I have this nightmare.

It began to invade my dreams after my mother's death.

I'm in a solidly scarlet world and I'm standing in front of this grand fountain.

In the center of the fountain, there's this gargantuan crab.

And all around this crab, there are millions of these other little tiny crabs.

So little and so many that they look like great crimson waves in a stormy sea.

And as I stand there, my mother appears.

And she walks toward the fountain, eager to explore.

And I yell to her, beg her not to get too close.

Because I know that if she gets too close, she will be swallowed up by the crabs.

But she doesn't listen to me.

She arrives at the edge of the fountain and leans over, curiously observing the countless creatures.

And she falls in.

And I run to her.

But no matter how far I run, I never get to the fountain.

And I watch her be engulfed by the crabs.

By the cancers.

And first her torso disappears, then her hips, then her legs.

Then her feet.

And I know that I will never see her again.

My mother is mercilessly snatched from me.

Just like that.

I woke up to find cold sweat glistening on my tan skin. I gaped up at the ceiling as I realized that this was it. Today was the first day of performance.

I shuddered unpleasantly and looked sideways. Rachel was sleeping soundlessly beside me.

I silently climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. I walked to the bathroom and turned on the light, only to find myself reflecting in the mirror.

If it was even possible, I was skinnier than ever before. My bones stuck out in odd places. There was so little meat on my face that my cheekbones bulged out, my skin stretched tightly over them. I reached a hand to my chest. My ribcage was easily recognizable under its thin crust.

I wasn't anorexic. I don't think. Because I didn't crave. It wasn't like I had to restrain myself from eating. I just didn't have the desire to consume food.

Brittany frowned upon it. She deeply worried about me. She would make me eat large meals whenever we were together. It was irritating, but I wasn't angry with her. I knew that she was doing it for me.

I sighed and brushed my teeth. As I scrubbed, I looked back up at myself. My eyes, deep in their sockets, gazed back grimly at me.

I choked on the toothpaste as I watched the tips of my reflection's mouth lift into an eerie smile, which I definitely did not feel on my face. I gawked, open-mouthed and toothpaste-dripping, at it. This wicked Santana's smile grew even wider to reveal a healthy set of milky-white teeth. She flung her head back and let out a spine-chilling laugh. Then she gazed back down, stared me straight in the eye, and said, "Boo!"

I dashed out of the bathroom, eyes wide and teeth clenched. I had an extremely difficult time inhaling the oxygen that my brain so desperately needed so that it could let me know that this wasn't real. Reflections don't have minds of their own. They don't just smile back at you like that.

But mine did.

Deeply disturbed, I returned to Rachel's room to find her sitting up in her bed.

"Hey," she squinted at me. When she saw my face, she asked, "You okay?"

I blinked several times and nodded my head rigidly. She seemed unconvinced, but simply shrugged it off and got out of bed.

After getting dressed and eating a small breakfast (or, in my case, leaving it untouched), we grabbed our backpacks and left for school.

"Are you nervous?" Rachel asked hesitantly as we strolled down an abandoned sidewalk.

"For what?" I scrunched up my nose uneasily.

"For the play."

"Oh." I had completely forgotten about it. "Um, yeah," I confessed. "Yeah, I am."

"Me too. I mean, I've performed in front of an audience dozens of times, but this has to be perfect. Maria was always my dream role, and I just can't screw it up."

I knew that I should respond, but I had nothing to say. I was jealous of Rachel, whose biggest worry was whether she would get roses thrown at her or not.

When we arrived at school, I waved Rachel goodbye and headed to my AP Calc classroom. It was no longer my favorite class. Mrs. Burmingham was distant, fearful, cold.

I walked in with my eyes staring fixedly at the floor and hurried to my seat, trying to make myself as unnoticeable as possible.

"Santana—"

I looked up, astounded. Mrs. Burmingham's mouth was slightly open, her eyes somewhat narrow as she tried to find the right words.

After a few moments, she gave up. She sighed, shook her head, and made do with, "Good luck with the play today."

"Thanks," I said quietly to my desk.

The day went by in a haze. I could not get the image of the cackling reflection out of my mind. Before I knew it, school was over and I was wandering through the deserted hallway to the choir room.

The Glee Club darted around excitedly as they looked for missing pieces of costumes, hair curlers, pink lipsticks. I made my way to the clothes rack and pulled out a flaming red dress.

Familiar arms hugged me from behind. "I love this dress on you," Brittany whispered in my ear. I turned to her and gave her a quick peck on the lips. We walked to the bathroom, where Brittany helped me to put on the tight dress.

I wanted to look at myself in the mirror, but I was petrified that my reflection would act against me again. I sneaked a quick look. An apprehensive Santana peeked back at me. I straightened my back and gazed at my reflection.

It was sad, really. The dress was, unfortunately, elastic, which meant that every bone poked out clearly and prominently. Brittany watched me, her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"You're so skinny, San," she said miserably.

I shrugged my feeble shoulders and turned away from the ghastly reflection. "Come on," I grabbed Brittany's hand and we returned to the choir room.

Mercedes did my hair as Quinn's hands moved expertly across my face, shading in and drawing lines.

Eight o'clock came around much too quickly. A horrible feeling of nausea settled in my stomach.

"Alright, guys," Mr. Schue called us over. "We've worked really hard on this play, and it's gonna pay off. You guys will be great!"

We put our hands together, lowered them unanimously, and brought them back up with an excited cheer, "Our play is preferred!" (Which I later learned to be a line from William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.)

Everyone ran out of the room, hugging each other enthusiastically. I waited until they were all gone, then doubled over, tears cascading down my face.

Empty spaces

What are we living for?

I can't do this.

Abandoned places

I guess we know the score

I can't confront all of those accusing, critical faces.

On and on

Does anybody know what we are looking for…

I straightened my head and took in a deep breath. The show must go on.

And so it did. Everything went smoothly and as planned. I became more confident as the time ticked by, and, at one point, actually believed that I would make it through this night.

That is, until we reached "America."

My number one direction for this song was to communicate with the audience. This was a comedic piece; eye contact with the spectators was imperative.

"Puerto Rico,

My heart's devotion,

Let it sink back in the ocean..."

I risked a glance at the audience. Boy, did I regret it.

Hundreds of faces looked up at me in disgust. My voice lost its confidence as I continued.

"Always the hurricanes blowing,

Always the population growing…"

They knew.

"And the money owing…"

Murderer.

"And the sunlight streaming…"

You deserve to rot in hell.

"And the natives steaming…"

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

"I like the island Manhattan…"

Inside my heart is breaking

My make-up may be flaking

But my smile still stays on

"Smoke on your pipe and put that in…"

They were all out to get me. I could see it in their eyes. They couldn't wait to get their hungry hands on me. I was the epitome of everything that they loathed the most.

That nausea was really starting to cause a problem now. I feared that if I opened my mouth, vomit would come pouring out.

Puck held onto my elbow caringly, looking me straight in the eye.

The show must go on...

I sneaked a quick look at the audience again. Their faces were contorted in furious hate.

I cupped my hand over my mouth and dashed off stage. I did not stop until my face was buried deep in the toilet.

I threw up for what seemed like hours. It just kept coming and coming. By the time it stopped, I felt weak beyond belief and my face was drenched in tears.

I stood up on my shaky legs, walked to the mirror, and gazed at myself.

"Better luck next time, huh?" mocked my very crabby reflection.