Chapter Ten

"Do we return again and again to our losses to get back what we had or to lose what remains?"

For the duration of the night, Santana remained wide awake. She tried to convince herself that the reason her mind refused to turn off was simply because her leg was itching like crazy beneath the inch-thick plaster (decorated with love by Brittany), but Artie, because of his broken nose, was lightly snoring as well, and the sound made it impossible for her to put him out of her mind. Nervously, she chewed on one of her manicured nails. What was she going to do when he woke up in the morning? His parents were bound to come in before noon, and they certainly weren't going to maintain her lie. Neither would any of the medical staff. And even if they did, Tina's name was plastered across all of the newspapers and channels. Santana had read the article word for word, and Tina had been the first one killed. Finn had been last.

Fidgeting, Santana toyed with a strand of her hair (which needed a wash) and scratched around the top of the cast, which only seemed to make the itch worse. Her teeth felt as if they were coated with wool, and she was sure they'd gained a slight yellow tint from her time in the hospital. She'd been so preoccupied with avoiding any confrontation with her various predicaments that she'd forgotten about most hygiene rituals. Ms. Sylvester would have had her head if she'd done that while in school. She bit back a frustrated sigh as the thought of Ms. Sylvester reminded her once again that she would be unable to cheerlead from now on.

Santana gritted her teeth and turned on the light above her bed, blinking as the sudden white light hurt her retinas. She fumbled for the book she'd been reading earlier, turned to the dog-eared page, and sunk into a different world. Since she'd finished all the magazines (even Equestrian), her mother had started to bring her the pulp novels that the gift shop stocked. Santana figured bitterly that at this rate, she was going to be a bookworm by the time they got her cast off. With any luck, she wouldn't need glasses. Though, she supposed she could rock that look if she worked at it.

The next time Santana looked up from her book, gray morning light was peeking through the blinds on the room's one window. She was so tired, she could have sworn that she could feel her brain cells dying one by one. Casting an anxious glance over at Artie, she placed the book back on the table provided, adjusted her pillows, and let her beaten body drift…

She was standing in the middle of her ward, leaning on crutches (though the cast was no longer there). Artie lay in bed in front of her, staring at her with such anger and betrayal that the heart she didn't like to admit she had twisted around itself, sending shots of nausea up her esophagus and down through her intestines. "You lied to me," Artie hissed.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"How could you do that?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

She shook her head, fighting back hot tears. "I don't know," she choked out.

Artie threw back the blanket then, shocking Santana as he swung his legs onto the floor, and stood up on his own two feet. He was taller than her by several inches. "Didn't I – don't I deserve to know?" he demanded, stepping forward. His lip curled viciously.

"Yes," she breathed, backing up as well as she could without letting her weight fall on her broken leg. She could feel the broken bones grating against each other.

Artie drew closer, towering over her, speaking with a voice that made it obvious he was fighting for breath. "What right did you have?" he asked.

"None," she said. "None."

The boy stopped moving, gave a shuddering sigh, then closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. "You should be crying," he said, so quietly that she wasn't sure she'd heard him. He was right, though. How messed up was it that she could sob over revoked tanning privileges, but when two of her friends were brutally murdered, her eyes stayed dry? That wasn't the way the world was supposed to work, was it?

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

He shook his head, dropping his hands. "You should be crying," he repeated, louder this time. His eyes met hers, and his face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of grieved rage. Santana was amazed to find that she was afraid of him. Afraid of Artie, established as the sweetest boy in the club, who wouldn't have hurt a fly even if presented with the chance. He was smart, kind, reasonable, frank when he needed to be, and so many other things, but one thing he was not was dangerous. So why was Santana scared out of her wits? Her question was answered immediately.

Keeping his burning eyes locked with hers, he raised his arm and, in the blink of an eye, struck her backhanded across the face. She let out a cry of pain as her cheek stung, and she was almost certain her nose was bleeding. When she turned back a moment later, Artie repeated the action with his other hand. This time, one of her crutches slid out from under her, and she crumpled to the ground, screaming as her shattered knee exploded in searing, white-hot pain. Her hands shook, and she attempted to pull herself across the floor away from him, but he reached down, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tossing her head into the wall with a loud, resounding crack. Her vision vanished into white stars when her skull made contact, and she was sure her skull had at least a hairline break. Artie dragged one of her crutches up off the floor and raised it above his head. "No, please!" she begged, holding up a weakly defensive hand. "Please don't!"

"You should be crying," he hissed again.

Then, he brought the crutch down, metal slamming into Santana's temple with a tremendous force. The world spun, and disappeared altogether.

"You okay, sweetie?" a nurse's voice greeted her when Santana's eyes flew open and she sucked in air, as if she hadn't breathed for several minutes. The nurse, a youngish woman of obvious Scandinavian descent, came over and brushed Santana's hair back with a motherly ease.

"Y-yeah," Santana stammered, still catching her breath.

"Bad dream?" the nurse guessed.

"What time is it?" Santana asked, avoiding the question.

"A little after one. You missed lunch, but I'll go see if I can rustle up some grub for you." The nurse smiled, giving Santana's shoulder a pat before she left the room.

Santana swallowed, looking over to Artie's side of the room, afraid that she'd come face to face with the Artie she'd dreamt about. But there was no angry or vicious or dangerous Artie to confront. There was no Artie at all. His bed was made, the sheets folded neatly, the heart monitors and extra equipment was gone, the reading lamp was off, and the cards that his little sister had made for him and placed along the windowsill had vanished.

She jumped when the door opened again and the nurse re-entered, bearing a tray of unappetizing hospital food. "It's chicken noodle today," she said. "You're lucky it's not the beef stroganoff—"

"Where's Artie?" Santana demanded, cutting her off. She was afraid of what she might hear, that her wheelchair-bound friend's heart had stopped during the night, that his beaten lungs had stopped working, that the concussion was worse than they'd thought and he'd bled to death…

Instead, the nurse said, "Your friend asked to be moved to a different room."

"Can I see him?" Santana requested. "I need – I need to talk to him."

The nurse placed the meal tray on the table provided. "Honey…" she started. "You can't see him."

It took several seconds for her statement to register. "What? What are you talking about? I need to see him!"

"You can't," the nurse repeated. "He doesn't want to see you. And…his parents have requested that you keep your distance. He's been through enough."

Santana's jaw dropped, and she couldn't help but feel as if her heart was trying to turn inside out. She could feel her eyes burn worse than they had since the shooting.

"Their words, not mine," the nurse finished, holding up her hands.

A/N: Wow, ten chapters. Sorry this one took so long to post. Please please PLEASE leave a review.