I wake up to the sensation of something ice cold resting on my nose. It hurts, and the pain sends me spiraling back into the memories of what could only have been a few hours ago. I will myself to open my eyes, it's tough because my severely broken nose has nearly swollen them both shut, but I manage to crack them enough to check out my surroundings.
I'm on some kind of futon, with a blanket covering my legs. My tank top is pushed up to just below my breasts and my head is resting on some really old, worn in pillow.
"Hey kiddo," I hear and turn my head slightly to check the source. It's Puck's mom, holding the ice pack on my face with one hand and rubbing the top of my head with the other.
"How did I…where's…" I mumble, feeling pretty weak still and not really understanding how I ended up passed out on their couch.
"Noah brought you here in a panic. He went out to get a few things from the pharmacy. You're really banged up, and I wanted to take you right to the hospital, but he said you wouldn't want that," she explains.
"No hospital," I mutter. Puck's mom is a nurse at the county hospital and for as long as I can remember, every time Puck and I would scrape a knee or get a bloody nose playing she'd want to rush us there and every single time I'd get an earful from my mother on the car ride home. I knew this night would be no different.
"Honey, what's going on with you? I've never known you to go out and just get in fights," she wonders, popping a second ice pack and holding it against my bruised abdomen. I wince at the sensation.
"Nothing's going on. I'm fine," I tell her, and I honestly believe myself. This pain I feel probably doesn't put a dent in the pain Brittany feels inside, the fear she must feel knowing that she's in love with some scum like me.
"Is this about what happened at the mall? Noah told me about that honey, and I really think you should talk to somebody. Noah's worried. Hell, I'm worried," she tells me. I could never see a therapist. I just hate talking. Even when my sister died and people told my mother to send me to a grief counselor, she rattled on about how therapy was for people with more money than problems and it was always left at that.
"Why is everybody so worried? I'm fine! So a guy stole my credit card, big deal. My mom used to lock me in a closet when I was bad, would just use my dad's belts to tie my hands and feet together and leave me in there for hours while she took my sister out for ice cream. So trust me, this little thing at the mall hasn't affected me as much as you all think. I'm fine. Great actually. In fact I should get going, I have a lot to do. Thanks Mrs. P," I attempt to sit up, but thanks to the pain in my midsection and Mrs. Puckerman's tight grip pulling my arm back down, I'm unable to get anywhere.
"You're doing no such thing. It's one o clock in the morning and it's freezing outside. I already called your mother and told her you were here with me not feeling well and I wanted to keep an eye on you," she explains.
"Let me guess, she didn't care," I reply.
"She…well…honestly, I think she'd been drinking," she guesses.
"Shocker," I mumble. I hear droplets of water and soon she takes a warm rag and starts running it over my hands, I'm assuming to get the dry blood off them. It does feel good being pampered for once, but I try not to let myself enjoy it, because I know I don't deserve it.
It isn't long before I hear Puck walk in, with what sounds like a ton of bags.
"Is she awake?" he asks, kneeling by my side.
"I'm awake," I mutter before his mother has a chance to answer.
"Hey. Listen, Lopez. No more of that, okay? You damn near died. Those bitches are insane. You never told me it was like that or I never would've let you do it," he tells me.
"Noah, you encouraged this?" his mother asks, shocked, still running the warm rag over my hands and arms.
"He was trying to protect me. Don't worry Puck. Next time you won't have to know a thing," I tell him.
"No way, San. There isn't going to be a next time. I don't care if I have to watch you 24/7, you're not going back to fight those girls again," he warns.
"Why not? Puck I need this, why are you being this way?" I groan.
"Because I don't want to see my best friend get killed! And for what, to prove to Brittany that you're tough? Cause guess what, Brittany would hate this! And you know it! How do you plan on explaining to her tomorrow why you can barely walk or open your eyes?" he snaps. He takes one of my hands and places a cold bottle of what I assume to be soda in it, pushing it up toward my mouth to take a drink.
"Maybe you can explain it Puck. Just explain to her that her girlfriend is a huge fucking loser who is never going to amount to anything and she might as well just break up with me now before things get worse," I grumble, taking a sip of the drink.
"San, this isn't you. Can't you see how much you've changed? You need help, like a therapist and probably some kind of meds. This dude fucked you up. The Santana I know walks around proud as hell and strong and brave, confident and happy to have Brittany on her arm. I know you love Brittany and being with her has got to mean more than this stupid fighting," he says.
"I agree Santana. This isn't you at all. And while I know that this incident was just the cherry on top of a lot of emotional trauma in your life, it doesn't change the fact that you really need some help getting the old Santana back. It's nothing to be ashamed of honey, any of us would be struggling with this. There's a doctor down at the hospital, Dr. Podanski, she's a great therapist. She helped me through my divorce and I'm sure if I talked to her she wouldn't mind talking to you, or letting you vent or whatever you need. You're self destructing Santana, and it's a bad road to be on," she rambles.
"Well it's the only road I've got right now. And as far as I can tell, this is the only way I can keep Brittany safe," I admit.
"Brittany is fine! It's not like you guys get attacked every day, it happened once!" he shouts.
"Look, Puck, I thought you understood this? Brittany is all I have. I have to do whatever I can to keep her," I tell him.
XxXxXxXxX
The next day I head back to the factory to get my car so I can head to school. I know already it will be a horrible day as soon as I get there. I'll probably get called into Sue's office because of my cut up, swollen face. Not to mention what Brittany will say about it.
I can't stop thinking about what Puck and his mom said to me last night. Does everybody really think I'm crazy? That I'm being irrational? I'm just trying to survive.
The icy wind bites at my skin, even through the fabric of the same hoodie and jeans I was wearing yesterday. As I see the factory come into view I am grateful for the thought of being able to warm up soon. I start to sprint, and wince as pain shoots up through both sides of my rib cage. I'm sure there's a few broken, but there isn't shit I can do about it so I keep running.
When I finally get to the car I jump in eagerly and start it right away. I look at myself in the mirror for the first time today since rolling off Puck's couch. I look like hell. The skin around my eyes is almost darker than my hair. My nose is swollen and I can definitely see that it's broken. My cheeks are puffy with little cuts here and there, and my bottom lip is split right down the middle.
And somehow, I love it.
I start the short drive to school, feeling more confident than I have in a while. It's hard to wrap my head around; I know there's a million reasons why I shouldn't be proud of myself, I got my ass beat last night, I've been lying to my girl and my friends all think I'm nuts, for starters. Yet, sporting these battle wounds, I feel strong. As weird as it is, a part of me doesn't want these scars to fade.
"You're really messing up you know," I hear from my right and flinch in terror. There, in the passenger seat is my sister. But it can't be. She's dead, right? She's dead. She's dead?
"What the fuck!" I yell, trying to keep my car on the road.
"Watch where you're going! You know how I feel about car accidents," she hollers at me with a chuckle.
"What the fuck are you doing here? I mean…not here…are you here?" I ask.
"You tell me. This is your subconscious," she replies.
"No, no, no. Don't play that game with me. What the fuck is going on?" I yell, trying to stay focused on driving.
"Santana, look at what you're doing to yourself. You're running away, and killing yourself in the process," she tells me and I grit my teeth in frustration.
"You don't know shit about my life, Ang. You haven't been here in eight fucking years," I say, it's the first time I put a number on it out loud, and it freaks me out a little.
"Please. Who knows you better than me? I am you, after all," she mocks.
"No you aren't. If you were me…why would I be questioning myself when it's pretty damn clear to me what I want?" I argue.
"Maybe I'm the last sane part of you trying to rope you back in before it's too late," she says and I roll my eyes.
"Oh, so now I'm crazy? I'm hallucinating my dead sister but she's really just me, arguing with myself? Come on Ang, don't bullshit me," I reply.
"You're going to lose Brittany. She's the only good thing in your life, why are you pissing that away?" she questions.
"If you were really me you'd know the answer to that! I need to protect her! She's all I have and I have to prove to her I'm everything she needs," I tell her.
"You always were before. What's changed?" she asked.
"Everything! Damn it, Ang. That night…with the…the mugging. Everything changed. I mean, we both know I've never been emotionally stable. Between the shit with mom, and then when you died…I was bound to be a fuck up. I never had any kind of support system. You were it, and you're gone now," I mutter, pulling into the school parking lot.
"You're going off the deep end Santana. Puck's right, you need help," she argues.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I grumble as I pull into my space and park. Quinn is sitting in her car in the spot across from mine, talking on her cell phone. She waves at me and signals for me to wait before I go inside.
"I didn't come here to bug you, Santana. Your subconscious brought me here. I'm just an extension of your own psyche," she replies and I growl in anger.
"I'm not crazy! You're Angela!" I cry.
"Fine, have it your way. All you have to do is will me away, then," she explains, and crosses her arms.
"Good, how do I do that?" I ask, turning the car off.
"You're the one woman show who doesn't need any help, you figure it out," she grumbles. I sigh and close my eyes, thinking to myself over and over 'Go away, go away, go away'.
I open my eyes and she's still sitting there with a shit eating grin on her face.
"Couldn't do it, could ya? That's because I'm you, and you can't will yourself away," she argues smugly. Fuck, she's cheeky in the afterlife. That's some kind of stunt I would pull.
"Whatever! I have to go to class," I groan and get out of the car.
"Hey San," Quinn approaches me with her books in her arms.
"Hey Q," I respond, grabbing my backpack out of the back seat and locking up the car. Ang is already out of the car still glaring at me. I rub my eyes and when my vision clears up again she's still there. Fuck.
"Um, San, who were you yelling at in the car? I thought maybe Brittany was in there with you, but…" she asks.
"Nah, Ang just won't get off my back," I grumble. Quinn looks at me, arching an eyebrow.
"Ang? Your sister?" she asks.
"She fuckin harassed me the whole way here. I don't need it. You gonna follow me to class to?" I snap at Ang, who hangs a few steps behind me and Quinn as we walk toward the school.
"San…who are you talking to?" Quinn asks, looking behind us. I look back too and point at Ang. Quinn follows the line between my finger and where I'm pointing and then looks at me again.
"Okay, come on, let's get some breakfast," she declares and starts pushing me toward the school faster.
XxXxXxX
We're walking toward the cafeteria when Quinn loops her arm around my waist right as we're about to pass the guidance office.
"Come in here with me quick," she encourages and I freeze up.
"No, I don't want to go in there. You can't make me talk," I argue.
"Relax, I just need to see if they sent my transcript to Yale. Come on," she replies and drags me in. To my surprise we walk right past the secretary, who gives Quinn a subtle nod, and right back to Ms. Pilsbury's office. Inside, her desk is moved off to a far corner and sitting in a small circle are her, Puck, coach Sue, Mr. Shuester and Brittany. Oh fuck. What is this? I need to get out of here. I turn to leave but Quinn has already locked the door and pinned herself up against it.
"Sit down, Santana," she orders and I panic.
"Puck you fuckin narc! I yell, lunging toward him. He catches me in his arms and slowly lowers me down to the ground.
"Shh, it's okay. San I know you're mad right now but we're all here for you. Relax, it's okay," he tries to sooth me, but it's not working. I feel like I'm on display.
"Sanny?" I hear Brittany's sweet voice above me. She's kneeling now, and she starts stroking my hair as I fall apart in Puck's arms.
"Brit…" I choke.
"Sanny please talk to us. Puck told me what happened. You didn't have to lie, Sanny. I would've helped you. I love you. Please, talk to us," she begs. I see her notice my bruises and scars and they seem to scare her more than anger her. I let myself be pulled up by her and Puck and take the seat between them.
"Santana, first thing you should know is this is a safe space. Everybody here cares about you, and we want you to be okay," Mr. Schue starts. My heart is beating out of my chest now. Sue clears her throat and stands to speak next.
"That being said, this is an intervention,"
Fuck.