Friday

Santana lay in bed, looking at her window, through the slats in the blinds, at the rain hammering down outside. It was 6.45, and she had to get up in 15 minutes. She willed the seconds to drag out slowly, because even though she had been laid, wide awake, on her lumpy mattress for an hour, and would've liked to get up, she didn't want to go to school. Not today. And the rain, too. It hit the glass sharply and consistently, never dying down, never quieting enough for her to relax and fall asleep. It had kept her up nearly all night, leaving her alone in the dark with this unrelenting noise, and her thoughts. People always talked about how your worries come to you at night, how thoughts you manage to push aside during the day, or are just too busy to notice, creep up on you and take over. It had never been something she'd experienced before, and she didn't realise it herself, but even if the rain had stopped, she wouldn't have slept.
Most people would think that Santana would be the kind of person who looked like a statue in her sleep. Or like one of the princesses, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, perfectly still and serene. But Santana tended to toss and turn, never lying still whilst she was asleep. She dreamed more vividly than she lived. Sometimes of things she wouldn't admit to, like the moment of stepping onto a stage in front of an audience who came just to see her, and sometimes of things that she didn't really know or understand. Spirals of emotions and feelings, tumbling over each other in a falling mess through her mind, until they collected in a heap that was so overpowering it woke her. Only when she awoke, she couldn't remember what they were, let alone work out what they meant.
Santana always hated that, ever since she realised it, no matter how brave or heroic any of those princesses seemed to be, it was always some corny, undefined thing that saved them in the end. The stories called it "true love", but she wasn't sure that being in love could save you, not from evil stepmothers and witches, or even from yourself.

She waited until the red light said 6:59, then switched it off before the alarm sounded. She lifted up the duvet and peered at her ankle. It was still swollen and painful, and she wondered if that coupled with the rain would be a good enough excuse to skip school. Maybe for the school, but not for her parents.
She got ready quickly, automatically, but stared at the mirror for a long time before pulling her hair back. She was starting to understand why girls like Rachel and Tina kept their hair down; you could hide behind it in a way that was comforting, even if everyone could still see you, you felt sheltered and protected. She would have kept it down for those reasons exactly, but by doing that everyone would know. Of course, they wouldn't know what was really happening, what thoughts were rushing through Santana's head, but they'd know something was up, and to her, that was just as bad. So she pulled it back, and headed out of her room, grabbing her schoolbag on the way. As she was closing the door behind her she saw Brittany's Cheerios jacket crumpled on the floor. She'd left it yesterday lunchtime, again.
Luckily it was towards the end of the time Brittany had free for lunch that she'd asked the question – the one that had been circling through Santana's consciousness ever since, the one that she had remained silent to for the longest time, before telling Brittany to get out. When she didn't, and sat up, biting her lip and looking at Santana worriedly, Santana had shouted. Shouted, then screamed, then hurled the jacket at the door as Brittany disappeared behind it. She thought she might have heard Brittany crying as she left, but Santana was concentrating on muffling her own sobs in a pillow to be able to tell.

When she got into the car, she flung the jacket onto the backseat, and her bag onto the passenger seat next to her. She started driving, unable to get rid of the thought of Brittany's tear stained cheeks and red eyes. Santana knew she would've killed anyone else if they had done that to her, but she'd never contemplated what she'd do, or how she'd feel, knowing that she had done it.
She drove, eyes stead-fast and steely on the road ahead, but she couldn't shake the feeling off. Brittany crying, being mad at her or scared of her. Forgiving her. She would forgive her, of course. She would forgive anyone. Santana didn't think she deserved forgiveness, or Brittany at all. But that was what she wanted. She wanted Brittany to forgive her, to smile softly and nestle her head in the space between Santana's shoulder and neck, like it was Brittany who was being comforted, so she could carry on pretending it wasn't her who needed this most. And when the tears came, because they would, she could turn her face against Brittany's neck, and the taller girl could lift her toes off the ground, just for a second, so she wouldn't have to hold it all in, just for a second. She wanted Brittany to nod and tell her she understood, because then Santana wouldn't have to explain it to anybody, she wouldn't have to understand it herself. And then Brittany would let her cry, and she would hold her until everything had stopped. It didn't feel like it would ever stop, though, it felt like she would feel this way forever, thinking about Brittany and this twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach, mixed with the thundering of her heart, and the fluttering feeling of happiness that came from so far within you that you couldn't tell if it was your brain, your heart or your soul.
She swerved the car to the side of the road and yanked the handbreak, letting the car judder slowly to a stop, as she unfastened her seatbelt. She clambered between the two front seats and collapsed in a messy fall onto the back seats, where she found Brittany's jacket. She didn't put it on this time; she pulled it towards her and buried her face into it, clinging tightly to the fabric and trying to listen to the rain and the traffic, and not her noisy, tear-choked breaths or her head, that was rationalising this horrible concoction of feelings and emotions into the simplest emotion to name, the one in all the fairytales, the one that always saved the princess.