There's a sound in her ears- bells, alarms, clamor- and it's there all the time.
There's a weight on her shoulders- a backpack, a purse, an imp- and it's always, always there.
It started out slow, small, small enough not to notice, and it just continued, growing, fading, coming in and out of focus. The unseen burden colors all the rest of her perceptions, and thereby, her actions.
It's heavy. It's loud. And it's always there.
Santana has a constant, and therefore undetectable, noise in her ears. Most of the time, she doesn't even notice it. But it tells her things she's so used to hearing that they've become fact- a condition, never a question.
When someone whispers, even right into her ear, it's hard to hear. It's so hard. The effort she exerts simply to remain standing obscures so much. The effort to remain calm in the presence of alarum, the constant presence of alarum, overrides her ability to discern that whisper of love. A whisper that should have silenced all the noise overlaying it.
How could she strip away the excess effort? How to cut through the din and hear what's really there?
(She'd have to know it's there first.)
You're no good, you're no good, you're no good...
And when her father says, "It's pretty good you got four A's, why not six?"
Santana hears, "You're no good, you're no good, you're no good..."
And when her mother says, "You stayed out so late, I was worried about you!"
Santana hears, "You're no good, you're no good, you're no good..."
And when her abuela says, "You never… You always… So spoiled!"
Santana hears, "You're no good, you're no good, you're no good!"
Santana sometimes remembers the times Abuela allowed her into the kitchen, showing her how to chop and slice, showing her how she made her special empanadas- an honor, yes, but also a trial, a concession, a responsibility.
Under pressure, always, never enough, always, she's just a bad person, never enough ever, never ever enough, not really worthy of Abuela's kitchen, or Papa's study, or Mami, no matter how hard she tries to do the right thing.
But this Brittany, there's something about her. She seems so… good... kind… bright… warm… and yet… something remains hidden. Santana's mouth crooks at the thought of it. And this Brittany… wants to spend time with her.
They are walking together in the night, done with dusk. Halloween reigns; riots of children swarm past them one moment, streets eerily empty the next. Brittany shows her a shortcut through the woods that snake between the industrial and the residential parts of town.
Brittany still holds Santana's hand. The thread remains taut, binding.
"You live here?" The warehouse looks abandoned. Haunted, even.
"Yeah, c'mon!" And they slip in through a hidden doorway.
Shadows jump in fire. Acoustic music crowds Santana's ears, pushing, for a moment, against the unheard constant taunt. Brittany squeezes her hand and tugs her into the room.
Santana's lungs fill. Weed. Hints of ether. Her eyes meet Brittany's and the warmth traveling up from their hands is matched and flooding her cheeks downward from their eyes.
"Santana," teases Brittany, "you're smiling!"
"I-" Santana is still smiling.
"Did you bring us Santana?" asks a tall blond woman.
"On a platter!" grins Brittany.
"Excellent! Let's have a taste!" says the bald guy with a ponytail next to her.
A chill slides through Santana. She looks to Brittany. Fight? Flight? Freeze? Their thread snags Brittany's heart.
Brittany, blushing, introduces her parents.
"Enjoy yourselves, girls!" calls her mother as Brittany tugs Santana through the room.
"Okay, so the werewolf is a vampire, and the vampire is a werewolf. They're a couple. And the banshee is really a-"
"Whoa, Britt, I-"
"It's-"
"It's too much all at once, alright? Is there a quiet place we could just-"
"Of course, let's just go to my room, okay?"
And they go. And they close the door. And there's nothing weird about it. It's a teenager's room. They sit on the floor, the string taut between them.
Brittany looks into Santana's eyes and just can't stop grinning. Santana's grinning, too, but she doesn't know why, and after a short while the relative quiet in the room fails to drown out the clamor in her ears. Santana cannot sustain eye contact for much longer. She wrinkles her brow.
What on earth would make this girl choose to spend time with you? Everybody knows you're no good.
"Can you tell me-" starts Santana.
"There's something I have to tell you-"
(Brittany keeps forgetting Santana doesn't know half the story yet. Or maybe three quarters.)
"Okay," says Brittany, "you go first."
The imp shifts its grip, digging its claws into her shoulders, causing them to hunch, causing her whole spine to crush together. The clamor becomes a drumming, taiko vibrating through her heart. Brittany knows. Somehow, she knows. The victims, the murders, the cover-ups, the lies, equivocations, prevarications. Somehow, she knows, and she's still here. More than that, she wants Santana here, or that's what it seems.
She knows, and she's not repulsed.
And here's the embarrassing part- tears start running down Santana's face. It's ridiculous. It's wrong- she never cries. She doesn't even know this girl, but there it is, and she's shaking.
"Um," says Brittany, "maybe you can try rocking back and forth. People do that in movies."
Santana freezes. The thread tightens between them. Their eyes meet.
And she begins to breathe again.
Brittany purses her lips, "Maybe I should go first."
Santana nods.
"I-" And warmth floods in through their still-joined hands, bringing a kind of peace into Santana's body. Still silence grips Brittany.
Santana tips her head, her brow wrinkled again.
"I've- I've-been-feeding-on-you." Brittany flushes, looks away.
Santana repeats Brittany's utterance in her mind several times to get its sense. But it doesn't make sense. The thread goes slack. Santana withdraws her hand. Clanging. Weight. Slowly, so slowly, the understanding chills her through. Brittany knows. Brittany knows everything. Brittany's known her for years. Brittany's been feeding on her for years. The imp digs in further.
Santana's head begins shaking back and forth. No. Brittany was supposed to be- not- not what? Not this. Not some kind of bloodsucker. She was supposed to be… an angel.
"I- gotta gay. Go. I've gotta go," Santana says, and she runs. Opens the door. And stops. She has no idea how to get home.
Shadows jump everywhere, looming larger and larger. The imp chatters in her ear. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair. Nothing is. The imp continues its clamor. What on earth would make this girl choose to spend time with you? Everybody knows you're no good. She clings to the doorknob. She needs to ground herself, she needs to be polite. She mustn't say no, but she mustn't say yes either.
She can't say no to her imp, her constant companion, her cricket, her conscience, creature of her own dark nights. She craves freedom, but her impulse to flee may be what releases her from freedom's possibility.
Fight, flight, or freeze?
Just like you to take the easy way out. Just like a lazy freeloader, it says. You know you're no good. For all you know, they brought you here to be food. She as much as admitted it.
Her head is pounding. Volatile chemicals invade her nose and mouth. She has to get out. Gravity drags her every extremity until she is still, feet planted in imaginary cement. Her heart still leaps as if untethered, only to crash into its cage.
Nausea swamps her terror and rage. Caught. Caught in a trap. Frozen. Paralyzed, her eyes dart to meet Brittany's, and finds them shaded, averted, hurt.
A whisper curls in on a wisp, threadlike, still connected.
The awesomest girl. Santana hears. How could you be so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Santana turns slowly to find Brittany staring at the floor. The awesomest girl, the awesomest girl, she overhears. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she overhears.
She senses a swelling within her ribs.
"Brittany?" she whispers, still frozen.
Brittany shakes her head, refusing to make eye contact.
Santana struggles for words.
"You've- really been with me all this time?"
Brittany doesn't speak. Her own clamor speaks for her, Stupid, stupid, stupid!
And Santana realizes she can hear it without being in contact.
Does that mean Brittany can hear her?
"Brittany- beautiful, so beautiful- you found me. Warm, how do you-? You found a way to help. I could have died. You smell- wonderful. Did someone teach you how to do that?"
Brittany shakes her head again.
"Brittany, you're a- you're a genius- genius."
Brittany looks up from under her bangs.
"I'm sorry," Brittany whispers. I didn't want to lose you.
Santana senses their connection, and peeling her fingers from the door handle, reels Brittany toward her on their tether. They lace their fingers together.
Quiet.
"I suck," says Brittany.
"No," says Santana, "I suck. You- you weave."