This is Brittany's POV

Trigger Warning: The next few chapters deal with a school shooting and its aftermath. Really hoping I can do it justice.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Chapter 12

Brittany checked her watch:

11:38am

Awesome. Twelve more minutes until she could meet Santana and they could start their weekend.

She loved Fridays and Saturdays. And Tuesdays. And Thursdays. She laughed at herself. Those days, though, those four days she got to spend all day with Santana.

She took the last photo out of the bath, hung it up to dry, and began to clean up.

This wasn't the largest darkroom in the building but it was Brittany's favorite; it wasn't large but there was enough room to move around. It was sort of a "catch-all" for things that people might need; large pieces of sturdy cardboard were stacked against one side, there were cabinets holding supplies on the opposite wall. There were three tables plus plenty of wire for hanging pictures to dry. The space was a little crowded but Brittany didn't mind; she didn't have to leave this darkroom if she needed anything she may have forgotten. It was convenient. Especially when you considered how often she forgot things.

11:49am

She was finished just in time. She turned off the light marking the room as in use and opened the door.

She stopped as she heard an alien sound; rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat. She frowned and it repeated. Gunfire. She froze for a second. No. It couldn't have been … another burst snapped her out of her daze.

She left the door partially ajar; the way they always did when it was unoccupied, then looked around the room and thought about the adjoining darkrooms and lab.

The cabinets and closets in this darkroom and the lab outside of it were full; she knew that. She looked around the room.

File cabinet. If she just …

Another burst of gunfire spurred her to action. She pulled/pushed the file cabinet out of its corner until there was space both behind and at the side of it then grabbed pieces of large cardboard and propped them against the side facing the door to try to camouflage the fact that the cabinet wasn't flush against the wall.

She scattered several various sized pieces of cardboard on top of the cabinet to make it look like it had been pulled away to accommodate the cardboard being tossed on top of it.

Santana. She needed to warn Santana. She needed Santana not to come looking for her.

To: Santana

10-19-2015 11:53am

I am okay. If you can, go home and wait for me. Don't come looking for me, please. Just go home. I love you.

Four minutes. It had only taken her four minutes to prepare her hiding spot. It felt like years. She turned her phone off.

The gunfire sounded closer; Brittany was out of time. She ducked under the cardboard and, thanking years of dance for giving her flexibility, maneuvered herself into the confined space created by the corner gap. She was thankful that she was able to stretch her legs behind the cabinet; the cardboard would hide them.

Then, she waited.

She hadn't wanted to tell Santana she loved her for the first time in a text message but … she didn't want to die without telling her at all.

A tear slipped free and she swiped at it angrily. Tears could come later.

Santana.

Please listen.

Santana.

Please be safe.

Santana.

I love you.

Brittany took a deep breath. Then another. She realized that she had no way of knowing when it was over. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and turned it back on; making sure it was on silent. 10% battery. Damn.

There were several messages from her friends asking if she was okay. She had to ignore those. She had to stay in control. Any noise …

Louder shots.

Brittany held her breath.

Footsteps echoing.

The lab door creaked open and then shut. Brittany closed her eyes.

Please.

Shuffling steps.

The darkroom door clicked closed.

Heavy breathing.

Groaning.

Brittany frowned. Not the shooter, then. Should she risk it? She carefully maneuvered herself out of corner and into the side space; peeking around the edge.

A young man was sitting against the door; there was blood all over his shirt. One hand was pressed against his side.

Brittany didn't stop to think; she army crawled out of her space and over to where the young man was leaning against the door. Shit, I hope he didn't leave a blood trail right to us, she thought, chastising herself immediately for thinking it.

Once she got to him, she pulled her pocket knife out (grateful to her grandfather for buying it for her and instilling in her the need to always carry it because … you never know. I guess he was right) and cut away his shirt, discarding it in the garbage can. There were two wounds, neither looked like they were fatal. She examined the wounds; the shoulder wound looked like it went straight through without hitting anything, the side wound looked like it would have been a graze had it been half an inch to the left. She pulled her shirt off and sliced the sleeves off, cutting them in half length-wise. Then she cut the shirt in half length-wise; glad that it wasn't a particular favorite.

"What's your name?"

"Damien."

"I'm Brittany. Let's see if we can't get you fixed up and us safely out of here."

She used one sleeve's pieces on either side of the side wound to pack it and then tied half her shirt around his middle to keep them in place. She used the other sleeve's pieces to place on either side of the shoulder wound then used the other half of her shirt to secure the pieces in place. The shoulder was trickier; she hand to wrap it under his arm and around his neck. She surveyed her handiwork. It would have to do.

"Okay, can you move?"

He nodded.

"Start moving toward the filing cabinet."

He slowly stood up and started moving that way, waiting for her once he got there. She took a deep breath, could smell copper, and opened a bottle of developing solution, dumping it into one of the trays, throwing a piece of photo paper into it. She looked around. Blood on the door and floor. She grabbed Damien's shirt out of the garbage, finding a piece that didn't have blood on it, she poured some of the developing solution onto it and used it to wipe up the blood as best she could. It wasn't great but, hopefully, it was enough for someone to overlook it. She pushed the door ajar again.

She moved back to the filing cabinet and crawled back in, motioning for Damien to follow her. The space was incredibly cramped with the two of them in it but they both managed to fit.

Brittany pulled her phone out again.

12:34pm

It hadn't even been an hour; it felt like forever.

She knew most mass shootings were over in minutes. But how could she be sure?

She swallowed and dialed 911.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"I'm in the University Fine Arts Building. There's a shooter." Her voice was just loud enough to be heard.

"Officers are on the scene. What's your name?"

"Brittany."

"Okay, Brittany, are you somewhere safe?"

"I think so. I hope so. But, I've got a guy here who's been shot. Two wounds. I patched them up as best I could … I … I don't think they're serious but … I don't know."

"Okay, Brittany. That's good. Are you injured?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Where are you?"

"Photography Lab B; second darkroom. We're hiding behind a filing cabinet."

"Okay, Brittany, I'm going to dispatch officers to your location. Can you stay on the line with me until they get there?"

"I'll try. My phone is at eight percent battery."

"Alright, Brittany, Officers Reed and Davis are making their way to your location. They'll identify themselves as soon as they're able to reach you. Hang in there, Brittany, you're doing great."

12:46pm

"Still with me, Brittany?"

"Yeah, I'm here, phone's down to five percent." She cursed herself for not getting a new phone like her father wanted her to. She knew her battery life was crap, but she liked the phone and charging was easy; there were outlets and charging stations everywhere. Except in the corner of a darkroom in the middle of a shooting.

"Okay, Brittany, Officers Reed and Davis should be there in a moment."

"Okay."

She heard the creak of the lab door and froze.

"Someone just came in."

"Those are my guys, they'll identify themselves …"

The darkroom door swung fully open.

"Officers Reed and Davis," a voice said, "Brittany? You in here?"

"It's them. Yes, I'm here,"

"Okay, Brittany, great. I'm going to let you go now, you're in good hands. Stay safe."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome."

The phone went silent. Two percent. Dammit.

"Behind the filing cabinet."

The cardboard was moved away and Brittany slid out the back as one of the officers helped Damien out from the side.

They all quickly made their way out of the building and the officers escorted them to the triage. Brittany tried to tell them she wasn't hurt but they told her someone would take her statement there.

Dammit.

Santana.

Don't be here.

They had her sit just outside the tent with a group of ten others. She looked around but didn't see anyone she knew. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She took out her phone and started to type a text message to Santana … her phone died before she could send it.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

She made a mental note to memorize Santana's number. If she had done that, she'd be able to borrow a phone.

2:12pm

Time dragged. Brittany sat there getting more anxious by the moment. They had gotten the shooter awhile ago. A long while. Meanwhile, they waited. Waited for statements and first aid and … whatever else they had to wait for when something like this happened.

Santana.

Please. Please be safe.

2:57pm

Finally, an officer named Caldwell took her statement. It's not like she could tell them a whole lot. Once he had her statement and information she was free to leave.

She had never moved so fast. She ran past everyone, past Laundry Row, up to Main Street, up a dim stairwell to knock on a familiar door.

Santana.

Please be here.

3:28pm

The door was flung open and Brittany was looking into the most beautiful brown eyes she'd ever seen.

"Brittany," it was barely a word as Santana threw her arms around Brittany's neck and Brittany wrapped her arms around Santana's waist, holding her tightly, never wanting to let go.