SOMETHING WICKED

She knows that the way she acts is a cliche, but she doesn't really care. Her mother always wears this concerned expression when she sees the way Santana acts; bitchy and slutty, like any little girl would become after being abused by a parental figure in the most disgusting way.

She hasn't seen her father since she was thirteen; since they all wormed at the truth, like something buried until the ground to be dug up with shovels. They found her blowing her best friend's brother, a high school senior, in the gym change rooms and they panicked (not Brittany; back then, her best friend was a girl called Violet, who never talked to her again after that). Every girl in her year came forward with there epic tales of Santana the Crazy Whore; they were mostly true, but still, they hurt.

Everyone knew something was wrong, and they all tried so hard to get it out of her. They knew no thirteen year old girl would act this way if not for extenuating circumstances; they all decided they knew her dad was hurting her. The school counselor looked her point blank in the eye, and asked her if her father ever touched her. She said 'no.' She tried to get the truth out at that moment, she really did (because back then, she was still stupid and believed the truth could set you free), but it was all too hard and that was the only syllable she could find.

She never said he touched her, but it was common knowledge. Her mother took her and ran out on her father, screaming that he was a pervert. He begged Santana to say something in his favor, but she just stood there, quiet and terrified. Her mother took her all the way across the state, to this piece of shit town called Lima.

Santana shakes her head, to clear herself of this disgusting reverie. Her mother will be out for hours; she just needs to get back before two and the woman will be little the wiser (like her mother doesn't know what she does anyway.)

She pops a box of condoms in her handbag. Tonight, she will come away satisfied. Tonight, her hands will be clean.

When she meets Finn at the door to the hotel room, he looks terrified. It almost seems cute.

"Hey, Santana," he says, obviously nervous. She smiles at him.

"Hey yourself," she purrs, sultry, before he swings the door open and they go in. She fishes the protection out of her bag, then he blushes and runs off to the bathroom to hide. She swallows the lump in her throat, and forces herself to stay mildly annoyed and roll her eyes, instead of losing her mind and screaming and crying and breaking things. Because she's never bothered hiding in the bathroom and pretending the whole thing will go away, so why should he get to?

Eventually, he comes out and they share the bed. She thinks, maybe, she should feel guilty about this – maybe that's the reason he's so nervous? Because he is Quinn's ex and Puck's ex-best friend, and she is Puck's ex, and he's still mooning over Rachel and this will force a wedge between them, and more likely than not everyone will get all worked up about her 'stealing' Finn, and what the fuck is wrong with this club? It's like the black hole of romantic drama.

The sex is quick and dirty, how she likes it. He's all awkward fumbling and half-hearted 'sorry's, but she doesn't mind that either, because it makes it easier to remember she is perfectly in control. She keeps her eyes open and locked on him the whole time, because if she doesn't the facade will slip and the other shoe will surely drop.

It's unsurprising that he comes before she does, given how many times she heard Quinn complaining about Finn's 'problem.' He pulls out of her and she lays back on the bed, mildly irritated at going unsatisfied, and she is surprised when he reaches down and finishes her off with his fingers.

Her eyes fix on the ceiling pattern as her teeth and stomach clench. She tries not to think of other things; smaller, softer hands that knew what they were doing. That covered her mouth, even though they both knew she'd never scream. She barely even notices when she comes, and then suddenly she's half passed-out.

When she becomes awake again, she feels warm and comforted. It feels as though months have passed, even though that doesn't really make sense. She realizes that there is a hand tentatively stroking her bare arm, and that this hand is attached to an arm, attached to a body, attached to a face whispering "It's okay, it's okay."

Santana finally notices that she is curled in the fetal position, and curled into Finn's side, whimpering loud enough for the people in the next room to hear her. She tastes a strange saltiness on her lips, and realizes those are tears – what is she doing?

In the least attention-drawing manner she can, she brusquely pulls herself up and away from him, letting the sudden surge of cold air give her goosebumps. She bites her lip to control the whimpers that keep nagging her to let them out, and manages to force back the tears. She can't for the life of her figure out why this is happening, because even if she has her issues, it's not like this is anything new, and Finn didn't hurt her in the slightest.

He sits up with her, but he doesn't ask if she's okay like she was expecting (and dreading). Instead, he just sits there, staring at his hands. She sucks in a breath. "Does this place have room service?" she asks coolly. "Because I really want a burger."

Finn doesn't pay attention. "I don't feel anything. I thought I'd feel different. But I don't feel anything. Because it didn't mean anything," he says, as if he honestly only just figured that last bit out then. God, the boy is stupid.

"There's no menu, so you're going to have to take me to a burger joint," she says, and he looks up.

"Would that make this, like, a date?" he asks, with the faintest hint of a smile, and her breath catches. She doesn't know why, but that stings like salt on a cut, and she needs to get out of here, now.

She bounds out that hotel room door, half-dressed and with the rest of her clothes balancing precariously on her arm. She doesn't bother to say bye. She leaps into the elevator, trying to stop her breath racing and to get her shoes back on. She can feel her own come trickling down her thighs, and the sensation makes her feel sicker and sicker – she probably shouldn't have panicked like that, and have at least taken a shower before running off. She checks her watch, and realizes it is only midnight.

There is something wet prickling the backs of her eyes still, and she doesn't know why, because of all the things she's done this is probably the least like what has been done to her. Tonight, she was not just a glorified whore like she always was with Puck (not that she really minded), nor was it the terrifying gentility of her drunken times fooling around with Brittany. Not that this was any epic romance, but it shouldn't be getting to her like this.

Her knees feel weak and she clutches the railing for support. She watches as her knuckles turn white with the force of her grip, and something in her mind blocks her from remembering how to let go. She can't help it anymore – she throws up in the corner of the elevator, wincing at the sound.

It's gross and disgusting, and the smell of it wafting towards her nostrils is only making things worse. She stares at the brown-yellow for a few seconds, and she can't help but feel like she is being turned inside out, and this pile of her insides in the corner is just the beginning.

This elevator ride is taking too long, and the music is much too quietly-loud, and the smell and the noise are squirming under her skin and she knows she won't be anywhere near comfortable again for hours (not that she's ever really comfortable). Eventually, she hits the bottom, and is glad the lobby is mostly empty and no-one is paying attention to her strolling out of a lift that smells of come and puke and pain.

When she returns to Glee, nothing has changed. She wasn't really expecting anything to have.

Finn tells Rachel he didn't go through with it, so the big wedge she was expecting doesn't happen, but it's not that important. She really didn't want anything more from Finn, and could really care less whether or not the Resident Diva knew she had caused to be pissed or not.

Rachel claims she slept with Jesse, realized it's no big deal – Santana can see through that bullshit in a millisecond and she's not even part of the conversation. Rachel still thinks it's a precious flower or some cliche like that, and hasn't given it to Jesse – Santana wants to slap the girl, make her face reality. Sex is what they all want, and you'll be a lot better off if you just wisen up and give it.

Or maybe, she just needs to think that way. She hasn't decided yet, which parts of her mind are appropriately cynical and which are trauma-induced crazy. She's not going to fool herself into thinking she hasn't been shaped by what has been done to her; her big breakdown after Finn proved that, even if it took her by surprise.

She thinks the entire thing was totally unfair, because she didn't even do anything (okay, she lied her ass off for months, but that was years after so it doesn't count); she was just a tiny girl, a stupid little ten-year-old bitch and she was the one broken, and that's not right. But Santana knows the whole world sucks, so she tries not to think about it.

She wishes her body was something temporary, repairable, like a car. When it's broken and fucked up beyond recognition, she could just send it away to be serviced and it would come back shiny and new, just for her. She needs it cleaned, but that will never happen.

Mr. Schuester is going on about some dance routine, and for whatever melodramatic reason, Santana feels her eyes drawn towards Resident Wheelchair Boy. It must suck to be him; she can see in his eyes that it kills him to see them all like this, y'know, able bodied and taking it for granted. Maybe he wishes his body was something he could crawl out of and send away to have fixed too; he certainly has enough reason. She has never asked him, for the simple reason she doesn't really care about Artie Abrams' issues, but right now she's caught in her own angst and shoving it all on him. He's not noticing, so she reckons this is a good deal.

Again, it's all so unfair. She's so sick of this. If she had said he'd done it, she'd have an excuse – there would be trials and tears, she'd make it through the witness stand. Everyone would feel so sorry for her. She'd be the victim, and even if she was a slut, everyone would get it. Her mother would be nagged into making her go to therapy, and somehow, the whole mess would prove she was (is) worth fighting for.

She feels bad for it, but at this moment, she just wishes she could go back. Let her tears fall, look Ms. Gibbs straight in the eye, and just say yes.

She's still up at one AM that night when he mother stumbles home, obviously drunk out of her mind. Santana just curls her body up a little tighter and tries to sink into the mattress when she hears the delicate plod of her mother's stiletto heels.

"'Tana? You awake?" her mother croons from the doorway, and Santana doesn't even bother denying it. She turns on her side to face her mother, observing the woman's silhouette throw the faint light, almost like a fairy tale monster.

"Yeah," she says, as her mother comes over to the side of her bedspread, her weight sinking it further down. "Hey Mom," she says, and forces a smile onto her face.

Her mother's smile isn't forced in the slightest. "I missed you," she practically breathes, and then reaches a hand out to stroke her daughter's hair. "God, you have gotten so beautiful."

Santana just closes her eyes, because she knows what's coming. Her mother's hand travels over her face, down her neck, across her collarbone, and finally starts to massage her breasts through the satin of her pajamas. Santana had tried so hard it that guidance counselor's office, to force the words into her throat, but there were so many sympathetic looks and male pronouns that it just killed her. Her dad was so scared when they accused him of hurting her, and she wanted so badly to tell him the truth, but it terrified her in ways she can't even describe. She didn't even think she would be believed, if she said her mother hurt her. She knows she gave up her father for nothing, and stranded herself forever with the one person she hates the most, and has totally screwed her not-evil parent over forever – she pretty much deserves it now, not that she'll ever admit it.

Santana keeps her eyes shut tight as her mother's soft, small fingertips trail over her stomach, like a gardener planting seeds of something wicked. She manages not to scream, like she always does, because what good will it do?

Her mother pulls on the elastic of her pajama pants, and Santana tries to remember how to disappear.