JJLives: Yeah, I noticed that it crashed for no good reason. Lol. Like I've said before, the three-dimensional family aspect of this piece is most important. It's not just Santana and Brittany anymore. As always, I thank you for taking the time to both read and review.
jtour: Seems like the only possible scenario, huh? Lol. I thank you, dear friend.
aprilthewelder: Ten points to Gryffindor for such a beautiful comment. Lol.
Guest: That's what I'm aiming for. (And sure as hell hope that I can hit.) Lol.
StephaniieC: Oh, friend. Lol.
4evamuzic: No one should be on board. Lol. And instead of incessantly thanking you for such kind words, I must ask: How in the hell have you gotten so insightful? Lol, and I certainly mean that in the most upstanding way. You always manage to make me think, and I'm eternally grateful for that.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters.
Bernie joins me in the hospital's waiting room. We're camped out in a corner of the small area, joined by handfuls of worrisome and tired faces, many of which are undoubtedly here for similar reasons. Our loved ones are tucked away in sterilized rooms, being torn into like the unfortunate animals of a high school science lab.
Coffee is the only remedy for a state of mind that insists upon, that needs, a moment's rest. Sleep is not a viable option, though, as I learned from Santana's stint in these very walls. When you shut your eyes or wander off to regroup, bad things happen. A freshened spirit just so happens to be the toxicity necessary for poisoning others' lives.
So we wait. And in the stuffy, ill-aerated room, Bernie capitalizes on my discomfort. He ceases the opportunity by way of proposing a truly haunting idea. "You haven't been entirely truthful with me, have you?"
The question is most definitely a loaded one, though I'm not one hundred percent sure as to what answer is the incorrect one. Which one I should avoid, and which I should vaguely word as to not divulge too much. Santana and my struggles have been solely ours. Like the secrets that can bring two people together, they've torn us apart. But again, they've been purely of our jurisdiction. Sharing those snippets means giving away part of ourselves, part of the story that's been so nimbly told by our pen and paper. Telling Bernie would somehow diminish the strides we've taken.
Dipping into the pool of bad memories would mean that we're moving in reverse, not forward.
"I've given you what you needed," I eventually say. "Anything else is unnecessarily excessive."
He shakes his head in an almost disappointed way. "Those who don't acknowledge the past are doomed to repeat it."
"And those who constantly revel in what's already happened are blind to what's to come."
We come to a stalemate. Or so it would seem, even as Bernie proactively digs into his briefcase, producing a black rectangle. It's a familiar looking object, one with protruding buttons and intricate gears covered by a thin pane of glass. One that, with a simple click, has the ability to record the innermost thoughts that a person wishes to verbalize.
He pushes a button. "This isn't a history lesson," the old man hums, clicking another. "And we'll stop whenever you grow uncomfortable." Click. "I just want to, in your words, hear the story of Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, and what makes them worth fighting for."
To trust him or to not trust him; that is now the question. Whether or not expend what little energy I still possess in recounting every gory detail that's brought us to where we are. To flip on my own recording device and play back the story that's been exhausted too many a time. Whose details have undoubtedly been warped by the years. To give this man the ammunition that will undoubtedly destroy my best friend, lover, and lifelong counterpart, thus claiming my own sense of self in the process.
Awareness is a vile creature. Opening your eyes to what truth remains is a soul-sucking exercise, purely because it will gut you, it will spit on everything you've ever held dear, and it will continue doing so until it's reclaimed what is rightfully its own.
Most importantly, being openly honest means finding faults in just about every aspect, each nook and cranny, of your belief system. The core set of values that your life's been built upon will prove most frail, and that foundation is sure to come crashing down.
Now's the time, Brittany. Lay it all on the table. Leave no stone unturned. Give way to an outsider's opinion. Do not be as prideful as Santana, and for once, allow someone else to carry the weight. Welcome this storm with open arms.
And whatever you do, for God's sake, see to it that you're prepared for the messy aftermath.
I sigh deeply, quickly mulling over what few options remain. I could remain silent, and permit the suffering's continuance. Or I could throw caution to the wind and tell the story a final time, praying like hell that Santana doesn't despise me for doing so. That she doesn't see it as an act of betrayal, equipping someone else with the tools to dismantle the very lock that's guarded our relationship for the past thirteen years.
What's it going to be, BSP? Another lifetime's worth of sorrow and loss, or the chance of beginning anew? The knot's been tied; the rope slowly withers away under your weight.
Do you keep holding on, or do you decide to let go and pray that whatever's to come will not fail you?
What's it going to be?
With a sharp breath, I meet Bernie's eyes with a coward's valiancy, but a certain strength nonetheless. And in the moments that pass, a last muster of courage courses through my veins and into my windpipe. "Well, you see," I somehow manage, "it all started in the second grade…"
Hours later, Eddie emerges under the haze of medication. His eyes drift as a nurse wheels him into a holding room, one where our night will most likely be spent. She gives me the thumbs' up, which elicits my first relieved sigh of the past few days.
It's uncomfortable, being so cooped up. Under the safety of a buzzing overhead television, I peel the room's door open, keen on making the trek to work as noiselessly as possible. As luck should have it, the voice once dominated by subtle snores croaks, "Don't leave me."
I sigh and lean my head against the door. "I have to, but only for a little while."
"She coming to see me?" is what he next calls out.
Stowed away on his pint-sized bed, Eddie's yet to open his eyes. So I venture over, brush a tuft hair away from the closed lids, and wait for what comes next. "Tell Santana that I'm sorry," he almost sighs, head drifting to the side. "I never meant to break my promise."
Instead of berating the child who's slowly losing his battle with sleep, I place a gentle kiss to his forehead and mutter, "Yeah, buddy. Seems to be a lot of that going around."
Thankfully, the surgery was scheduled at the beginning of the week, and I wasn't forced to decide between visiting Santana and caring for Eddie. Not like it'd be a tough decision (it would), and not like I'd have trouble prioritizing (I would), but it's nice not having to juggle the time spent with each. They're the two most important people in my life, and taking sides is something BSP's currently not up for.
On Thursday night, amid a mess of takeout containers from the local Mexican restaurant, I flop onto the couch as Eddie stares intently ahead from his wheelchair. It's the same that Santana used in leaving the hospital after being shot. A movie blares onscreen, and like the child that he is, Eddie excitedly recites just about every bit of dialogue it has to offer.
During one of the major action scenes, I mutter, "I think I'm paranoid."
With a mouthful of rice, he mumbles, "I think you're just being loud."
"Tomorrow's going to suck."
"It's Chinese night," he returns, waving a hand. "How could that possibly suck?"
"Bernie said that we have to break her."
Eddie grunts, swallows, and glances down at his own handicap. "Tell her to take a number."
I playfully kick the chair, which, like the time I tried dancing with Quinn in hers, has an outcome terribly adverse from what my mind had decided. He goes rolling into the nearby wall, bumps his good leg, and has to use Santana's old baseball bat as an oar that rows him back into position.
The movie's then paused with a click of the remote. Styrofoam is nestled onto the lap of a heavily blanketed boy, and that same boy rubs feverishly at the bridge of his nose. "I used to think that you two gave me heartburn," he gripes, "but it's evolved into full blown indigestion."
"That feeling is called love," I coo.
He chuckles, sighs, and turns himself at such an angle that we're face to face. "I can see why you're worried," Eddie offers, shrugging, "considering that what I read in Santana's letter didn't really offer much insight as to what the future would hold. Pathetic, really, how hopeless you two were."
I entertain the idea before saying, "We were also kids back then. Kids who didn't have a clue as to what they were up against."
"Valid point," the boy agrees with a point of his fork. "And as annoying and desperate as you both sounded, I think we can agree that the game's changed. The rules are different."
"Entirely."
"Then why fret?" he nonchalantly asks. "Seriously, if everything's different from before, then surely the outcome must be as well?"
I groan, which is more a natural state of being than anything. There are a million reasons to worry, and so few to be lax about. Eddie proses a matter worth mentioning, and if concise thought was a luxury extended to yours truly, this wouldn't be so difficult to comprehend.
Then again, no one said it was easy. I mean, Santana used to berate me for drinking, and she took right to it. She said that everything was going to be okay, that we were going to be okay, and saw to it that we weren't. She used to be so delicate around me, and now she acts as though I'm the vilest human being on the face of this planet. Hell, she's managed to go against just about every single belief that we both held in such a dear light.
Then why I am apprehensive about trying to destroy her?
The dim light bulb goes off. "Because we're still the same people," falls out instinctively. "Some things just aren't meant to be changed, and if we break her down, then I'm worried that they might, if that makes sense."
"Not really," he both quickly and jokingly dismisses. "But since I'm an advocate of peace, and since the jackass gave me a leg, I could probably channel some crippled kid energy into helping you navigate the rocky waters of yours and Santana's stupid childhood adoration.
"Let's see what good ole' Captain Stallworth has to say about it," Eddie then says fondly, just like a young boy gazing upon his idol. I comply, leaning back against the couch and watching on as the movie kicks into gear. The scene's rather unglamorous, complete with a slew of severed body parts and decapitated heads. The men drop like flies, and those lucky enough to survive flee in the opposite direction.
The head honcho, though, "good ole' Captain Stallworth," he pushes forward. He navigates an onslaught of enemy fire until coming toe-to-toe with the opposing force's man in charge. They stare, they blink, and they wait. Neither budges, but each seems to be fighting with themselves, feverishly suppressing the itch to draw first.
Then the source of Eddie's admiration does something entirely unexpected. He digs at his own sidearm before tossing it one, maybe two feet in front. "That's just stupid," I say without thinking.
The boy to my right giggles. "You're not paying attention."
"But he's—"
"Taking control of the situation?"
"No," I grumble. "He's being reckless and about to die like a massive dummy."
"Oh contraire," Eddie mumbles, grinning from ear to ear. Surely enough, there is no more bloodshed. Instead, through the grit and grime and blood and sweat, both men's stony faces soften as they nod. "And that's how it's done."
Dumbfounded and utterly disbelieving of what I've just witnessed, I say, "That makes no sense. Why would—"
"Trust, young grasshopper," Eddie slyly interrupts, "goes a long way to smooth things over."
"Bull-freaking-crap," I quickly protest. "That's just idiotic and senseless and a sure-fire way of getting your ass killed."
"And the entire point," he excitedly urges, struggling to lean forward and out of his chair. "Let's say that I'm the enemy, and we're steam-rolling over each other, trying to get to the same point.
"We both eventually reach said location, and instead of immediately snatching the prize away and high-tailing it out of there, you toss me your weapon. Your only means of winning the game. I have two options— either mow your skimpy butt down, or accept the gesture as a peace offering."
Still so terribly confused, I whine in like fashion, "But you're the bad guy."
Eddie smacks me on the arm with a churro from his meal, sending crystalized sugar flying in all directions. "I'm a person, too, you insensitive jerk. And I very well could surprise you."
I can do nothing more than roll my eyes. "Or you could mow my skimpy butt down."
"Nah," he says, chuckling. "You're the one with the churros."
We both eventually settle into an armistice of our own, finishing the movie in attentive silence. When it's over (spoiler alert: Captain Stallworth dies at the end), I lift Eddie from his chair and carry him off to bed. To much avail, I'm spared anymore life lessons and he snuggles right in.
I stop just short of the light switch, mind suddenly plagued with a dire question from before. From the hospital room. "What promise did Santana ask you to make, anyway?"
His tiny head pokes out from under the covers, seemingly confused at first, but accepting of my proposal. "On one of her better nights, she asked me to take it easy on you. Said that you'd be under a lot of pressure, and would probably need a helping hand." Eddie's eyes shift to his cast that hangs loosely in a makeshift harness. "Safe to say I botched that one up."
We both smile, and I wander back into the living room. I finish the film a second time, and then a third, only to realize what utterly shitty taste Eddie has. Not only did these soldiers bust into random song all too frequently, but they spoke predominantly in rhyme. On what planet is that ever acceptable?
And then the love story? Christ. Frigid man falls for free-spirited woman, only to loser her on account of his own inner turmoil? Better yet, let's come to terms with this fact by staring at ourselves in the mirror for umpteen minutes? "The more I come face to face with myself, the more I hate to see. The more I fail to meet that gaze, the less I grow to be." Seriously?
Part of me knows that Eddie spends his time on pieces of great ethical and moral value, because he's such a strapping young dude, and I'm sure that he intended for there to be some overarching theme to it all.
Then again, I never have been much for keeping my eyes open when it comes to the important stuff, now have I?
The next morning is an early one, complete with a shitty drive-thru breakfast and shitty drive-thru conversation. I figure that the old man is just like the rest of us and needs proper time to kick into gear. The same rationale falters as soon as he takes a swig of shitty drive-thru coffee and veers onto the interstate. "Remember the game plan, Brittany," Bernie casually mentions. "Gentle but unwavering. Relaxed but firm."
"Kind and understanding and loving, but not really," I sarcastically hum.
He takes another sip of coffee, gripping the steering wheel as though it's his last tie to this earth. "Why does it feel as though you're not entirely on board? Why do I always have this sneaking suspicion that you'll do something to undermine all attempts of progressing?"
Because every "attempt" at progress has tethered around its pole and smacked us square in the nose. I don't verbalize this, of course. Instead, I opt for a far more reasonable explanation. A concept whose fact is unquestionable. "You don't know her like I do," I sigh. "Santana's too smart for this. She'll see right through it and bite us in the ass."
"Is there really any other alternative? Because we've tried the tender approach, and she was unresponsive."
"No, she just didn't respond in the way you'd been expecting," I harshly breathe. "Yeah, she's cryptic at times, but it's only because she can't quite figure out how to explain what she's feeling."
His wrinkly head swivels to the passenger's side of the vehicle. "And how is that?"
I sigh and sip from my own shitty drive-thru coffee. "Just give me some time to figure it out."
I should've known that being dismissive wouldn't provide much help. Not when you're in the company of the experts and educated, who are so dead-set in their knowhow that an outsider's suggestion is unfathomable. Even if I could formulate the words to express what's currently running through my head, the law of reason would say otherwise.
Bernie is that law, it would seem. "The longer we wait, the more she withdraws. The more she withdraws, the farther we are away from understanding the entirety of your situation," he almost aggressively scolds. And pulling into our usual spot in the Shady Meadows parking lot, he throws the vehicle in park and says, "So no, I'm afraid that time is a luxury we cannot afford."
The same attitude follows us inside, because Bernie looks prepared for battle as we step foot in the cream colored expanse of the rehabilitation center. There's a solemn air about him. One of sadness, but dutiful. Like a soldier who wishes not to walk upon hallowed ground, assault rifle in tow, but knows of his job. Who understands what must be done in the name of a higher principle.
I anxiously trail behind, unsure of where the day will lead, but slightly convinced of where it will end. Bloody and with many casualties. Each fragment of our selves blown to smithereens.
This isn't a typical consultation.
This is war.
The uncomfortable steel chair feels as though electricity might begin coursing through it at any given moment. How foolish I've been to believe that Santana's actions were the only under the microscope. Because with my nerves on high, as the incessant accusations of our peers and family play on repeat, I can think but one thing:
This isn't what the judge, jury, or executioner feels like. This is what feels like to be on trial.
Santana joins us before I can fully suppress the anxiety. Per a phone call from Bernie, the medical staff's opted to withdraw the calming medication entirely. At least for today. I secretly wanted the Latina in her full armor, bitterness and hostility intact, and it seems as though my wish has been granted. Because two clear eyes mean a heavy heart. Because her no longer slouched frame stands tall, commanding the attention of those that surround.
Because Bernie insisted that we were going to break her, but failed to mention just how indestructible she'd look in this moment.
I lean back, trying to exhale as deeply and quietly as possible. Santana settles into her own chair, back taut as her eyes glance through a nearby window. Her face is illuminated by the sun that trickles in, and I allow but a moment's gaze. She's beautiful, that girl. And the outward appearance is simply a plus.
Bernie clears the air. He runs through the humdrum introductions, and asks the basic questions of how Santana's holding up. She responds in like fashion.
This still feels all wrong.
A sickening sensation washes over me, cripples me, as Santana and I await what the old man is bound to bring forth. We're storming the beach when we should be skirting along the coastline, scoping the area out. Bernie cannot see this as fact, for he is far too insistent, too keen, on completing the objective at hand. We're going to finally break her. It's easy to realize how inhibited a person's vision can become when they're playing a hand that they believe cannot lose.
Imagine being the person in the background, though, reluctantly peering over the former's shoulder. Not only have you entrusted all of your prized possessions with such a risky character, but you can easily lay eyes upon the hands that everyone else holds. You can sense, clear as day, just how imminent losing is.
"Do you have hopes and dreams, Santana?" Bernie asks soothingly, effectively interrupting my internal brooding. "Aspirations for the future?"
She looks stumped, unsure of herself. The narrow twisting of features is that of a person who stares into a foggy crystal ball, unclear as to what the haze means. Is it possible for even the fortune teller to experience moments of dumbfounded grandeur?
Eventually, the Latina nods sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess."
"And do those plans involve Brittany?" the older man instantly fires back. "Eddie? Your parents? Peers from a past life?"
She responds with "Sure" in a tone only meant to appease the interrogator, I'm convinced.
I beg myself to believe that Bernie has a plan. That his intentions are clear and concise, and that he's not just flying off the cuff. Because "winging it" has never worked for us, and to make an ill-conceived comment now would surely send Santana into retreat. Like the lotus that she is, witnessing her open up is a beautiful sight, but even the slightest hint of threat eliminates that possibility.
He knows what he's doing, I force myself to think. Continuously, on a loop, until belief begins to set in.
"I want you both to close your eyes," Bernie continues. We comply. "Now, envision yourselves on your deathbeds. Form a clear picture as to what the moment looks like."
I'm lying in a cold hospital bed. Few are gathered round, but the moment is one of pure bliss. My heart is as at ease as it's ever been.
"Who stands at your side?"
Santana, of course. Stunning in old age. Eddie, too, who also looks like a rock weathered by the sands of time. Another blurry image appears, though I can't quite make it out. Carey, perhaps? Or a different lifelong friend that I've yet to meet?
"From those same beds, reflect on your lives," an external voice carries on. "What roads have you taken? What opportunities did cowardice push you away from?"
We've all achieved great heights. Eddie followed his passion into a film career. He is an esteemed man, having earned many accolades for breakthroughs in the industry. Santana wears years of contentment on her face. I cannot pinpoint exactly where she's been, but the portrayed sadness of loss says that I was by her side all the while.
"How do you feel? At peace? Relieved? Filled with regret?"
All of the above, if that's possible.
"Now, envision all of these things at once. Revel in the joyous feelings, and bask in the idea that you have given all you've had to offer. That you've loved as deeply as possible, and that you've touched as tenderly as one person can." He pauses. "Do you have it? Are these images so vivid that they feel almost real?"
Santana huffs under her breath, which Bernie takes as his cue.
"Good. And once you've conjured every hope and dream, every triumph and failure, and mixed them into one ball of stories worth telling—I want you to banish them altogether," Bernie says grimly. "Because they are never, ever going to come true."
Santana's eyes pop open as abruptly as my own. If looks could kill, then the old man has long since expired. Because two brown orbs gaze at him as though he's the most vile, grotesque being to ever walk this earth. "The nerve," she sneers, not once breaking the trance. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
Bernie is unwavering. He sits firm in his bidding. "What's the matter? Too realistic?"
"Hardly a reality check," she returns, scoffing.
"At the rate you're going, it'll be the entire banking system."
Santana's face is beat red at this point, and she inhales sharply and sporadically. Like a kettle well beyond steaming. It's obvious that she wants to lash out. Thankfully, an external force lingers in the room's open door, keeping everyone at bay. With enough time, Bernie collects himself and says, "Now that I've got your attention, Brittany tells me that you've acquired a new friend over these past few months. Care to tell me about her?"
The Latina's eyes suspiciously dart my way. "Oh, did she now?" Santana venomously spits. "Contrary to popular belief, my life doesn't consist of just a few people."
"Of course not. Though you are solely accountable for whom you surround yourself with," the old man agrees and artfully manages to expel at the same time. "So tell me, in what ways did Vanessa appeal to you?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "None. She was just a warm body to talk to."
"Was there no one else to speak with?"
"Me and the boy were always bickering," she grunts, "and Brittany was always at work."
Bernie nods knowingly. "Did this fact bother you?" he halfheartedly challenges. "Did it leave you feeling lonesome? Is it why you sought out the comfort of another 'warm body'?"
The air has shifted, it feels. He's moving at a far too rapid pace. Dancing on the edge of dangerous, somewhat misguided implication, to be specific. Whether Santana realizes this or not is moot, for her reaction would undoubtedly be the same. And it certainly is, as she folds two petite arms across her chest, cranes her neck, and cocks an eyebrow. "Why would I ever sleep with someone who wasn't Brittany?"
"I never mentioned such a thing," he returns rather matter-of-factly.
"But you sure as hell insinuated it," Santana chides, voice elevating with individual passing syllables. "And I'm almost positive that it's because of what she's told you."
I brace for impact, and pray like nothing else that Bernie has a better developed plan of action. That he hasn't whisked us out of the airplane without bothering to strap on a parachute. Thankfully, like the incandescent soul that he is, the gentleman allows the resentment to wither away before speaking. "What she's told me is irrelevant from what you've been saying all along, Santana," he coolly admonishes. "Because whether you realize it or not, the truth of your painfully specific aversion to cooperating is that of a guilty person."
She scoffs. "And?"
"And you've taken it out on yourself," he insists. "So much so that everyone around you has suffered."
The Latina's hands begin sarcastically clapping together. "Wow, man," she breathes, "you've pegged me to a fucking tee. Yes, the unknown, yet massive amount of guilt I feel is so uncontrollable that I've channeled it all inward, and that shit just spilled over the edges."
"It's just as Brittany said the other day," Bernie continues badgering. "You've known all along, Santana. You knew that falling from grace was bound to happen. You knew that you were a bomb on the brink of detonation." His voice carries like that of a Baptist preacher, and doesn't seem intent on lowering until the message has been delivered.
Santana folds her arms and taps a foot, the universal "carry on" symbol. After a deep breath, the old man does just that. "And instead of letting Brittany move on, you dragged her along, thinking that she could save you."
The air again shifts, and silence on our side of the room settles in.
"You knew it was an impossible feat, though. That's why you insisted that she stop visiting you in jail. Why you tried running her off when she sought you out after the fact."
Santana's temperament calms as her breathing slows.
"You promised to protect Brittany, did you not?"
She doesn't answer.
"From what, though, is what really gets me. I mean, were you more worried about hiding her from the external world, or the wretched person you were bound to become?"
Her gaze is fixed, lower lip now trembling as she squints ahead.
"But you never told her any of that. How could you? How could you break such damaging news, especially after everything she'd already been through?"
Finally, Santana pipes up to attempt a defense. "I always tried to—"
"No, you didn't," Bernie brutally interjects. "You did what all cowards do. Just admit it, and save us all the trouble."
Suddenly on the verge of tears, she fiercely croaks, "Admit WHAT?"
Both wrinkled eyes bear into her from across the way. "The truth, Santana. That you saw the downward spiral coming. That you had ample time to protect her from falling, too," the man accuses, finger pointing just inches away from her nose. "Instead, in the most blatant act of selfishness, you abandoned that idea—a belief you'd acted on for years—and held on to Brittany for dear life, figuring that she could be used to soften the blow."
I've only briefly mentioned this before, but back when Santana was in the height of her angry sex escapades, even the slightest hint of my discomfort would send her into a fit of cries. Even if the pain was of my own misguided tug in the wrong direction, her sobbing was inevitable.
She'd look at me as though as I was a baby she'd just kicked or something. Cupped hands would then mask her from the world, and would continue doing so for at least a solid hour. Small glimpses beforehand provided me the image of a truly broken woman.
Bernie said that we were going to break her, wear her down, and I didn't refute. Though I wanted to, I always thought it would take longer than this. That there would be more time.
But now as I stare at that same twisted contortion, the face of sheer horror, I understand what he meant by time being of the essence. That if you're going to hit someone, do so quickly. Don't think, just act. Don't feel, don't pity, and certainly don't empathize; just obliterate.
She wants to cry. Or sob. Or scream out in agony. Why she won't is unclear. Why she's swallowing her own tongue is even more uncertain. But I can tell you one thing—just as the men from last night's movie, we've reached the point of everyone's interest, and Bernie didn't think twice before pulling the trigger.
"Santana," is all that I can offer.
Has this broken her from the stupor? Maybe. Has it pushed her feet to move? Possibly. Because as the grueling seconds pass, her expression transitions from that of the night she witnessed her own wrongdoings on camera to confused urgency. Like someone who's suffered a fatal accident, but is so fueled by adrenaline that their head keeps moving through hyper-reality at amazing speed.
Eventually, after three solid blinks, she begins fumbling with her left wrist. It's the very reaction she might've once provided back when we were younger. Back when Santana was subjected to countless days in Ms. Pillsbury's office, where she was forced to do the same. "Put the pieces back together," they said. "But first, you have to sort through at least eighty-seven different sets."
I go to speak again, but Santana merely shakes her head. And just when I think we've nudged her into perpetual silence, her face rises to meet Bernie's. "Ever love another person so much that it's all you come to know? Like, nothing else matters because you were created to live for them?" she practically whispers to the man who now sits dumbly in silence. "And once the slightest thing goes wrong, you can no longer function, because your sole purpose for being on this earth has slowly become nonexistent?"
Bernie must see the white flag. He has to understand that she's cowering down, and therefore no further pushing is necessary. But he doesn't see. At least, that's what I'm hoping, because the only other alternative would mean him being a heartless bastard. Regardless of either reason, though, nothing stops the old man from saying, "If it's love we're talking about, I wouldn't take your word for it."
Ever wonder why a person's brevity is measured by but two parameters: how devastating a blow they can deliver, and how disastrous a beating they can receive?
I haven't. Not until now. But as I witness both ends of the spectrum in their full glory, a third option presents itself. If you're neither the inflictor nor the inflicted upon, does being in the audience separate you at all? By default, do you fall into either of the categories?
The idea pushes me to act. "Enough," I mumble as he tries to persist. And as Bernie's lips go to form another solid quip, to continue the emotional assault, I damn near cry out on Santana's behalf, "ENOUGH."
He attempts to protest, but I aim a finger toward the door. "We need a minute. Alone."
Santana slowly rocks back and forth, just like they do in the movies. "You think I can't tell what's going on?" she suddenly snaps through slobber-ridden lips as soon as the door clicks shut. "You think I don't know why you told him all of that personal stuff?"
Calmly, I say, "He asked, Santana."
"And you gladly explained," she continues spitting like venom, "because you knew that he could twist and warp those stories in a way that would hurt me."
She's right, of course. But only because Ber—
And with sudden great clarity, it's easy to deduce who's been in control. In the battle of what we know versus what we've yet to discover, Bernie's been pulling the strings like some master puppeteer. While remaining somewhat disengaged, he's been able to gain the upper hand. He's been able to see the hidden parts of ourselves, and now he's fully willing to expose them.
More hauntingly, I'm able to conclude from his recent stunt and her reaction one subtle truth. This was never about breaking Santana. Not by our own hand, at least. Rather, Bernie knew that by pointing to the release mechanism, Santana would detonate on her own terms.
She would break herself, and our hands would remain virtually spotless.
This is not how it should play out. Being Brittany and Santana means being more than two pawns in a chess game. Being us means being equally at fault, no matter the consequence.
I'm not angry with the old man for wanting to help. After all, there is only my ignorance to blame. Blindness forged by love, maybe, or a subconscious willful naivety caused by the thought of Santana crumbling. Of my strong half becoming less than.
What a shame it is, though, to see the mighty fall; and even more terrifying when you realize that you're in the spotlight. When you're the only one left to fill their shoes. Hell, if Santana couldn't escape the wrath of a few harsh comments, who's to say that I'd be any better in the hero's position?
Brittany Susan Pierce used to be a unicorn, but she's also done enough wrongful deeds to lose her horn, and thus be ushered from that esteemed pedestal.
Like now, when instead of blatant falsification, I try, "I would never intentionally hurt you."
Santana can see straight through the front, though. The façade is shattered as quickly as she was. "WHY ARE YOU LYING? Why can't you just be honest and admit that you've been trying to get at me this entire time?" she pleads rather desperately. There's but a moment's hesitation before she almost whimpers, "How much lower must I be beaten down before enough is enough?"
I'm at a loss for words, considering that's she been spot on in her accusation. That's it only taken all of fifteen minutes for Santana to fully comprehend what it's taken me countless meetings to. The explanation to that third proposition's qualm. By allowing Bernie's incessant pestering, I've subsequently become the bully. By keeping quiet, I've done the most damage. The more I come face to face with myself, the more I hate to see. The more I fail to meet that gaze, the less I grow to be.
Biting my tongue is no longer a useful practice. Not when Santana is practically begging that I say something, anything. And so I do, attempting to fit years' worth of anguish into a sentence or two. "All I've ever wanted was for you to let me in." I grind a finger into her chest. "All the way in."
"What for, Brittany?" she breathlessly mutters. "Since when has my opinion mattered? Since when has what I want done anything but cause problems?"
And just like that, the old Santana rears her terrified head. The nervousness and anxiety toward any and all possibly bad scenarios spill forth. She is the same girl from before, whose temper was fueled by the "coulds" that had yet to happen.
Santana's been fighting all along, regardless of what I've believed. She's been desperately fending off threats, many of which she's undoubtedly conjured up. Internal and external. And now, instead of trying to decipher why fear manipulates the minds of even the strongest, the Santanas of this world, maybe putting a face to those emotions is best.
We're standing on the hallowed, blood-stained field. We've reached the temporary end goal.
Maybe now's the time that I hand my weapon over.
With a content breath, I say, "Because every time something comes along, something that I should despise you for, there's always something else that pulls me back in. Because we're two no good people who have managed to carry on this long without murdering each other. Because you're stubborn and hardheaded, and the child you once swore to have no effect on is the exact same way. Because you're dying to say something, Santana, and if you don't, you're going to explode." I'm almost out of breath, but manage to add, "You're much too pretty to explode."
She cracks the faintest of momentary smiles before coming back to. "Even if I do, you'll go back on your word," she insistently mutters, shaking her head. "You'll change your mind and bail at the last second."
I also shake my head. "Not on you."
Last night, whenever someone was about to die onscreen, two red bars would form somewhere on their body. Crosshairs, as Eddie explained them to be. But the fact bothered me terribly, because it seemed as though God, the supposed all-benevolent symbol of love, was trying to convey a deeper message. With that cross, we, his children, were damned to benefit more from death than the time spent avoiding such inevitability.
Now, that same crucifix that irritated from before returns, but instead of signifying death, the faint glimmer in Santana's eye makes me believe that it could be one of rebirth. Out of the ashes, undoubtedly; dirty and smoldering, but still very much alive.
The spark gives me strength. It is the gentle gust of wind that aids in the process of reigniting small flames. In fact, it's what gives me the courage to say, "We're going to fight this one out. We're going to claw, scratch, and dig to get beneath the surface. We're going to say what need be said, regardless of how broken and beaten those truths leave us. Most importantly, though, I'm putting the ball in your court, Santana. Wherever we end up is entirely of your choosing."
Her demeanor again reeks of sadness, but wind slowly fills her sails, too. She doesn't want this any more than I. But it's easy to see how she's coming to understand the necessity of it all. "Just to figure out where we went wrong, right? That's all this is about?"
I nod encouragingly.
"The beginning, then," Santana eventually decides. "If this story must be rehashed one last fucking time, then Bernie's 'backwards through the years' shit isn't going to fly." She sighs. "We're starting with the first page."
I again nod in understanding, patiently awaiting further elaboration that never comes. The next words come off as forced, but I say them in hope of conveying my aspirations for the future. For our future, if there is one.
There's so much on the line here, and that sheer fact is most likely why my voice trembles in admitting, "I don't know why we met each other so long ago, and I sometimes have no idea as to why we kept coming back around." The words catch. "We haven't been good people. We've lied and hurt each other in unimaginable ways."
I bend at the knees to recapture the gaze that's shifted to the floor. "But we're here, Santana. And I'm hoping that whatever comes of these next few weeks will tell us why." Before I'm fully aware, Santana's focus is again angled downward. This time, at her fingers as they nimbly trace across mine.
She's listening, and the gesture sucks the final statements clear out of my mouth. "It's going to be messy, it's going to be ugly, and it's going to hurt like absolute hell. I'm okay with that, though. I'm okay because the truth matters, because we matter, and because all of this will be worth it."
Her eyes suspiciously lift as if I'm playing a cruel joke. With enough consideration and lip biting, though, she emits a simple, "Okay."
The scene then becomes that of last night's movie. Tattered and worn beyond compare, our haunted faces become slightly less so. Subtly, a quiet understanding settles into each. And when it appears as though the wave has reached its peak, as though the moment's been spent, we nod.
Bernie crawls into the vehicle like a wounded animal. He remains relatively silent, glancing my way every so often. Then, with an almost noiseless huff, he says, "Bri—"
My hand shoots up, however, thus dismissing whatever apology or comment or off-handed remark he's considered making. Channeling my own inner Captain Stallworth, I say, "The situation's been handled. She's agreed to cooperate."
Surprised, he asks, "How'd you swing that?"
"By doing what any thirteen-year-old's favorite fictional character would?" I answer, still slightly unsure of what in the hell's just taken place.
"What did you say?"
"Exactly what she needed to hear. What we both needed to hear," I more confidently reply, allowing a random yet raw wave of emotion to engulf me. "I told Santana that despite however much we might end up hating each other, I still trusted her."
He swallows. "And how did she respond?"
It's difficult to pinpoint how or why, but tears of joy begin streaming down my face. Droplets once riddled with fear and sadness and remorse for a love lost carry new life. They're optimistic tears. My jaw rattles with belief that cannot be contained.
"And how did she respond?"
I look to Bernie, unashamed of the current display. Formulating a response to the question doesn't drain the life from me like it used to. Instead, it fills me to the brim. And in allowing this renewed sense of direction and purpose to spill over, I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes, and wholeheartedly answer with, "She said, 'Okay'."
