currish: Wow. I certainly appreciate the kind words.

LengiesLovex: Thank you so very much.

4evamuzic: If you're crying, my job is done. Haha, no. Thanks a heap for your words and taking the time to share.

Guest: Thank you so very much. I don't plan on shelving. (Can't stand when that happens!)

A/N: This is more development. Obviously, the grieving process is a long, complex one. And I wanted nothing more than to merely hint at the individual processes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or its characters.


I finally understand what Artie meant by calling me stupid in vouching for Santana. If you think about it, there's something terribly childish about searching for the good in others. It sets you up to believe the same in everyone. The way fairy tales do. But everyone lies. They deceive. They kick you to the curb without so much as a second thought. I say, to hell with that bit. To hell with praying for miracles. Even the magic robot legs Santa brought Artie were broken within a day.

So ensues waking up with my head on Santana's lap, the aforementioned being my only thoughts. How pathetic. She looks peaceful, though, even in sleeping propped up against the bathroom door. I keep still, soaking in the empty silence that surrounds. Santana rustles. Her eyes pop open, as if waking from a terrible dream. She appears disoriented in the first five seconds of consciousness.

Anyone that knows the Latina well enough knows that morning-Santana is normal-Santana's alter ego. The evil twin. Imagine Snix with bedhead and morning breath. It's no surprise when she begins grumbling something unintelligible while walking to the front door. Evidently, there is a white piece of paper to its outside, similar to the ones Santana kept stuffing into her pockets. She hands it to me. In bold red letters:

Notice of foreclosure. A Court Order has been issued requiring that all persons and their possessions be removed from these premises.

After 7 a.m Saturday morning, persons remaining on the premises may be subject to arrest for trespass.

It takes everything I have not to crack up laughing. Of fucking course. Seems like Santana to keep this from me. She knew. Every fucking day leading up to this moment. Better to spare Brittany's feelings. God forbid she know anything beforehand. No. Just let the heartache of surprise abandonment hit her like a ton of fucking bricks.

Santana recognizes my annoyance. It's obvious. For she wordlessly reclaims the notice, peruses it, and begins punching numbers into her cellphone. A second passes. She looks back to the paper and enters more numbers.

"Yes," she says. There's faint talking on the other end. "Susan Pierce." More talking. "5058 Piney Ridge Way."

I tune out at this point. It's pointless adult business that I'm sure Santana prefers to handle. When she finally mutters, "Thank you", I'm up and submerged in my parents' bedroom.

Light poking through the curtains removes the shield I was afforded last night. It's what you imagine the aftermath of a natural disaster to look like. Glass and cracked drywall dusted across the floor. Chipped wooden furniture. A shattered closet mirror. Amidst the rubble, glimmering from underneath their bed, are four unopened liquor bottles. Maybe my mother forgot about them. Maybe she stashed them for a rainy day. Whatever the case may be, I'm thankful for not smashing them. The itch is very persistent this morning, and I'm done trying to deny the inevitable.

The door creaks as I demolish a quarter-bottle in one continuous chug. There is no burn. No gag. Nothing. "Grab your bags," Santana instructs. She's rubbing the bridge of her nose. Agitated. I take another swig.

In the living room (which is an odd name, considering just how lifeless it is) Santana's upper body is covered in straps. My belongings are draped across her shoulders. "Am I going to have to carry you too?" Not in the mood to argue, I palm the neck of two bottles, two others underneath my arms, and follow Santana outside, the image of my former home slowly fading from memory.

The walk to her apartment takes longer than it should. Last night's wind and steady rain persist. Santana struggles with loads of soaking duffel bags. As for me- well, the vodka finally kicks in. In an hour, we both stagger up the stairwell. Santana fiddles with keys while I inhale the fresh smells of rain. But inside, the stale odor of cigarette smoke is as pungent as ever.


Santana sleeps on the couch all weekend, fading in and out of the apartment with odd work hours. I don't ask what she does. But late nights and large wads of small bills only allow so much room for imagination.

It's the same routine on weekdays. She attends school, work, and various parole-related activities. I float around the apartment, making the numbing fluids stretch as far as possible before I'm forced downtown, asking a homeless person to buy more for me. Sometimes I remember to shower and change clothes. Other times, roaming from room to room in the only feeling I recognize anymore is productive enough.

We don't exchange many words. Any, really. Our lengthiest conversations are when Santana asks if I prefer the ham or turkey sandwich every night. On rare instances, I even hear her singing or mumble "How far we all come.." underneath her breath. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Each morning, the itch returns. The need to bury past sorrows underneath gallons of drink. And each morning, I refuse to fight it.


Operation 'Piece My Best Friend Together' is officially on hold. Primarily because she is teetering on the line between concerned friend and pain in my ass. Favoring the latter.

Seriously. Santana enters the apartment each night with new schoolwork for me to do. I'm forced to crawl out of bed and tell her that she's wasting time. What's the point, really? In graduating if no one is there to appreciate it? To beam with joy as you walk across the stage. Take pictures. Cry. Tell you how proud they are. She often argues. Says I'm throwing my life away. Santana's the annoying, emotional itch in my life. But I don't fight her, either.

I should feel bad when she asks to borrow my Crayons. I should experience a shred of guilt when she sits at the table, pouring over my assignments until sunrise. I should get out of bed and thank her. I should, I should, I should. But I don't. Not when making it through the day is taxing enough.

Santana still cries. Not the 'I stubbed a toe' kind, either. The kind that tears through all resistance. Refuses all pleas for stoppage.

I should do something, I think. So I listen.


I'm caught off guard one Saturday when we're both halfway through the daily rituals. I, almost a half-bottle in. Santana- three completed assignments.

Santana drops a red Crayon, pushes herself from the table, puts her cigarette out, and marches to my position on the couch. (The raggedy bastard grows on you after a while.)

"Here," she spits, yanking the cup from my hand. "We'll switch." A white pack drops onto my lap.

"Santana."

"No, no. I'm dying to figure out what is so glamorous about this shit. You go ahead," she encourages, grimacing after a long pull from the cup. I know how sporadic and unannounced the drug tests are. She could get called in tomorrow, fail, and be readmitted within forty-eight hours. But despite all internal protests, her name merely falls from my lips once more.

She downs the container's remnants and chunks it across the room. A moment passes before she's breathing normal again. "I'm trying, Brittany. I really am." She looks away, mouth lowered but barely open. A light bulb goes off because Santana's eyes light up. "Give me the weekend. Today and tomorrow. After that, I won't utter another word," she pleads. It's so painfully similar to the ultimatum I gave her. A choice between myself and her only emotional saving grace.

All I can do is sit dumbfounded and nod in agreement.


It's too early to be awake. Even the roosters are still dreaming of fox-free lives. But I drag on, keeping true to my word, and prepare for the day that lies ahead.

We're in Carey's car, silently pressing on toward yet another unfamiliar building. Inside, the place is covered wall-to-wall in leather. Santana checks in with the receptionist, who leads us into another leather-clad room. According to the desk plate, we're in Dr. Fletcher M.D's domain.

"Santana," a rather large man with an equally large beard greets. He peers over a manila folder at me. "I'm going to assume that you're Ms. Pierce."

My mom's advice eerily resurfaces. Visions of our landlord do, too. It's time like this when the itch for a release is more prevalent. Just what have I gotten myself into?


I can see why Santana was so perturbed by my curiosity, and why she always comes back to the apartment angry. This guy asks a lot of questions. Many of them pointed with no correct answer. Just pick whichever is less wrong. The only thing more painful that his antagonizing tone is watching Santana fidget. Her head ducks, much like a dog being punished. It doesn't take a second glance to know that she is furiously working at her wrists.

"And your classmates?" Dr. Fletcher asks. "Do you find it easier maintaining your composure around them?"

Santana continues with the invisible scrawl onto bare flesh. "They haven't been giving me as much grief. Which is odd, I guess, but the days are more bearable."

I almost choke on air at the confession. Dr. Fletcher's eyes cut behind thick-rimmed glasses. He seems dissatisfied, almost intent on watching Santana squirm. An ant under the magnifying glass. "What about your mother and father? Do they feel that you're progressing?"

The scribbling hastens. Never have I seen her so disgruntled. "Santana?" he asks. "I asked you a question."

Finally, the tension becomes too much to bear. I've kept relatively quiet during their discussion, so I decide to speak up. If not for Santana's sake, then for mine. "Are you fucking deaf? She clearly doesn't want to answer."

For an anger management counselor with bookoos of cliché 'good vibes' posters, Dr. Fletcher seems taken aback by the outburst. He grunts and readjusts his glasses before saying, "That kind of language only fuels our inner anguish, Ms. Pierce. Causes unnecessary lashing out. I would suggest you refrain from using such terms. If you're capable, that is."

Only now does Santana's head whip up. "Don't talk to her like that. She's not a child." Her lips purse. Eyes narrow. Words as sharp as the razors in her hair.

Unsure as to why she dragged me here, I get up and leave. It's not surprising that Santana follows. She catches my arm. "He didn't mean it like that."

"Surely he didn't. Because nobody actually means what they say anymore." Two people in waiting chairs are onlookers to our shouting match.

Santana appears defeated. "This isn't you, Brittany." She begs then glances back at the office. Maybe it's reflexive, accepting your battles as they come. A characteristic honed by fourteen months of living according to a stranger's orders. She sighs, "I have to finish the full hour."

"Then stay," I sneer. "I'll find a way to the apartment. No one needs to hold my hand when I cross the street, contrary to popular belief. Not anymore."

When I reach the exit, sounds of silence fill the room to capacity. "And Santana," I call. "You keep preaching that my mom is lost or sad or whatever. When's my turn? Huh? When am I allowed to be angry? Sad? Lost? When's my turn?"

Tonight, when Santana pokes her head in the bedroom as I dance along the line of consciousness, I pretend to be asleep. She mutters, "How far we all come away from ourselves.." But she doesn't once mention Dr. Fletcher.


Evidently, Sunday dinner at the Washington house doubles as Santana's community service. Spending weekly evenings with a forgetful elder probably smoothes over better than Puck's stint of hanging with Crips. More specifically- Artie.

As I'm getting dressed for the final leg of our agreement, the bathroom mirror proves most unforgiving. I look aged. Sagging eyes. A forehead wrinkle or two. It's how I see Santana. And that is what's most terrifying.

Crossing the complex's courtyard, smells of pasta float through the air. It feels like a Friday light years ago. At Breadstix. The old woman who I assume to be Mrs. Washington works at the stove, meticulously dipping a wooden spoon in four pots. When Carey rushes to greet us, Santana bee-lines for the stove.

"Santana Lopez," she introduces, extending a hand.

Mrs. Washington breaks from her trance the same way Santana woke up the last morning in my house. She smiles warmly, "Bernadette Washington." Calling to Carey, she orders, "George, get our guests something to drink." Her eyes fix on me. "She doesn't look well."

We sit around a large table and share the meal. I don't dare tell Santana, but it's a nice change from sandwiches. Bernadette must frequently ask her the same questions because Santana has a quick, prepared answer for each. They're egg-shell response, but enough to appease the older woman. Answers I assume that are specially formulated as not to stir up the wrong memory or notion. Replies devoid of emotional merit. I can't help but compare it to speaking with Santana. The only difference being: if I screw up and say the wrong thing, she won't forget the next day.

After two helpings of the world's best spaghetti, Carey and Santana eventually start clearing the table, leaving me and Bernadette to our own devices. "Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?" she asks. Roz sounds just like her.

I smile and nod, unsure as to how I feel, actually. "My name is Brittany, by the way."

"Tell me, Brittany. How do you feel about Christmas trees?"

It's a completely random question that throws me. "Well," I start, blindly struggling to finish. "I think they're born the same way as babies."

Bernadette throws her head back and laughs. Then she pulls me by the arm to a back, closed door. I start wondering if elderly people are capable of murder.

Inside, though, lining each of the four walls from top to bottom, is Christmas memorabilia. Snowmen, ceramic Santas, pine trees, and various ornaments. It's how I've envisioned the North Pole many times. She flips on a radio, revealing holiday-suited music, and we lose ourselves in a sea or red and green.

After a few minutes, Bernadette marches toward me with a picture frame. "This is my little Roz when she was ten. We spent Christmas on a cruise. French Virgin Islands. She hated it." Bernadette laughs. "And to think, she's on another one of those boats right now. Hussie didn't even have the decency to invite her own mother. Left me here to watch after George."

And then she begins on a story about her past. Her parents. Mother worked at a local department store, father headed bridge-building projects. She digs around, swearing that there is a picture of the two in here. But I get caught in looking at a figurine of an elf. He's frowning, like he forgot that elves have rights, too.

When I think to look back at Bernadette, her expression has fallen into another picture frame. It's an old black and white photo of four small children sitting in front of two adults. Children and parents, I assume. A tear rolls down her face, and I can't tell if it's the happy or sad kind. She then points to the smallest girl. "I was six years old."

"Who are the other three?" I ask. They appear to be significantly older than her.

Bernadette seems confused. "Well, these are my parents," she explains, pointing to the adults. And then radio music is all I hear. Eventually, Bernadette shrugs. "I have no idea who the others are. Never seen them before in my life."

I'm panicking and about to apologize when Carey's voice stops me. "Pretty neat, isn't it? Our own little winter wonderland."

"It's the most magical thing I've ever seen," I say.

Bernadette interrupts. "George, will you run along and draw my bath?"

I'm about to follow Carey when Bernadette touches my shoulder. "They think I don't know what's going on. At dinner. In here. That I'm hopeless." She sounds accusatory. Suspicious.

"I know the feeling," I agree, trying to soften the blow.

But Bernadette looks like she's trying to convince herself of something to hold onto. "One day, Brittany, you might not have the sharpest memory. You may not remember the date or what happened last year, but it's hard to forget the people you love. The people that stick around. The people like George."

Carey shouts from the other room. I smile. "It was great meeting you, Mrs. Washington."

"Mrs. Washington's my mother. Bernadette, please," she laughs.

We're both walking out, laughing, when I notice Santana leaning against a doorway. Arms crossed. She's smiling, too. "I was hoping she'd show you the room. Not once has the old bat invited me back there."

I don't respond, still riding the emotional high. Part of me wishes I could stay in there forever. Away from people. Amidst the security and warmth of an unchanging Christmas. Unfortunately, not everyone is as spirited as Bernadette. Not as unicorn.

When we leave, Santana hugs Carey, and I give a cheerful, "Thanks for dinner, George."

Walking back, Santana detours us toward the main road. "Just one more stop," she says. I'm stuffed to the brim on not-sandwiches and completely worn out, but follow her into the very familiar neighborhood anyway.


Climbing onto the Lopez's roof is much easier with two seasoned cheerleaders. It's so normal, stepping into Santana's hand and her propelling me upward. And when we're on our backs, staring into the night, it feels just like a year ago.

Quiet is usually our preferred soundtrack for this moment, but something has been scratching my brain ever since we left Carey's. "Will I turn out like Bernadette?" I ask.

"Oh, she speaks," Santana says and chuckles. She shifts, folding both hands behind her head, before whispering, "I wish I could answer that."

"Do her siblings ever come to visit?" I ask. "She has, like, three. I think."

Santana shakes her head. "The oldest is dead. Other two want nothing to do with her. Mainly because of Roz, among other things."

The idea escapes me. Ignoring someone because of another's actions. And your baby sister, of all people. Then an unsettling knot forms in my stomach. The feeling of Santana's parents avoiding her because of me. But that's a question whose answer I'm not entirely prepared for. Instead, I ask, "Is that why you ignored me? Because of someone else?"

Cricket chirps and buzzing mosquitos fill the void. I'm afraid Santana has fallen asleep when she takes a deep breath, propping up onto her elbows. "There are some things you haven't figured out yet, Brittany. And I pray you never do," she explains, deeply inhaling again. I try to decipher her words, but can't. Not in enough time to cut Santana off from saying, "Some of us just don't have Bernadette's luxury of forgetting, you know?" I nod. "But if you're worried that I'm going to take off- don't. At least, not until I've figure out that secret language of yours." Then she nudges me in the ribs.

Santana mumbles a handful of random words, none of which follow the Super Secretive BSP Code. When I start giggling, she throws her hands up and says, "Fuck it. I tried." And then we're both laughing so hard, I'm afraid her parents will wake up. It wouldn't matter, though. Not when twenty seconds are just this blissful.


Back at the apartment, the suppressed rooftops thoughts come around full circle. Sometimes, as much as it pains me to admit, being near Santana is the only calming effect those thoughts recognize.

So, when I force Santana to sleep next to me, one might argue it to be purely selfish reasoning. That I'm using her quiet exterior to calm my blaring thoughts. I would then argue against the naysayer, claiming that they don't understand what Santana gets from it. That they can't feel her body relax next to mine, as if a weight has been lifted.

I bask in the feeling, regardless. Having such familiarity within arm's reach. Bernadette's words echo through my head. You can't forget the ones that stick around. I think of everyone I've met. Every moment of unconditional joy. My highest highs and lowest lows. There is but one common denominator in each. Santana.

Speaking of. She's yet to budge. I look over, thinking that maybe she's holding her breath like I do when we're close to each other. But two white orbs jut out against the dark room. "Everything's changed, hasn't it?" I ask into the blackness.

Santana yawns. "I'm afraid so, B." And the bed dips as she rolls onto her side.

I don't speak again the entire night. Instead, I lay and think of the way life used to be. Easy. Without worry. Without Karofskys, disappearing mothers, and dead cats. It was always just us two. Well into the night, even when Santana emits a snore (that she'll deny in the morning), I replay the memories. Engraining the moments. And then I squeeze my eyes tight, praying to God that I never forget.