A/N: So, I just watched the new glee, and I wanted to celebrate. None of my other stories are up to par yet, but I've had this written out for a minute. You guys might kind of hate me for this, and it might be a little confusing, but I hope you enjoy. Just fixed some typos I'd missed. I hadn't realized how many I let slip by. Sorry guys. As usual, I always appreciate criticism.
Warnings: I don't own Glee or any of the characters. The M rating's just to be safe. Maybe some triggers but I don't want to give anything away. Angst.
She had never felt more alone than in that moment; yes strong familiar arms wrapped around her but she couldn't deny that nobody could go with her into the darkness she was being dragged into. She couldn't ignore the loss eating away at what was left of the girl, yes the girl, not the bitch, the whore, the stripper-to-be, the dyke, or anything else she had been or had feared being labeled as, either. She used to be so confident and proud, but that could only last for so long.
It was a slow process to break her down so thoroughly, beginning with, of course, love. To fall in love with the one person, who she thought would be able to ease the terror she felt towards that one word, only to proved those supposedly "irrational" fears to be true. She bore her soul, against every instinct, but she hadn't realized that there were conditions, and a time limit. She thought she only had to love the girl enough for them but as it turned out, she had to love her enough for everyone to see and judge and label her. When she'd lied to herself enough to say that she didn't care about the stares and the titles, she'd found it was too late.
She tried so many ways to ease the pain. Drugs were never her thing, her controlling nature couldn't handle the lack of supremacy over herself that came with each pill, puff, huff' or hit. Alcohol was never an option, she knew all too well how searching for comfort at the bottom of a bottle would only lead her to the same pain she was trying to escape. By far, the closest she found to release from her suffering was convincing her that she was wanted. At least in the arms of another person, on them, under them, or in front of them, she could feel like, well, she could feel anything other than the loss she was suffering, the first of many. That was the only high that helped; it didn't numb her or make her forget, it just allowed her to pretend that she mattered to anyone.
Before, it was a good time and nothing more but after facing the hurt of unrequited love it became her medication. It was the only relief that allowed her to remain in control but she would learn that everything wasn't in her power. Each of them was just a nameless and faceless fix, eating away at her pain and whatever else they could reach, but one did far more than his job. She had always been very in tuned to her own body, and at times it had been a great asset, but it became a thorn in her side. The nagging feeling that something was wrong, no, that's not the right word, she just didn't feel the same. At the end of the month she would find out why. She had many visitors recently, but the one she'd been expecting the most, had decided not to make an appearance. No ache in the pit of her stomach, none of the (more aggressive than usual) mood swings, and none of the certainty that she would be alright, because this time she wasn't sure she would be.
She started with hysterics. A simple drive back home ended with her in tears banging on the steering wheel, blaming the world for her troubles until her wrists ached and her head thumped from the tears and the screeches of the horn. Slowly she accepted it. She liked to think of herself making her own choices, any choice, but to end it was not a choice she could make. She figured if she waited long enough she'd have another chance to choose, but even then she doubted her own abilities.
To say she'd ever imagined herself with children was a lie. Until then, her visions of what was to come consisted of anywhere outside of her Podunk little town, flanked by the bubbly blonde she thought she'd be with or the more recent ideal of conquering the outside world on her own. Now she was torn between the horrors of staying a Lima-loser with a pest to call her own, or the wonders of someone looking to her and loving her for all she was, simply because she was. The looming thought that she could move on, as another supposed mature adult had, and do her time until she could leave, for her guilt, curiosity, shame, and a myriad of other emotions to stir and boil over, did occur. The more she accepted what was happening then the more she tried to ignore what would happen next.
She was pregnant. She'd heard for so long that it could happen but she never actually thought it could happen to her. The farther she let it go on and the more she accepted it, the happier she grew. If you were to ask her now, she'd tell you that was her biggest mistake. To believe that any good could come to her, as if she could expect unconditional love from anybody, as if she even deserved it.
If you asked her what she remembered most from the experience, all she could tell you about was the red. The shade of it, the color used to paint the portrait of her insignificance. As she screamed her voice was backed the by the hellish tattoo of her broken heart. The sirens screeched a song of their own. Her Nightmare turned reality really had a soundtrack to accompany it; her cries, her mother's sobs, her father's silence, all rung so loudly.
She'd thought that Brittany was it, that whoring herself out was the end, that once she was pregnant was rock-bottom, but no. Each of those was just a rung on the latter that would lead her down. What really stole any semblance of the human being that once was so alive and in power of herself, for better or worse, was to know that the life she was meant to bear was no more. Where she had grown to accept and even toy with the notion of loving what she'd created, now became a numbness to the world that had torn her down that no living being should feel.
It was a slow painful process, months maybe years in the making. Each relationship, friendship, and interaction played its role in her downfall, but in a way it was worth it. Each inadvertent effort against her was part of a tragically beautiful series of events, creating a calloused and shattered work of art. It can be argued that to end her life might have been a kindness, but how many would afford as much to Santana Lopez?