"Fuck!" I hissed, dropping the blade onto the bed and clutching my arm with a tissue, gnawing my lip and wincing in pain as I collapsed into the covers. It really hurt. How was this supposed to help? It just felt as if I had made things worse.

I groaned as I pulled back the tissue from the wound, the paper sticking a little before I managed to pry it off. Staring at it, it seemed to take a while to realise that this substance had just leaked out of my own body.

"Ugh." I moaned in disgust, finding it hard to flex the weak muscles in my fingertips. My forearm throbbed and I could imagine the veins pumping more fresh blood inside them. I felt sick. The whole idea of what I had just done made me feel sick. The pain from that blade hadn't helped at all. Not one little bit.

I chewed my lip and drew my knees in close, looking like a shivering fetus buried in the duvet. How had it not made things better? I had read about stuff like this in magazines all the time – all these teenagers – they all claimed that harming yourself made you feel better, and that it distracted you from emotional pain by replacing it with this.

Why the fuck didn't it work?

And the worst part about it was that I still felt terrible. I still felt the bite of my father's words, not two minutes ago, and now, to top it all off, my skin had been torn apart by a blade.

Seriously, I thought, still clutching my arm. What the hell went through my head to make me think that this would work? Did I really get driven this far?

I must've fallen asleep as some point because next thing I knew I was startled by a knock on the door. My eyes darted to it immediately and I rushed to grab my jacket, which was slung over my chair.

"Santana, honey." Called my mother through the door. "I made breakfast. Are you coming downstairs?"

How was it morning already?

I swallowed the bile in my throat and tugged on my jacket, being careful to conceal the wound beneath it. I forgot to put a bandage on it. I would have to do it later. I made sure to hide my cast as well. I still couldn't bear to look at it.

"Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want anything?"

"Um..." I hesitated, clearing my throat a little and trying to slow down the rapid beating of my heart. It was then that I realized I was still trembling. I folded my arms, wanting my voice to sound as casual as I imagined. "Um... yeah, sure."

Was I even hungry? I didn't feel it. There was a sort of rotten, empty feeling at the bottom of my stomach, but I was sure it wasn't hunger. I closed my eyes, feeling a cold rush sweep over me, as if someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water over the top of my head.

"Oh, are you feeling better?" The relief in her voice made me cringe with guilt.

"Y-yeah, a little... I think..."

I could almost picture her smiling on the other side of the door. "That's good. I made you an omelette. I bet you're starving."

I felt my stomach churn. I knew that just by looking at it, it would make me want to turn on my heel and throw up everything inside of me into the nearest toilet. Starving? Even the mere thought of shoving something down my throat made me feel queasy.

"Sure, mom, it sounds great."

I wanted to kick myself at how shaky my voice was coming out. It sounded as if I had been lying on a vibrating bed the entire night. I hoped that my mother couldn't make this out from where she was standing, but it was likely that she had disappeared into the kitchen again by now, anyway.

I can't let them find out what I've done, I told myself frantically, pulling back my sleeve with a grimace for another look. I know what they're like... they'll send me to see some shrink or something – that's their answer for everything these days. They think it will be some fucking mental problem.

I guess they need some excuse, came the bitter words.

"Fuck you." I mumbled, this time, cursing my own self. Deep inside, I was angry. I was angry at myself for letting myself go so far as to hurt myself over this. I thought that it would have made me feel better, but it just made me feel even more horrible than before.

I can't do anything right.

Sighing, I opened the door and trudged down the stairs, my eyes refusing to look up at anyone and anything. I just wanted to sink through the floor and die.

I knew that breakfast would be even worse. I was already be able to hear my father's thoughts wafting over to me from the other end of the table, and if they were guaranteed to be anything like they were earlier, then the chances of getting "food poisoning" would be pretty high.

I had barely spoken all through breakfast. Most of the communication between my family had been rather one-sided anyway (and some part of me knew that my parents were expecting that to begin with). However, I had managed to swallow half of the sloppy omelette, while the rest of it floated on the plate after a continuation of stabs with my fork.

I guess it's something, I thought bitterly, scraping the rest into the bin and turning towards the stairs, traipsing back up to my room with my feet scuffing the carpet.

Luckily, my parents hadn't asked about (or possibly noticed) the fact that I was wearing my jacket at the table. All throughout the meal I had been expectedly waiting for the comment about getting it covered in food, but it had never once come into play.

"You look a little pale, Santana." My mother had brought up at one point, wanting to break the silence. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"Uh huh." I had lied, playing with my food. The omelette now looked like how I felt inside – all churned up and gross.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh."

That was it, as far as conversation went. I had never felt so dull and unimportant all at once during a meal. My parents never mentioned anything about my broken wrist and my mother actually didn't even mention the name "Brittany".

The whole thing had felt like one big funeral reception and I just wanted to scuttle away into my room and hide there, at least until I had to leave for school. I had finished my science homework at least.

At last, I escaped to my room with the excuse that I had to get freshened up. I had to, really. I looked as horrible as I felt. I avoided looking into the mirror as I brushed my teeth and I tied to my hair into a messy ponytail, not having the energy to do anything else with it. Then I flopped onto my bed, the pillows cradling my shattered wrist and I stared glumly at my clock, which glowed neon green in the dim light. I had managed to change my clothes but as a result I felt exhausted. Or maybe that had something to do with the lack of sleep.

Idiot.

I stared at my digital watch on the side. I was going to be shattered today.

I flung my face into the pillows and groaned as my arm gave another twinge of pain. I cursed my mother for making me take those painkillers after breakfast. Somehow, they seemed to affect my arm all the more.

And to top everything off, Quinn, one of the most popular girls at school, wanted to meet up today so that I could help her with her homework. And by that she meant make me do it for her. I didn't want her nagging at me if I was too tired to concentrate. That was the last thing I needed.

I had barely managed to close my eyes when a loud ringing suddenly jolted me out of bed. It took me a while to realize that my phone was ringing on my desk.

Huh? I thought groggily, staggering to my feet and snatching it to my ear with a small yawn. Who could be calling me this early?

"Hello?" I croaked.

"Santana?" A soft voice sounded down the line.

"Who is this?" I answered quietly, confused.

"It's me." Came the voice, giggling with amusement at how tired I sounded. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

I could have boiled over with rage. I gripped my phone tightly in my good hand and snapped: "Brittany? Why are you calling me?"

"I just had to see if you were okay." She replied, a little sheepishly. "You looked a bit sick before you left... and... I don't know, you just looked..."

"Just looked what?"

"N-nothing. Forget it... I just thought you didn't look so good, that's all..."

I blinked. "Well, I'm fine."

I heard her sigh gently. I couldn't tell if it was from relief, or that she was still not persuaded by what I had just said. "I just... I wanted to call your last night but… I didn't... I-I thought that there was something on your mind... and... well, that you might do something..."

Do something? I stopped breathing for a second, as the words floated around in my head like a runaway balloon. Do something? How... how did she know that I was thinking those things? How could she tell?

Picking up my resolve, I swallowed and pressed the receiver against my ear, feeling it begin to warm up. My cut tingled and I glanced down at it. It looked a lot darker now that it was beginning to scab. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm just glad that you're okay..."

"How did you get my number?" I asked quickly, in a much harsher tone than my had intended. She sounded so nervous. It was kind of cute.

Stop it.

"I-I asked Sam if he could find out and he got it from... Quinn? I think... I'm sorry I was just worried and..."

"And you just had to call me up in the morning?" I felt a little awful for sounding so cross with her. After all, she had called me up out of anxiety and not for her own humour (as I guessed that some people might have done). Still, I was annoyed and I didn't even know why.

But, I didn't want her to have my number! I didn't want to have anything to do with her.

"Hey, I was worried..." She said, sounding a little hurt. "I'm sorry if I wasted my concern on you, or anything. I was just..."

"I don't know why you would be worried about me in the first place." I said quietly after a long pause, sighing and flopping down on my bed with my cast dangling over the side. "No one else ever is. Besides, I'm okay."

"Really?" She almost whispered. She didn't sound very convinced.

I flipped the underside of my arm with the cut on it over, secretly wondering if she could sense it was there by just talking down the phone to me. "Y-yeah. Really. I'm okay."

Am I trying to convince myself as well as Brittany?

"Okay, I'm glad." She still didn't sound convinced. I held my breath as I waited for her to speak again, fighting the urge to groan as every bone in my body seemed to ache. "Do you... Will you be at school today?"

"No I'm up this early for nothing." I told her harshly. Why was it so hard to control my anger? Because this is her fucking fault in the first place. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn't really her fault at all.

"Right." Came Brittany's small voice.

I sighed, guilt taking a stab at my heart again. "Sorry. Yes I'll be there."

"O-Okay." Her voice sounded higher in pitch. She almost sounded happy, I thought, or hopeful. I frowned. "Do you want me to, uh, pick you up? I-I can give you a ride... If you want."

The way she stumbled over her words was kind of endearing and for a moment a small smile lit up my face but then I realized what she had asked me. Fucking hell. Why can't she leave me alone?

"I don't need your help."

A pause. Then, "But..."

"I gotta go." I interrupted her, ending the call before she could reply. Damn it. I angrily tossed my phone across my room, rolling my eyes when I heard it drop on the floor. As expected, it didn't make me feel better at all.

I only felt emptiness.

It's my own fault.

School had been as hellish as I had imagined it would be. Despite the heat of the day being pretty immense I wore my jacket, hoping it would help to hide the cast a little more, and, more importantly, the cut. Hiding the cast made walking down the hallways painful, as other students were in such a rush to get to class they didn't see I was injured, and smashed me into the wall numerous times.

I didn't see Brittany all morning. Secretly, I was a little disappointed. At least she wouldn't fuss over my wrist, though, or insist on walking me to my classes. It was bad enough that she had called me up in the early hours of the morning, just to see if I was "okay", but I didn't need a guide leading me around the school.

Even though I get battered in the hallway, it doesn't make me blind, I thought sadly, shuffling my sneakers along the hard floor with my eyes on the ground. It just makes me invisible.

"Whoa –" I hadn't walked very far when I collided into someone and went crashing to the ground. The hallway was practically empty, and yet I still managed to fall down! I must have really not been paying attention.

"Ow!" I groaned, as I had landed on my arm to support my fall. It throbbed with fresh pain and I winced, clutching it tightly. Tears sprang into the corners of my eyes as I sat up, feeling my whole body blush. This was just too much for me to take anymore! How much more pain would he have to endure before God gave me a break?

"Oh my God, Santana!"

I glanced up at the soft-spoken girl. Her blue eyes, hidden behind glasses, looked down at me sprawled on the floor, looking as pathetic as always. I shivered a little under her stare. She looked concerned and... sad. Somehow it made me feel as if I were nothing more than a child who had lost its way. The tears built up behind my eyes.

Shit.

"Sorry Brittany." I mumbled, attempting to rise to my feet. "I didn't see you."

"It was my fault." She said, a small smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

As always.

Jesus let it go already.

"Hey," She murmured a moment later, in a kind voice that made my whole body buzz. "Are you okay?"

I kept my eyes on the ground, looking away and nodding glumly. I sniffled and wiped the tears from my eyes, not wanting her to see me break down like this. "I'm fine."

"Let me help you up." Brittany said and a second later a hand appeared in my line of sight.

My cheeks burning, I flinched as I scrambled to my feet, my sneakers skidding a little. A faint grimace of pain passed over my features as I clung to the wall, pulling myself up and limping to my locker.

I'm so embarrassing, I thought unhappily.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Brittany asked quietly, still in that same kind tone. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and stared intently at me, looking me up and down.

"For fuck's sake, I'm fine!" I almost yelled.

Brittany's eyes widened slightly and there it was; a flinch. I almost didn't notice it. I probably wouldn't have noticed it at all if I wasn't so familiar with it. My stomach sank.

"I'm sorry." I mumbled.

Brittany pushed her glasses further up her nose, fumbling a bit as she suddenly looked nervous.

Had I caused this?

"I wanted to ask you something." She blurted out.

I raised an eyebrow at her. "What now?"

Brittany chewed on her bottom lip, curling her hands around the straps of her backpack. She awkwardly rocked on the heels of her feet and I was almost a little amused by it. She opened and closed her mouth a few times but didn't say anything. My brow furrowed as I watched a blush spread across her cheeks.

Why in the world was she so nervous?

She's probably making fun of you, I thought angrily. I was just about to walk away when I heard her speak, shakily. "Will you eat lunch with me? Today?"

Wait, what?

My jaw dropped. "Lunch?"

Brittany nodded, squirming a little.

I looked around, expecting people to be watching us, ready to make fun of me. This had to be some kind of joke. I clenched my jaw bitterly, clutching my arm to my chest. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

I could see the movement in Brittany's throat as she swallowed thickly, her cheeks burning even redder as she glanced down at her shoes. "You don't like me. I get it."

Something in her words made me freeze inside. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care. I tried to convince myself that I could walk away right now and not feel guilty but I knew I'd be lying to myself. Why does she want to have lunch with me? I'm nothing but a loser. She must have ulterior motifs. But as her blue eyes met mine again, I saw the sincerity in them along with a sadness that made my heart ache.

I sighed deeply. "I don't dislike you."

Brittany's face lit up, ever so slightly. "Then have lunch with me. We can sit under the bleachers, if you want."

You're going to regret this.

"Fine."