A/N: Sorry for the late update. So this is the chapter in Santana's P.O.V. that basically just explains what was going through her mind while poor Brittany was freaking out. The next one will be back in Brittany's P.O.V, and then I'm thinking of just mixing it up a bit.

Warning: This chapter is very angsty and, sadly, does not have any of the fluffiness I added to Brittany's chapters.

…

"I searched my world but I can't find you

You're standing there but I can't touch you

Try to talk but the words are just not there . . ."

Demons by Brian McFadden

Santana hates Mondays; though, she doesn't actually know of anyone who likes Mondays but still she hates them. She hates them even more when they fall on her birthday, the one day of the year that's supposed to be all about her. Of course, since her mother has made it quite clear over the years that nothing is ever about her, she really shouldn't have expected much. Except she did, deep down.

Garry left early this morning and will be out of town for the rest of the week which means that Santana no longer has to worry about sneaking around and locking her bedroom door at night. It also means that she doesn't have to go to Brittany's just to take a shower because their bathroom door is minus a lock as she found out shortly after her stepfather moved in.

A part of her also foolishly hoped that without her new husband hanging around to keep her mother distracted that maybe Santana might just get a 'happy birthday' this year. Which just goes to show how stupid she is because Mummy dearest doesn't even want to think about the day she was born let alone celebrate it.

Now, sitting in the library with her best friend, who also seems to have forgotten her birthday, she can't help but be pissed. It's irrational, really, because Brittany on a regular basis can't even remember what day of the week it is let alone the actual date and Santana knows this so she shouldn't be so angry. Nonetheless, she is, increasingly so, and the blonde's puppy dog looks are only slightly helping her case.

She doesn't like being angry with Brittany – she's never angry with Brittany – and she wants it to stop now, now Unfortunately, Santana has never been able to control her emotions very well which is why she tells the blonde to leave, in a futile effort to get rid of her before the brunette says something she'll regret.

The only thing is, as soon as the blonde is gone, she just feels cold. And alone. The brunette thought she was alone before but now with Brittany gone she really, really is. Completely and truly. It's not a nice feeling and it makes her clench her fist and her curse her mother for putting her in this bad mood in the first place.

At some point she must have fallen asleep, head cradled within the pages of an old McKinley High chemistry book – not surprising after her step-father kept her up all night in order to give her a 'proper goodbye' – because instantly she finds herself in the realm of nightmares again. It's not something that happens every time she sleeps, thank God, but it certainly happens a lot and without Brittany nearby to kiss her forehead and stroke her skin, they don't just fade away into nothingness.

It's dark and it's lonely in her head, the kind of loneliness one gets when they realize that there's no-one left to help them in the entire world. It leaves a bitter taste on the brunette's tongue and while, in her sleep, she runs from the feeling; in the real world she doesn't move a muscle. It's completely trapping, a vortex sucking her into a black lagoon of dark souls and fear, until she finally hits bottom.

In waking up, Santana instinctively reaches for Brittany, used to having her at her side when she needs her, and grasps only empty air. It's even more of a shock to raise her head and find herself in the school library with nothing but that stupid Jewfro kid, who is currently staring at her funny, for company; Fantastic.

Needless to say, the Latina is out of the library in a flash, school books and papers tucked protectively under her arms. She'll have to make a quick stop at her locker because she'll be damned if the rest of the school realizes that she actually does school work and isn't just a pretty (scary) face like she wants them all to believe; especially if Jacob is going to be blogging later today that Santana Lopez still gets nightmares.

Oh, how she loves this school.

. ..

"I can feel a sense of danger

You stare at me like I'm a stranger

Paralysed and you don't seem to care

The demons in my dreams."

Demons by Brian McFadden

…

She makes her way out onto the football oval ten minutes later, not exactly wanting anyone's company, still very much angry (hurt) with Brittany – which is ridiculous because Santana has to remind the cheerio when her own birthday is and shouldn't expect her to remember the Latina's on top of that – but needing the blonde by her side nonetheless.

The Glee kids, minus a few, are seated on the bleachers, having what seems to be a very serious and deep conversation (for them, anyway). Quinn and Puck appear to be in the middle of an argument and Brittany's pouting an awful lot for her. Noticing this puts a sinking feeling in Santana's gut that she tries desperately to ignore because she knows that she's the one who put that pout there.

Any normal friend would apologise right then, maybe even suck up with some chocolate, but Santana just winces for a moment before continuing on with her approach, barely even sparing the blonde a glance. It's cruel and childish but Santana's always been one to let her temper run away with her and right now her temper's at breakneck speed.

She hears Kurt mutter something about a 'Bitcharella' approaching (who she assumes to be her) but ignores it and settles in front of them, hands on her hips. Brittany gives her a little wave but she pretends she doesn't see it, which, in the end, probably hurts her more than it does the blonde.

The next few minutes are filled with her racing after idiot Puckerman who Santana can't believe had the nerve to not only steal her panties from the last time they were together but to dangle them in front of almost the entire Glee club as well. She knew there was a reason she broke up with him.

It takes her maybe five minutes to catch the evil son of a bitch and by 'catch' she means pounce on him and knock him to the ground. Somewhere back on the bleachers, Kurt and Mercedes give sympathetic 'Ooh!'s and she thinks she can see a slight smirk playing across Quinn's lips; Finn just looks scared out of his mind, no doubt frightened that she might come back for seconds and choose him.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Puckerman?" she snaps, not caring that she's got him pinned to the ground in a rather precarious position, her skirt riding up for all the world to see. The boy just smirks back at her, dangling the black panties in her face, and she snatches them angrily out of his grip – she's been looking for these for the past two weeks!

"Just wanted to get you away from the crowd – you looked like you were about to kill someone," he tells her lazily, folding his arms behind his head and sizing her up, or more likely checking her out. He doesn't seem to care that he's got a fiery Latina Cheerio straddled across his waist but, then again, what hot-blooded male would?

Santana sneers. "How caring of you."

"Hey, I might not care what you do to the rest of them but my baby happens to be a part of that crowd."

She's not impressed. "How touching."

"Also, I wanted to ask you whether you were alright."

This gets a raised eyebrow out of her for not only is it strange for Puck to ask anyone besides his baby mama whether they're 'alright' but it's even stranger for him to ask her. Santana's pretty sure that since the first day of kindergarten they've had an unwritten rule between them not to coddle the other when their down and that includes asking them whether they're 'alright'. "And you're asking because?"

"Well, for one: Britt's looking like a kicked puppy, only sadder. Did you guys get in a fight or something?" Not only is the conversation topic weird for them but it's made even weirder by the fact that he seems to be genuinely concerned, which is odd and just a little unsettling. The brunette relies upon Puck to be the one who sees her at her most broken and to still kick her when she's down anyway, not because he's cruel but because he knows she likes the normalcy of the routine. And it proves a brilliant distraction from the actual reality of her situation. It's something that she can rely on.

Santana hates change.

"Or something," she responds noncommittally.

He seems to get it because he nods. "Right."

"What was the second?" she asks in order to drag him away from the subject of Brittany. Thinking about that just makes her want to cry and Santana has a strict no crying rule when it comes to things like this. The only times she actually allows herself to cry is when it's over little things – like losing her tanning privileges – because it's not important and that somehow makes her less vulnerable when she does go all teary-eyed over it.

"You've got a bruise on the back of your neck."

"Shit," she curses, raising a hand to her neck and springing off him as if she's just been burned. The brunette's very good with a makeup brush but even she has trouble hiding things when she doesn't even know they're there. She tries to calm herself down by telling herself that people get bruises all the time and this one's not going to show up on anyone's radar but over a year of paranoia has drilled it into her that this is not a good thing. Not at all.

A part of her is tempted to just spill the beans and get Garry's ass hauled off to jail but a stronger part of her knows that she will never stand for people knowing just how weak she is, just what that bastard has done to her. They'll call her a victim and Santana Lopez is no fucking victim.

"You should get Quinn to help you cover it up," Puck offers lazily. "She's good with all that makeup up and girly shit."

For a moment, all Santana can do is stare at him, stunned. This is the first time that he, or anyone for that matter, has ever so much as broached the topic of what happens to her at home. This is not good. She doesn't want anyone to talk with her about what happens at home, not even Puck. She certainly doesn't want to explain to Quinn why she's got a big ass bruise on her neck. "Fuck you," because it's the only thing she can say and she hates the way her voice trembles.

She hates it even more when she sees the underlying sympathy in his eyes.

Stomping off, Santana grabs a hold of Quinn's hand as she passes the bleachers, yanking the startled blonde off her seat with nothing but a short, "Come on, Tubbers," and leaves the rest of the Gleeks, including Brittany, confused and slightly frightened.

…

"I felt every ounce of me screaming out,

But the sound was trapped deep in me.

All I wanted just sped right past me,

While I was rooted fast to the earth . . ."

Signal Fire by Snow Patrol

…

The trip to the bathroom – with a quick pit stop at Santana's locker to grab her makeup – is short and silent, filled only with warning glances from the Latina whenever Quinn looks like she's about to run for it. The worst part is when she orders the blonde to set to work on her neck and Preggers mouth falls open at the bruise she finds there.

"Santana, how did you get this?" Quinn asks carefully, no doubt noticing the way the Latina's shoulders clench and shudder.

"You were in Cheerios, Q, you know how tough Coach is," she lies easily, pulling her ponytail out of the way so Quinn can reach better.

"Yeah, but, the only bruise I ever got was on my ass from being dropped from the top of the pyramid and this bruise looks like someone bashed you with a computer," the blonde points out quietly. It's a slightly more colourful description of what happened but still fairly accurate, except the weapon of choice was a chair not a computer.

"Look, I can do this myself if you're just going to stand there and ask questions all day," the brunette snaps, even though she knows it's going to be terribly hard to reach the back of her neck and actually do a good job with the concealer as well. Damn Puck for putting this idea in her head.

Taking the hint, Quinn's lips press together in a thin line and she raises the brush to the back of Santana's neck.

"Look, I know we're not exactly friends, S, I mean lately you just glare at me every chance you get," the blonde starts, not looking at her. "But I'm here for you if you need me."

Santana's brow crinkles in annoyance because this conversation could not have come at a worse time. It's hard enough to look at Quinn and her bulging stomach and not be disgusted on a good day but on a bad one? "And what makes you think that I want you to be there for me? That I want you to be my friend?" She swings around and glares at the former Cheerio. "You're a grade A slut Q who slept with her boyfriend's best friend behind his back and got knocked up. I mean, that kid you're carrying is gonna have to pay a price for the rest of their life for what you've done."

Quinn looks suitably hurt. "What makes you think that I'm not going to pay?"

The Latina scoffs. "You deserve to pay. That kid on the other hand does not. I heard you and Mercedes talking the other day; you're thinking about keeping it, aren't you?" Santana's not stupid and realizes some of her own issues are leaking into this conversation but to be honest she doesn't really care.

The blonde places a hand over her stomach, protectively. "What if I was?" she tries to sound defiant but Santana doesn't miss the tremble in her bottom lip.

"You're sixteen years old! What makes you think that either your or Puck is ready for this? You don't even have a real home to leave in, you're just mooching off Puck and his mum, and I'm sure your piggy bank only goes up to $50." Santana places a hand on her hip, cocks it, and narrows her eyes. It's the perfect standoff pose and the Cheerio has it down to perfection, even to the point where it comes into play without her even realizing it because right now she's not thinking about any poses, she's just letting her anger run away with her. And it feels good. "You're going to ruin that baby's life, Quinn." Just like her mother ruined hers.

The former Cheerio seems lost for words for a moment but sparks fly in her eyes after a pause and her hands clench. "I love my baby," she says with forced calm. "And you're wrong." Quinn turns away and heads for the door, not giving Santana time to respond to that. Halfway there, she pauses and looks back, eyes cold. "You're a real bitch, Santana. But, at least with Brittany by your side, you're a bitch with a friend. Without her you're nothing." She turns to go but pauses, another thought occurring to her. "And for the record, I may be knocked up, I may have even cheated, but at least I'm not the one who's slept with the entire football team and then some. So I'd think twice about calling someone a slut. Happy birthday, S."

The Latina swallows, glare firmly in place, and Quinn's steps out the bathroom door, one hand placed firmly on her belly as if the mere action of doing so will turn all of Santana's accusations into falsehoods. The brunette growls and swipes her things off the bench, disappearing out the door after Quinn and nearly knocking a startled Puck, who's been waiting patiently outside trying to look inconspicuous, over in the process.

"Woah!" he exclaims, stepping back in alarm. "You trying to knock me over again, Lopez?"

She ignores him, glances disdainfully over at Quinn's retreating back down the hallway, and stalks off in the opposite direction. Santana's so caught up in the fury coursing through her veins, teeth grinding together over the fact that the only person to remember her birthday is Quinn Fucking Fabray, that she doesn't notice Karofsky standing by one of the lockers.

The wolf-whistle he lets out doesn't even broach her radar but when his hand comes down on her arse, a complete invasion of personal space, she flips. Just like that. Almost like a rubber band pulled to an inch within breaking that it just has to snap. And she does.

Santana launches herself at Karofsky, rage blinding her almost completely, and she tries to claw at his face, hoping that might just be able to tear his greedy little eyes out of their sockets.

Never has she liked to be touched without permission, except for with Brittany but the blonde's got her own set of rules when it comes to her. She'll 'sleep with the entire football team and then some', as Quinn so eloquently put it, but she'll do it because it's her choice, because she wants to. And she certainly doesn't want Karofsky's ugly, meaty hand all over her butt without her say so. Of course, she'll never say so when it comes to Karofsky because the guy's 100% jerk with an alarming lack of any redeeming qualities. At least, with the rest of the guys at school they may be jerks but they still, somehow, have something going for them. She's really not sure how.

The Latina reaches up and rakes her nails down the side of Karofsky's face, hoping with a sick sense of sadism that she draws blood. She does, but she's far too angry to smirk triumphantly at the victory.

Down the hallway, Santana hears someone calling her name, sounding considerably upset. She doesn't have to guess to know it's Brittany, she'd know that voice anywhere, and the knowledge sends a stabbing pain through her gut. It triggers the rational side of her brain which starts screaming off words like 'over-reaction', 'crowded place', 'what will everyone think?' and 'think of Brittany.'

They're all very good points.

Nonetheless, that sensible part is quickly overpowered by the raging emotions within and she's back at Karofksy within record time, nails at the read. Santana's just about to have a go at biting him when she feels strong, restraining arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her up, up, up and off Karofsky.

It takes everything in her not to scream in frustration.

The brunette knows it's Puck because the player's the only person in McKinley high who's crazy enough to hold back Santana Lopez against her will, or even approach her for that matter, when she's having one of her 'Rage Blackouts', as Quinn called it last year after watching more of the O.C. than the human body should be able to handle. Well, the only person that is except Brittany but she already knows it's not the blonde.

"Don't you ever touch me again!" she shrieks, not caring if she sounds like some crazy banshee from a teenage horror film. What people will think of her is the last thing on the Latina's mind at the moment.

If Santana's honest with herself, she'll admit that it's not really Karofsky who she's angry at; in fact, it's not even really Karofsky who she's seeing.

He's big and he's a jerk . . . and he looks almost exactly like a younger version of her stepfather, which is another reason why she's never slept with him before.

The look the hockey player sends her way can only be described as one of pure hatred and Santana bristles, arms and legs kicking out uncontrollably, searching for any kind of purchase against the guy's head.

"Calm down, San!" Puck gets out finally and she tries her best to hit him as well, anything to get back down on the ground and have another go at Karofsky. He doesn't seem inclined to help her with that, though. "You're over-reacting."

Over-reacting her ass; she's going to kill him after this. "Let me the fuck go, Puck!" Giving up on trying to squirm her way out, Santana decides to use the much time honoured trick of kicking him in the crotch. She misses narrowly but it's enough to get him to immediately let her go so that small detail doesn't really matter, even if she is truly dying now to kill Puckerman in the balls.

Her feet hit the ground and she exhales shakily.

The Latina's not even thinking about Karofsky anymore now, she just wants to get out. She can hear the classroom doors opening, feel the eyes of what must be a major portion of the school on her, judging her, and she wants to get out. She's seriously scared that if she doesn't she might actually murder Puck, and a couple of students unlucky to be close enough to her. And maybe a few random teaches as well, just to convince people she doesn't discriminate (even though she does).

Not looking back at him, or Brittany for that matter, she clenches her hands into fists and stalks off down the hallway. Her cheeks are flushed and slightly wet, though she can't imagine what from (it's not like it's raining inside the school!), and Santana resists the urge to wrap her arms protectively around herself.

McKinnley High can do without her for the rest of the day because she can most certainly do without it.

"I could be stuck here for a thousand years,

Without your arms to drag me out."

Signal Fire by Snow Patrol

...