help; she wants to smash Garry's head in with a mallet, to completely destroy him – she's secretly too scared to do anything of the sort; and Santana wants to slap Billy Lopez across the face, knock some sense into her, and pour out the million and one frustrations and resentments that have piled up over the years, scream at her that she's a bad mother . . . but at the same time she just wants the woman to wrap her in her arms and hold her, like she's supposed to.

It's all so messed up. So very fucking messed up and Santana doesn't see how anyone could ever sort it all out. It's impossible. She knows this.

She still hopes anyway.

The sixteen-year-old sighs and switches off the taps, turning the cold off first and allowing the hot to run just a few seconds longer than necessary. It burns her skin, just as expected, but in the end she can't feel a thing. She's numb to it.

She thinks of Puck and Quinn down the hallway and wonders why they're doing this. Puck's known her a long time and he cares about her, she knows this, but she also knows there's a good chance he cares about hotdogs more than her so it really doesn't amount to much. Quinn hates Santana and she kind of hates her too. This isn't guessing either, Santana knows this just as well as she knows 2 and 2 add up to 4; it's just basic knowledge. Still, she can't shake the image of Quinn's face from earlier when she was sprawled on the couch after waking up – the blonde had a mixture of anger, panic and . . . love in her eyes. And that just doesn't make sense at all.

She remembers listening to the blonde arguing with Puck, unable to make out the exact words and too exhausted to bother trying anyway, and then stilling as she heard Quinn break down into sobs. The first thought that popped into her head was: 'What a wimp.' It didn't last long – In the amount of time that Santana's known the blonde, crying has become almost a daily occurrence since the age of six so Quinn's always been kind of a wimp in her eyes, nothing new there. She then wondered, spitefully, what the girl really had to be crying about. Wasn't it Santana who'd just gotten the shit beaten out of her? The thought was fleeting though because, really, Santana just didn't give a crap to waste time thinking about it and instead she moved on to just being extremely uncomfortable.

She doesn't like it when people cry.

So she did what she does best: she ran. Not literally, of course, in fact she kind of had to limp/hop away, but she did get out of that room good and fast. She'd thought about climbing out the window before remembering that she had nowhere else to go and she didn't exactly want to be spending the night in her car, plus she didn't have a shirt on. Besides, Puck and Quinn probably wouldn't have appreciated that, especially not after she bloodied up their couch. Not that she cares what they think.

The shower door opens and Santana steps out into a foggy mist that clouds her gaze and wraps around her in a cloak-like formation. She thinks that, if it was thick enough, she'd hide in it and never come out. She thinks that would be nice. Santana snaps out of the thought, though, upon reminding herself that she doesn't hide from anything – she's brave.

She hopes.

Walking over towards the mirror, though, proves her wrong. Every step is a challenge and she keeps wanting to back away from the coming task; she's never liked reflections and what she's about to force herself to see she already knows from Puck and Quinn's horrified expressions isn't going to be pretty. She's strong, though (sort of), and completes the short distance eventually, expertly ignoring the fact that her hands are shaking – it's just the cold, even if the heater's on.

She doesn't bother reaching for a towel and trying to dry herself: the longer she remains wet the longer she has an excuse to stay in here, away from everything and everyone else. Taking a breath, she turns away from the mirror and looks over her shoulder. Her hair is plastered to her skin, masking her back, and painfully she pulls it away to reveal two three centimetre marks situated next to each other just below her right shoulder. The blood's been washed away by the shower now, though there's still some persistently drizzling its way out, so she can see exactly what Garry has left on her.

GG.

There's no use wondering what it stands for and she remembers with startling clarity the sound of his shout, the shattering of a vodka bottle, and the feeling of a piece of glass digging into her skin, ripping, tearing. She closes her eyes against the memory and only finds it clearer behind her eyelids, haunting her.

She turns around to face the mirror fully again and falls forward, resting her hands against the bathroom bench for support. Her fingers dig into the edge of it.

It's strange but, somehow, this is the worst thing he's ever done to her – worse than the beatings, the rape. Because this is permanent, so very permanent, and the other things, as painful as they were and are, are just temporary, passing moments in her life (she hopes, anyway). This will stay with her forever, embedded on her skin as a constant reminder.

She's always harboured the fantasy of getting away – away from Lima, away from her mother, away from Garry. Now she knows that will never happen. He'll always stay with her now, she'll never ever be able to forget. Her one chance of escaping has been taken from her before she's even had a chance to put it into play.

The knowledge is crushing.

Once again Santana thinks of Brittany and how she could really use her right now. She wonders if, if she wishes hard enough, the blonde will appear, smile and take her in her arms. The Head Cheerio allows her body to fold beneath her and sits, expressionless, on the cold white tiles, her back leaning against the sink. A drop of blood glides effortlessly down her back, pooling on the floor and standing out in terrible contrast against the white. She waits.

Brittany doesn't come. No-one does.

.. .

"There were many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts broken by love, but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream – whatever that dream might be."

- Pearl S. Buck

…

A/N: So, what'd you think? There will be more about Finn next chapter and Mrs. Puckerman will finally make an appearance. And while Mrs. Lopez might have seemed nicer than Santana has described, that meeting was all from Finn's point of view (needless to say, his judgement probably isn't very trustworthy), plus I'm not going to make anyone a straight up evil character (that's not how I like to write things since I believe everyone has different levels and no-one is just a super villain out of a Disney movie, though that doesn't mean that they're aren't some very bad people out there). On that note, Mrs. Lopez is definitely not a good mother, though I'm sure you could have pretty much worked that out for yourself.

OK, I'm going to stop rambling now.