A/N: Yes, the pace of this is slow. Yes, I know that you're impatient, but dramatic discussions and a non-slap do not a recovery make. I'm trying to be a little more realistic with it because accurate (or semi-accurate) portrayal of mental health issues is important to me. I could probably write something pretty raw and dramatic about it but I'm willing to let this get a little fluffy and out-of-hand because it's FICTION, yes?
"But Dani . . . I don't understand why you did it," Rachel pushed gently. Though her words indicated that she wanted to pursue the matter further, she made no move to lean towards the girl, for which Dani was grateful. The last thing she wanted at this point was to be touched. Physical contact right now of any kind would be like being electrocuted. It felt like her entire body was a live wire, like every atom of her being would explode and be scattered if someone moved too close to her.
Rachel, Kurt, and Blaine watched as Dani curled in on herself on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest and rocking back and forth, hugging them. Of course, none of them had seen her during a flashback episode, but Dani right now seemed to them to be on the edge of shattering. Her every action indicated that a loss of control was just around the corner, but that she was actually making an effort to hold herself together until they left. It was impossible to tell whether this was a good sign or not.
"I . . . I told you," Dani mumbled. "I didn't . . . I didn't do it at first. I tried to leave. The — the door was locked. Wanted to get away." Rachel's expression was troubled.
"And you thought that killing yourself was the answer?" Dani's face paled. She clutched vaguely at her knees, leaving dragged-out marks of sweaty palms on the thin fabric of her hospital pajamas.
"Rachel!" Kurt hissed, admonishing the diva with a face of light astonishment. "Please, remember the circumstances!" `
"Please do, Rachel," Blaine pleaded. His hands were clasped seriously in his lap. "We know nothing about this situation. We can't judge Dani for anything she has or hasn't done." Rachel nodded slowly; the look she was giving Dani seemed to be slightly contemplative.
"I'm just curious . . . Dani, you know that you could have just buzzed for the nurses to let them know that you were awake," she added lightly. Dani shook her head in a short, quavery movement. It seemed to be taking an abnormal amount of effort to even hold her head up. It wasn't so much that she was tired as it was that she seemed to be in the midst of realizing that she was trapped in a state of perpetually painful existence and that there would be no way for her to escape.
"It's not that simple. Not about that." The words came out as somewhat muffled due to the fact that she was speaking into her kneecaps. Limp strands of platinum hair hung in front of her face, masking her eyes, but her three companions could hear the catch in her voice. Blaine decided to try another tactic: cajoling.
"You know what, Dani, as I was walking — "
"You should have just let me die." All three sat stunned, staring at the little of Dani they could see that wasn't curled into a ball.
"What?" Rachel asked finally. Dani hugged her legs tighter to her chest, paying absolutely zero attention to the pain in her ribs. The bandages on her wrists strained at the movement.
"You . . . you should have let me die. I'm useless. I . . . take up space. I waste food and water and oxygen and now I'm here with someone stuck spending money on me and if I wasn't here it would be more space for the rest of you." Still, they only stared. Dani made no move to uncurl herself. She reminded Rachel of a turtle that had had the shit scared out of it and refused to come out of its shell. The diva was no expert on the subject, but it certainly seemed like Dani felt safer inside the tiny space that her knees afforded her. Things were probably less stressful when you had a shirt between you and life. Cotton was a better barrier than nothing.
At last, Kurt attempted to coax her out.
"Dani . . ."
"Stop. Please," she whispered, her head rising up to look at them. Her eyes were wet and bloodshot, tears streaking her cheeks and coating the pant legs of her pajama bottoms. She looked at Kurt in particular when she spoke, somehow sensing that he, at least, had a higher likelihood of understanding where her thought patterns were coming from. "Please," she whispered pleadingly. Her eyes were exhausted. "Please . . . just leave." For a moment, they all sat there, glancing between her and each other nervously, before Kurt stood, brushing off his jeans.
"Okay." With a quick glance in his direction, the other two hurriedly followed suit, mumbling goodbyes and vague get-well wishes in the direction of the huddled young woman on the bed.
Only Kurt didn't seem anxious to leave; he paused in the doorway with a hand on the handle, sending Dani a softer sort of gaze that she couldn't see.
"Dani . . . would you like to see Santana? She's worried about you," he told her softly. The huddled lump seemed to tense. He almost knew why.
"N — No." Her voice was clearly cracking, but Kurt didn't comment on the obvious breaking sound. Nevertheless, he could hear the clear pain resonating through the room, almost as if it was particles from a radio wave flowing across the room and reforming in his ears.
It was the loudest pain he had ever heard.
There was something the world didn't seem to understand, which was that people, when they were hurting, were never anything more than people. And it was easy to tell what kind of people they were by the way they showed their pain. Kurt could see in Dani just what sort of person she was.
She was locked alone in an empty room in a psychiatric hold ward. Her eyes were bloodshot and weary, her face blotchy and dampened by tears. Her wrists were wrapped far too tightly in sterile white bandages, and her skin was fragile and washed-out. Cowered in a sobbing, shuddering, quaking mass with bare feet and too-short pajamas, her hair damp and plastered to the edges of her scalp, Dani could hardly be called beautiful. But even so, Kurt could tell that she could be strong, and in that possibility of strength, he saw regality.
Dani could amount to so much more than this.
Santana slumped despondently in one of the waiting room chairs, waiting for Kurt to get back. It had been four days since the night Dani was admitted, and she hadn't seen the blonde at all. She had been forced to be content with daily updates from Kurt, Blaine, and Rachel, and while she was greatly relieved to know that Dani was all right, she was admittedly growing extraordinarily frustrated with the fact that she hadn't been allowed in as a visitor. It had been Kurt who had told her of Dani's unwillingness to see her, and from there Santana's mood had spiraled through a continuous cycle of confusion, irritation, sympathy, jealousy, understanding, anger, fury, and desperation, and had now been reduced to a state of chronic despair which left her with only two results: dirty hair, and a special area in the waiting room where she had been camped out for nearly an entire work week.
This was getting absolutely ridiculous. First Blaine, then Rachel, then Kurt, and then Rachel again had attempted to convince her to go home, to little avail. Blaine and Kurt had gone about the matter with tact and (their version of) hearty persuasion and temptations of homemade chocolate chip pancakes. Rachel had taken a more blunt approach to the issue, and had stated quite firmly halfway through the third day that if Santana didn't go home and at least shower she would be forced to avoid her at all costs. Unsurprisingly, Santana had resisted with threats of shaving her bangs off, and Rachel had fled, leaving Santana to the mercy of the Gay Gilmore Girls.
"Santana, enough already," Kurt complained, exasperated, as she came flying up to him yet again with greasy, flyaway hair and an expression eager for news. "I said I'd tell you when there's news." But Santana was having none of that. She'd done her time in waiting rooms; she wanted to know now.
"But Kurt — "
"But nothing Santana; aren't you getting tired of asking me? I certainly am." Santana caught ahold of his upper arm as he attempted to squeeze by her, latching on with such a firm grip that boy was surprised she didn't leave a bruise.
"Kurt, please," she begged, tugging on his bicep so hard that he nearly tumbled into her arms. "I've been waiting so long out here for an answer when you guys get to go in and see her every day; it's not fair." Kurt yanked away, looking slightly irritated. His hair was distinctly ruffled.
"Life isn't fair, Santana. Certainly you know this, with the prime example of it locked away in a psychiatric ward with her wrists sliced up. Maybe you should join her. Then you two would be even and you could stop berating yourself for not being there for her every second of her life." Santana took a step back, stunned. Though no tears immediately appeared, Kurt instantly noticed the slight scrunching at the corners of her eyes — a sure sign that the Latina was about to cry.
"Fine," she sniffled, turning her head away in an attempt to hide her tears. "I'll just go wait alone. I won't bother you anymore." With that, she turned and began to walk back across the waiting room, shoulders slumped, stumbling over her own feet. Once in her designated corner, she flopped almost lifelessly into the chair, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, in a movement was so pathetic that Kurt was forced to close his eyes momentarily.
With a sigh, he turned back, and followed her across the room.
"Santana, honey . . ." he began, crouching in front of her. He placed one hand comfortingly on her knee. "I'm sorry. I guess we're all just stressed and exhausted. I didn't mean that." Santana snuffled into her sweater sleeve, smearing mascara thickly across the light blue material and beneath her eyes. Kurt thought she looked like a total wreck.
"I just . . . I'm worried," she mumbled, speaking through the cloth as if it could filter the crying sound from her words. "She's so fragile and so scared, and all I want to do is hold her and take her pain away. And now she won't let me, and I don't know why, and it's killing me because I want to fix it but I can't!" she blubbered, casting herself into Kurt's arms in a movement that wasn't far from frenetic. The singer recovered quickly, masking his surprise at the sudden outburst as he brought his arms up to awkwardly encircle the brunette. Santana never hugged; he had almost forgotten that she did this when particularly upset. She must have been bordering on hysteria to even allow him physical contact, much less seek it out.
"Santana . . . you do know why she's doing this, but I can't help you out. It's not your thing to fix; it's hers. Whatever's going on between you two is something that you can only try to mend from your side and then wait to see how she responds. But I can do my best to answer any questions you might have," he added seriously, pulling back to place his hands on her shoulders and look her in the eye when he felt her body shudder feverishly again. The girl let out a pitiful whimper. Her puppy eyes seemed to latch onto the dearest hope she held — that she could fix this. Understand this. That Dani was still somehow okay despite the fact that she was scared to death of her for reasons that were no fault but her own.
"Is . . . is she getting enough to eat? She can't feed herself very well," she murmured, her eyes somewhat out of focus from crying. She looked like she had recently been hypnotized. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, at this point.
Kurt nodded slowly.
"The doctors are making sure that she eats plenty," he confirmed steadily. His gaze didn't waver from her face, though she did not return the eye contact. "She's gained three pounds since she got here — though she lost a few initially, after she was sick," he added. Santana did not look at him when she spoke.
"How is she?" Kurt hesitated.
"She seems . . . lost," he granted finally, seemingly unwilling to find a better word. "She doesn't like to be close to us, and when we go in, she's fine, but she's always crying when we leave. She seems terrified of something, or like she's trapped in her own head. The night staff nurses keep saying that she has constant nightmares, too." When Santana did not speak, only squeezing his hand, he stood up to leave, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he took a step back.
Halfway back across the room, her voice stopped him in his tracks yet again.
"I want to help her." He turned. Santana was looking directly at him this time, and her eyes were filled to the brims once again with tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. His silence seemed to encourage her to keep speaking, and she unleashed a flow of words that left him gasping as if they had been water. "I want to let her know that she can amount to anything, and that no one will ever hurt her again. She thinks she's somehow worth less than the rest of us, and it kills me Kurt. It kills me every time."
He barely made it back to the chair before Santana collapsed in a pile of stringy hair and endless tears.
She was seriously considering sneaking into the psych wing and going to visit Dani. Surely it couldn't be that difficult — all those movies were about people breaking out of such places; surely breaking in had to be much easier. She had a plan all laid out: she would hide in a bathroom until the last of the visitors had left, and then she would simply sneak in when the receptionist wasn't looking.
Unfortunately, Rachel seemed to employ her special "Santana is misbehaving" sixth sense and made a point to confront her wayward roommate before the actual act could occur. She headed her off on the night in question, ensuring that Santana was occupied with yelling at Kurt for bringing her regular fries instead of curly ones at the hour when the plan would have been put into action. In fact, despite her initial pledge to ignore the woman until she got over her act together and stopped acting like a panicked animal, Rachel did harbor the slightest bit of sympathy for Santana's position. Frankly, she could see why Santana was such a nervous wreck — if she had been in her place, she would have been just as distraught by the events of the past week, if not more. However, the fact remained that she couldn't just stand there and watch Santana dig herself deeper into her own grave. She was worried about Dani too, but this was pushing it too far.
"Santana, if you put one toe through that door tonight, I will kick your ass so hard that you will never sit down again," she threatened sternly, taking Santana forcibly by the shoulders and pushing her back into her chair. Looking on, Kurt realized it was a mark of how serious the situation was that Santana didn't make an obnoxious joke about the diva's choice of words. He had thought that high school Santana was bad, but it turned out that a silent, devastated Santana was even worse than an insulting one.
Santana wasn't even crying anymore; she just sat with her arms hung limply at her sides in a chair unless prodded persistently, at which point she would eventually give the current antagonist a momentary, apathetic stare. She had hardly eaten — at this rate, she was going to end up right beside Dani, Kurt's previous apology notwithstanding. She hadn't even really stood in the past few days. It was now the eighth day, and neither she nor Dani had shown any signs of improvement. Of course, Dani had gained a little more weight, but that was the only plus side of this. If something wasn't done soon, Kurt was convinced that it would mean the end for both women.
"Kurt, she won't eat again. It's your turn." Rachel finally gave up, raising her hands in defeat as she stepped away from a blank-faced Santana. Kurt shook his head.
"No, not happening. It's Blaine's turn. I did duty last night, and besides, it's my night to visit Dani — oh honestly, there she goes again! Seriously, Santana? Are you going to do this every time? That's just plain childish." For, at the mention of Dani's name, Santana had started up hopefully, only to fall back with a muted wail into her inner elbow when she saw the exasperated faces of her friends. Kurt shook his head in slight disgust.
"Okay, you know what, this has gone far enough, Santana," he humphed disgustedly. He turned to his fiancé, who was standing by with weary eyes. "Blaine, call Quinn. Let's see if we can get her up here to talk some sense into her." Santana broke out of her elbow in an almost violent gesture, eyes wild and frantic.
"No, no, no, Kurt! No, don't call Quinn! Not Quinn, Please! I'll fix this! I'll fix this!" Kurt shook his head as Blaine pulled out his phone and began to dial.
"No, Santana. You had your chance." Santana slumped back into her seat with a shocked expression. She seemed to have gone limp.
Two hours later, a very irate-looking blonde in a business suit stalked through the doors of the waiting room, swinging her purse irritably with every step.
"Santana Maria Lopez, I cannot believe I had to leave my night Philosophy of Human Ethics class to drag you out of some stupid mood induced by yet another blonde. Aren't you tired of doing this to yourself?" Santana didn't move her eyes from a fixed spot on the dirty green carpet. The rest, however, were enthusiastic. Rachel barely managed to spare Quinn a hug before departing in a state of great relief. Blaine quickly also followed, retiring to the hospital cafeteria to wait for Kurt to be finished with his visit to Dani. Neither appeared to want to witness the scene that was sure to follow.
"Thank you," Rachel whispered as she left. Blaine pressed a key into her hand.
"For the apartment. Take her home, calm her down. Spend the day with her tomorrow and see if you can get her to talk it out. We'll pay you back." She shook her head.
"Don't worry about it — hey Satan, you ready for a patented Fabray wake-up call?" she called across the room, making her way towards the other girl.
"Leave, Quinn."
"Oh wow, Santana. I would be offended that after five months of not seeing you, all I get is a rude, 'leave, Quinn,' but there seem to be more pressing matters at stake." The ex-cheerleader cocked her hip, folding her arms across her chest and tapping her foot in a way that struck Santana with the memory of an annoying aunt from her childhood.
"You're beginning to sound like Rachel, Fabray. Has Yale really reduced you to that level already?" In one deft movement, Quinn reached out and smacked Santana across the cheek, hard.
"At least I've been doing something with my life, Santana. I didn't come here for you to insult me. Now you have two choices; you can stop acting like a baby and go back to the apartment with me quietly, or I can drag you by the hair. We're going, the easy way or the hard way, so you'd better mentally prepare yourself, if that's what you need to do." Santana glared, covering her the rapidly expanding red slap mark on her cheek with one hand.
"Fuck you, Tubbers." Quinn's mouth set into a thin line.
"The hard way it is, then," she said grimly, before moving. She acted swifter than Santana had expected, catching her off her guard, so that she only ended up getting a scratch across the forearm as her friend reacted. Almost more quickly than Santana could protest, she had her in a headlock with one arm, the other wrapping firmly around her to pin her arms down to her sides. Santana thrashed, letting out a shriek of surprise at the suddenness of the attack.
"Cool it, Santana, that's enough. Stop fighting. You're never going to win. You never could beat me in high school, and you're not about to start now."
"Quinn, put me the fuck down! Let go! Get the hell off of me! Get! Off! Of! Me!" Quinn seemed to pay absolutely no attention as Santana kicked and screamed, pounding on her back with her fists as the blonde swung her over her shoulder. She proceeded to carry her out of the waiting room and straight into the parking lot, ignoring the odd looks they were receiving from the other family members in the room. Still continuing to pay no heed to the blows raining down upon her back, Quinn sat Santana down in the passenger seat of the car, strapping her in and forcibly shoving her back against the seat. She quickly made her way around to the driver's side, catching hold of Santana's arm as she attempted to escape out the passenger door.
"Santana, stop it!" Quinn yanked her wrist so hard that the brunette was jerked back with tremendous force, her head smacking into the dashboard. The movement seemed to stun her momentarily; sitting back up, Santana clawed the hair wildly out of her face, her eyes still wide and slightly crazed with desperation. After debating for a moment, Quinn decided to pretend to not notice, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road that led towards the freeway.
Santana sat clutching her seatbelt with a death grip, staring straight ahead at the dark road and hyperventilating. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed to the point where it was no longer as frantic, and Quinn glanced sideways at her from the driver's seat.
"You okay there?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Santana nod. "Okay." Adjusting her grip on the steering wheel, she didn't chance another look, instead focusing on the road. She was going to need all the patience she could muster to make it through tonight.
When they arrived back at the apartment, Santana stomped through the lobby with not even so much as a glance towards the doorman. Quinn followed, shooting the bewildered man an apologetic look. Santana maintained a stony silence all the way up in the elevator, not speaking even as Quinn dug out the key to the apartment from her purse and let them in.
"So I'd figured we'd order some takeout, maybe watch a stupid TV show tonight. How does Arrested Development sound?" Quinn suggested once in the entry. Santana made no move to respond, shooting Quinn another glare as she kicked off her boots and stalking straight into her bedroom and slamming the door. A half second later, she marched right back out, realizing that that was where she had spent nearly all of her time with Dani. Quinn watched as she stomped down the hall and into Kurt's bathroom, not even bothering to shut the door, and let out a sigh. The law student tossed her purse onto the couch and removed her high heels before following.
"Santana, could you at least talk to me; I . . . Santana are you okay?" she asked, pushing the door open slightly but not wanting to invade the brunette's privacy. A heart-wrenching sob met her ears, and she stepped into the bathroom.
Santana lay in a heap on the floor of the shower, her clothes still on and plastered to her skin by the freezing water that was gushing out of the showerhead. Her entire body quaked with uncontrollable sobs. At the sight, Quinn immediately stripped out of her clothes and crawled right into the shower. She pressed the front of her body against Santana's back, trying not to cringe at the feeling of wet fabric chafing against her bare chest and stomach. Santana shuddered at the contact, but did not pull away. Her fingers scrabbled defeatedly at the wet tiles, pushing along them as if attempting to feel every bit of marble rub against her skin, as if the pads of her fingers could absorb every fragment of coldness and particle of water and suck it up into her body through her veins.
"Oh honey," Quinn murmured, encircling what she assumed to be Santana's waist with her arms. "I've got you. Just let it go." Santana let out a half sob, half scream of frustration and anger and exhaustion, throwing her head back onto Quinn's shoulder. Her hands reached over her head, entangling themselves in soaked blonde hair and threading themselves in so tightly that Quinn's scalp felt like it was being forced to part company with her skull. Her entire body arched up and backwards into Quinn's, straining her spine and causing Quinn to wince, but she didn't let go of the blonde's hair. She almost welcomed the pain in her back; if only it would grow so distracting that she could push all thoughts of Dani aside.
Remarking to herself how much she had to care about Santana to allow her to do this, Quinn merely tightened her hold and struggled to her feet, dragging Santana with her.
"Come on, honey. Let's get you cleaned up." Turning the water to a slightly warmer temperature, Quinn turned Santana around so that she was facing her. Patiently, she helped her to undress, taking over completely when the woman fumbled to pop the button on her jeans and quickly gave up. The blonde tossed the wet clothes out the door of the shower onto the floor of the bathroom, not minding that they would only make a mess for later. Right now, she needed to concentrate on calming Santana down.
Santana leaned limply against the wall of the shower, not moving to aid or protest as Quinn gently washed her entire body, silent, seeming to sense that words right now could only hurt, not help. Pulling Santana back into her body, Quinn shampooed her hair, being careful not to get any in her eyes. She ran her fingernails along her scalp soothingly, attempting to distract her long enough to get the job done. With any other person, perhaps, it would have been awkward, but they had been doing this since high school. Seeing Santana naked wasn't anything to new, and showering together had been a regular thing for years. Any awkwardness that could have been present was engulfed by the needs of the moment and entirely pushed aside.
Shutting the water off, Quinn patted the raven-haired woman down with a towel and helped her into a pair of pajamas, pushing her lifeless limbs into the armholes with no reaction to the blatant apathy other than a quiet sigh. She even went so far as to acquiesce to silent plea that Santana conveyed through her eyes and scooped her up, carrying her bridal style to the living room couch. It looked as though it was going to be a night for girly movies and Chinese takeout — not that Quinn was complaining. She hadn't had a girls' night in what seemed like too many years.
And besides, Santana was needy tonight. When she tucked Santana in later that night and was stopped as she reached the door with a soft request to stay, Quinn didn't even blink, but settled in beneath the covers with the smaller girl wrapped in her protective and familiar embrace. This was what Santana needed, for tonight at least. Quinn would make her talk about this tomorrow; she needed to sort out her issues with what was going on and figure out a better way to cope.
But for now, Santana needed this, and Quinn wasn't going to pretend she didn't need it a little bit, too.
"Miss Harper? Miss Harper, are you still with me? I need you to try to relax your muscles, please. I can't get a good picture." Dani's eyes snapped open, jumping as her vision wavered with dark smears and a single, overly bright florescent light. All sound in the room was muted save for the rustle of paper and the slow, steady beeping of the monitor. In truth, she was grateful for the silence, though it constantly served to remind her that she was alone. She wished that the entire world would go quiet — maybe she would be able to concentrate better on staying alive if she could hear the sound of her own breathing. Everything felt dulled; color, sound, sense.
She could almost hear her heartbeat.
"Miss Harper, I understand that you are agitated, but please try to remain calm. This is a necessary procedure." The technician's voice was bouncing around loudly in her head. All in all, it wasn't her favorite sound, but she couldn't honestly call it the worst, either. Being touched constantly and hooked up to machines was bad enough; if only she would shut up . . .
Dani let out a nervous squeak, eyes opening wider in shock as she was met with the sensation of cold gel being squeezed onto her abdomen. Her body jolted slightly as though met with an electrical shock. The technician glanced up at her apologetically.
"I'm sorry, miss, really, but this has to happen," she apologized. Dani only nodded, biting her lip to prevent a whimper of fear from escaping. She hated being touched like this, and being naked but for the flimsy hospital gown wasn't doing anything to help. She leaned back on the table, trying to channel her mind into more peaceful thoughts, but sat back up a moment later. The technician appeared slightly irritated.
"Miss Harper . . ."
"What are you trying to find?" Both Dani and the technician appeared to be taken aback by the sudden interruption. Dani looked slightly lost, her eyes nervously darting from side to side as she assessed the possible repercussions of her outburst. The technician merely seemed pleased; this strange young woman had been completely silent for the entirety of their three days together, and while she had garnered responses from the patient's eyes, it was something of a relief to be assured that she was not speaking to a wall.
"The doctor wants to check for any possible internal damage," she explained, glancing at the young woman in warning before applying more gel.
"What kind of damage?" Dani didn't know where her sudden burst of bravery had come from, but she was currently completely ignoring the inner voices that were hissing that this might be a bad idea. Despite being used as an object for the majority of her life, she had retained more of a sense of self than most seemed to assume. It was her body, after all, and she found herself filled with a swell of indignation at not being informed of what procedures were being done.
"Could be anything, but he's mainly concerned about possible tears in the lining of your cervix." The technician sounded slightly nervous at the admission, but made a noticeable attempt to keep her tone professional. She was a recently promoted intern, paid very low wages, and was eager to make her way up through the ranks. That would not be achieved by upsetting nervous patients.
Thankfully, she managed to retain some semblance of professionalism a moment later when it became necessary to hold the trashcan in front of the now dry-heaving young lady on the table. Dani gasped through streaming tears brought on by the strain of having nothing to vomit up. It felt like her stomach was flipping inside out. Once she had finished, she collapsed back onto the table with a huge, shuddering breath, shutting her eyes and surrendering herself to the darkness behind her eyelids and whatever this woman decided she had to do.
She just wanted to get out of here. It didn't matter where she went, as long as she no longer existed. It wasn't that she particularly wanted to die — in fact, she was well aware that death wasn't the answer. However, the realization lurked within her that death would bring about nonexistence. But then again, what had her stepfather always said? Anyone who was a burden went to hell; all victims went to hell; love was foolish — lovers would go to hell — and certainly any woman who longed for the love of someone other than a man towards whom they would be completely submissive was sure to eternally burn. It was what she had been taught.
Maybe dying wasn't such a good idea, after all. The only reason she wished for death was because she hoped for something better than life, but if she were going to hell there was no point. There would be no change; she was already there.
Maybe she was already dead, and God had sent her here — here, to this chaotic, evil world where no one loved and everyone was consumed by hate. But then again . . . well, this couldn't be hell, that was all. Angels weren't in hell, and she had seen them here. Angels didn't come in the form of fiery Latinas either, but as far as she could tell, she hadn't been hallucinating the presence of one such woman. Maybe Santana was the devil in disguise.
Yes, Dani decided. That was surely it, for how else could she explain how quickly her feelings toward Santana had changed? She had been so wonderful to her, so gentle and sweet, and she had not been able to help being drawn in by her. But then she had yelled, had raised her voice at the woman called Rachel, and though the words had not been directed specifically at her, at Dani, well . . . what was to say that they wouldn't be eventually?
She would stay in the hospital a little longer, Dani decided, until the nurses allowed her to go. Then she would leave, would go to another city — maybe Boston, or some remote part of Los Angeles where no one familiar would be able to find her. She couldn't bear to see Santana again; not after her hopes had been raised so high, higher than they had ever been. She simply couldn't bear any more disappointment. Santana would only hurt her; she shouldn't feel any draw towards someone who was potentially so dangerous, and yet . . . and yet . . .
She really needed to stop yearning for things that could never be.
It was so confusing to her; she shouldn't be feeling this way. All Santana had done was raise her voice once, not even at her, and she had panicked. How was it okay to be broken by the smallest things? She'd survived the most horrific childhood, and yet it was a raised voice by someone she had grown to trust that had ripped her apart all over again. It wasn't reasonable; it wasn't logical.
She needed to get a handle on herself. She needed to. She just didn't know how.
"So she lives. You feeling any better?" Quinn turned from the sink at the sound of footsteps to see Santana come shuffling into the kitchen, dark hair mussed and her eyes puffy and bloodshot. The brunette barely raised her head at the greeting, pulling out a chair and flopping down limply into it. Barely an instant later, Quinn slid a cup of coffee in front of her along with two ibuprofen tablets. Santana reached out and took a long gulp of the hot liquid, not even cringing as it seared her taste buds on its way down.
Quinn sat down beside her, sensing that the woman was not in a mood to be touched, and rested her elbows on the bright tabletop.
"Thank you." Quinn looked over in surprise at the mumbled words, hoping to see Santana's face, and was not disappointed when exhausted dark eyes met her own. In all truth, she had expected Santana to be combative at best, especially after the intense battle of wills they had engaged in the night before. Anything beyond excessive violence was a pleasant surprise at this stage.
"You're welcome, Santana," she tried gently, not making any move other than to send her friend a sympathetic look. Santana nodded, but made no attempt at speech. For a long moment, they sat in comfortable silence, neither feeling the need to break it with potentially wounding words. However, even with the reassuring quiet settling over them, Quinn continued to send the other woman concerned glances. Santana tried to ignore the looks, but after a moment, she sat up straighter, sighing.
"Quinn, you don't have to look at me like that, you know. I'm not going to explode or anything." The law student didn't bother to rearrange her features into a more casual expression; rather, she leaned forward slightly just as Santana leaned back, causing them to shift in unison as if the movement had been choreographed.
"I don't know that, Santana." Neither bothered to acknowledge the fact that they were referring to each other by name in an odd show of politeness. Clearly, some tension still remained.
"Quinn, I'm not dynamite," Santana snorted.
"I'd argue that."
"Go right ahead." Quinn let out a puff of air in slight irritation.
"Santana, I literally had to drag you out of that hospital last night. I think it's safe to say I should be a little on edge. You were practically psychotic."
"You would be too."
"So what, I should have just left you there?" Quinn could hear her voice growing in volume, but she ignored it. Santana was being ridiculous.
"No; I'm just saying that you shouldn't tell me how to cope with this, because you don't have any idea what's going on in my head." Santana was yelling, but she honestly didn't care; she could only feel her anger building. Who was Quinn to come sailing back into her life and tell her how to deal with a situation she had no knowledge of?
"Then by all means, enlighten me! I can't help you if I don't know what's going on!"
"I don't need a damn rescue squad, Q! I didn't ask for your help! So why don't you go running back to Yale and your elderly boyfriend, or offer your precious advice to Berry. She'd buy it like discount Broadway tickets. If I had wanted you here, I would have called you myself." Both women were glaring at each other; Santana had stood up at some point in the middle of her rant, and was now standing with her hands braced on the edges of the tabletop. Her chest was heaving, though whether from the force of her words or restrained emotion, it was impossible to tell. Had they not been so worked up, they would, perhaps, have remarked upon how far from their usual glamor they both looked — Quinn's skin was sagging beneath the eyes, and her clothes were practically sticking to her skin. Santana was worse off by far; nearly a week of practically no sleep had taken its toll.
For a tense minute, they glared harshly at each other, eyes crackling with fury. Then at last, Santana's shoulders slumped, and she fell limply back into her chair, her eyes downcast.
"I'm sorry, Q," she whispered. Quinn nodded, the fire fading from her gaze as her posture relaxed.
"That's all right . . . but Santana, we really need to talk about this," she added carefully. Santana only granted her a noncommittal shrug.
"Whatever."
"San . . ."
"I know, Q. I know. Just — just spit it out, okay?" Santana was pleading with her, even going so far as to clasp her hands in front of her as if in prayer. Perhaps her emotions had been riled before, but not seeing Dani had sent her into such a downward spiral of desperation that she was almost willing to resort to any measures to repair the damage done. She wasn't so obtuse as to think that it wasn't her fault that Dani was avoiding her — she should have been more careful — but she wasn't about to give up on earning back the small amount of the blonde's trust that she had managed to obtain.
"Santana, I know that you're upset."
"That's an understatement."
"Are you going to let me talk?" Quinn's hands were on her hips, and her glare was so like her old HBIC attitude that Santana couldn't help but quaver a little in her seat. At her silence, the blonde continued. "I know you're upset, but frankly, I'm ashamed of you for acting this way when Dani has so many actual things to worry about."
"Are you going to stop being a bitch?"
"Are you going to listen?" Santana glared for a moment, and then sighed. Not making eye contact, she nodded. Watching her expression carefully, Quinn continued. "I understand that this has been hard for you, not seeing her, especially after all that you've done to help her out, but Santana, you need to realize that you know nothing of her situation."
"I know that, Q," Santana huffed, rearranging her legs. She refused to meet the law student's eyes.
"Santana, I'm being serious here. You've been nothing but wonderful to Dani, but you've got to understand that you can't possibly know what's going on in her head. Yes, you were helping her, but yes, you also fucked it up. I know that it was an accident and that you know better now, but you're trying to fix it in an instant and that's just not going to work," Quinn implored. She needed Santana to see reason — of course she knew better than to yell at anyone now in Dani's presence, but she was going about fixing it the wrong way. A few magic words and some gentle touches weren't going to save her.
"Q, I've tried. I've waited for over a week and she wants nothing to do with me. It's not only that that's bothering me; I know that if I give it time she'll be more comfortable around me, but I just want to help her. You don't understand; Q, it's eating me up inside." Santana's voice was weary, strained – her face was drawn and pale and her eyes showed that she hadn't slept in days. She looked half insane.
"Santana it's not like granting three wishes; you can't just magically make her feel safe, it doesn't work that way," Quinn scoffed. She honestly couldn't believe how thickheaded Santana was being; Dani had been severely abused. It could be years before she fully recovered, if she ever even made it that far.
"Then what do you suggest, Q?" Santana hissed, recoiling into her chair and taking an angry gulp of her coffee. She ignored the unsettled feeling in her stomach and focused on the harsh taste. Quinn had forgotten to add milk.
"I suggest that you try to earn her trust back before you try to make her let you in. She's not going to for a while, Santana, or maybe ever. This is going to take time. You can't change what's going on in her mind, so you need to focus on showing her you. Don't try to push her to trust you or to understand; just let her see who you are. For fuck's sake, Santana, the girl doesn't even know your last name. You don't even know her last name." Quinn threw up her hands, the motion looking somewhat ludicrous with her pale arms waving about. Catching the bemused look on her friend's face, she lowered them, and leaned forward earnestly.
"Santana, you need to accept that it's going to take a while for this to happen. Don't try to make her trust you; just be yourself around her and let her see that she has nothing to fear. Tell her little things about yourself. She might be less afraid eventually, but you need to give her time," she said seriously. She caught up the brunette's hand, stroking her thumb over the back of it soothingly. "Let her deal with her own demons first. She doesn't need to fight yours, too." Santana's eyes were closed, her bottom lip drawn tightly between her teeth. She seemed to be battling with herself. But at last, she nodded slowly, and opened her eyes. Quinn met her gaze steadily, reassuring her with a gentle hand squeeze.
"Should I go see her?" she asked softly. Quinn hesitated, and then released her hand.
"Only if she asks you to."
It was late at night on Thursday when Rachel finally sent word to Santana that Dani had reluctantly agreed to see her. Upon hearing the news, Santana stood so rapidly that she nearly knocked her chair flat on the floor, almost sending a nearby old woman and her pet parakeet into convulsions of fright. Rachel glared at her sternly.
"Santana, that's exactly the kind of behavior that will scare her," she admonished seriously, giving the brunette a scolding whack on the arm. "Now remember, she's still sick, and she's afraid of you. It took me all afternoon to convince her that you weren't going to attack her or something, so don't undo that by scaring her away with some accidental cuss words or something equally careless." Santana nodded despite clearly not having listened to a word the diva had spoken.
"Is she okay?" was all she asked, and her dark eyes were so concerned that Rachel sighed. At least the woman was slightly more composed than she had previously been — she had showered, thanks to Quinn, and her demeanor was much more conserved. She hadn't shouted, at least.
"She's . . . weak," the shorter woman granted after a moment's careful pause. "She's hooked up to an IV because of her nutrition issues, but she's in the psychiatric ward, so it doesn't look as much like a hospital room as the others. But please, Santana, don't worry her," Rachel practically begged, gripping the Latina's elbow tightly. "She's in so much pain already." Santana's eyes softened slightly, though she tugged her arm irritably out of the smaller woman's grip.
"I won't, Berry."
Despite her promise, Santana couldn't help the shiver that ran through her as the nurse led her into the room where Dani was staying. It was larger than most hospital rooms, but almost empty save a bed, a chair, and a small desk on which there was a small pile of folded, hospital-issued pajamas. There was a window on the far wall, but it was small, and the shades had been drawn, causing a flat, white light to fill the space.
Dani sat curled into a tiny ball on the bed, holding her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth slightly. From where she stood, Santana could not see her face. Tentatively, she took a step forward into the room, wincing at the sound of the door clicking shut behind her.
"Dani?" The blonde jumped in fright, though whether it was at the sound of her name or because of the door, Santana could not tell. When she moved, her head turned to see the Latina standing immobile by the door, and Santana's heart nearly broke again at the sight of her terrified eyes. She appeared slightly better nourished than when she had been brought in, but her face was tight and pale, and her beautiful, honey-colored eyes were filled with fear and some other, flatter emotion that Santana could not name. Her entire body trembled where she sat, and the hand that was threaded with tubes clenched and unclenched spasmodically.
"Dani?"
"Leave me alone. Please," Dani begged, when Santana only stared. Her voice was rough from tears, and strained as if the back of her throat had suddenly contracted. Santana did not move; she merely stared, her eyes wide and fastened on this broken, shuddering form of a broken young woman. She could not fathom the pain that wracked Dani's fragile body day by day, nor what torturous thoughts still tormented her mind. All she knew was that she was overcome with an intense, sweeping wave of compassion for this shattered, beautiful wreck of a human being.
"Dani." She was finding that she could only whisper, her voice catching as if on loose threads as it broke somewhere near the roof of her mouth. It seemed to get stuck behind her teeth before she could formulate proper words.
"I know you're going to hurt me; please just do it quickly," Dani murmured, dropping her head back to her knees. Santana saw the way that she angled her body away from the door, her legs shivering with what could only presumably be fear. Watching the younger woman tremble uncontrollably, she tried to imagine just how horrible of a life Dani must have had to endure to fear every human being that stepped into a room. She tried to imagine the agony that she must have been subjected to; the abuse both physical and emotional that could have brought such anguish. She had never seen a human suffer to this degree.
Her next words surprised them both.
"Did I ever hurt you?" Dani looked back at her, somewhat startled, though the fear did not leave her eyes.
"N — no."
"Then why would you think that I would?" Santana was hardly aware that she was almost pleading with her. She found herself suddenly needing to hear from Dani's lips exactly why she was so frightened of her.
"You were too good to me," Dani whispered. Their eyes were locked together, fearful hazel boring into worried coffee. Neither sought to break the contact; it was like a magnet, and each secretly feared that if it were broken, all understanding would slip away.
"What — "
"Y — you were so good to me, and then you yelled at Rachel. I don't even know you. We're strangers. You have no reason to help me," Dani whispered hoarsely. She started to turn away.
"But I didn't hurt you."
"But you might." Santana opened her mouth to argue, but at the last moment, Quinn's words to her came flooding back. Her friend was right — she couldn't push Dani any further, especially not when she was in such a fragile state. She would need to learn to trust her on her own time.
"All right then," she said suddenly, pulling up the chair. It squeaked on the linoleum floor, causing Dani to flinch. "You say we're strangers — how about I tell you a little bit about myself?" She waited a moment for a response, but when it was clear that there would be none, she cleared her throat. One leg jiggled nervously. Thinking hard, she sought for information — any random fact that could possibly give Dani a clue as to who she was. It was harder coming up with facts about herself when the situation presented itself. What could she possibly say?
"My last name's Lopez," she said finally, settling for the easiest thing she knew to say. "I'm from Lima, Ohio, and I'm twenty-one. I guess that means I'm younger than you. I went to Louisville after I graduated, and then moved to New York after a semester there. I used to be a cheerleader. Can you believe that?" She chuckled nervously, wiping her sweaty palms on the sides of her pant legs. Dani's breathing changed slightly; she couldn't tell exactly why.
"Ummm, I love cats," Santana continued lamely, growing slightly desperate to come up with more. It seemed as though she had suddenly forgotten everything she thought she knew about herself. What was going on with her today? "I don't like dogs so much; they scare me. My aunt had a dog that would bark at me when I was little, and one day, when my aunt wasn't paying any attention, it ran at me. I was so scared because I thought it was going to bite me, but it turns out it just wanted to play, I guess. I played fetch with it for a while, but to this day, I'm still a little scared of strange dogs." She didn't know why she was rambling on so nonsensically; why would Dani be the least bit interested in something that had happened to her when she was a child?
Maybe if she had raised her eyes from her hands clasped nervously in her lap, she would have seen the vague hint of a smile that twitched at the corner of Dani's lips, and then quickly faded away.
