She has a thing for older men. It's for reasons she doesn't really want to articulate, no matter how many times she has to see a new therapist or sit through more expensive, boring counselling sessions that leave her twice as angry as before. Instead, it's easier to just admit it – it's unconventional, but so is leaving blood on her partners and enjoying being bitten. Santana's not conventional.

She's taken pleasure in seducing him. He's such a cocky asshole, and that's a big part of it – she hates overconfident men. They're so predictable. And sure enough, the minute she pinned him against the bathroom stall in the girls' room behind the auditorium, she was right. He melted, and the "honeys" and "darlings" and "beautifuls" came out of his mouth like so much verbal diarrhea. Really, if he never said another word and just concentrated on the task at hand, she'd be happy.

She didn't care, anyway. He fucked her hard; that was all she wanted.

Later, she sat with Brittany on the bleachers beside the track and examined her nails while talking blithely about the latest Cheerios practice, but she shifted gingerly and picked at the scab just under the collar of her uniform, and wondered briefly what it would be like to not care so much about the overlap of pain and pleasure.

But just briefly.

/~/

Santana likes Carl's motorcycle. Sometimes she refuses to wear a helmet, and they have a long screaming match in the driveway of her house before she gives in, because that's one thing he doesn't budge on. He'll try to talk to her as they pull out of her driveway, but she simply pushes on his shoulder to make him go faster because she'd like to get lost in the speed and wind. She doesn't care much for his conversation, which she knows he thinks is a shame.

He sometimes takes her out for a fast-food meal and stares at her, the delicate points of her elbows touching the Formica table; her unruly black hair either bundled back into a fat, messy bun or tucked behind a hair band. He loves her hair, so she denies it to him – it's more fun to watch him work for her beauty, for what he likes. She's surprised he never questions things like her age, or her need to be hurt, but she figures after days with sugary-sweet, perfectly innocent Miss Pillsbury, maybe he needs a release, too.

They play with her knife that night, and she shows him how to trace old scars to create patterns. He licks the blood; there's a slight metallic scent in the air as she kisses him, hard, and tastes her own blood on his lips.

"Baby, you're fucking weird," he says, and she touches his waxed chest, the point of his nipple, before she bites it, hard, enjoying his gasp of pain.

"So?" she challenges, and he raises his eyebrows.

"So, nothing."

"That's what I thought," she says, and runs the knife down his sternum, watching the blood rise under her skilful cut.

/~/

Sitting with Miss Pillsbury (Figgins-ordered; Mrs. Carlisle caught her playing with the scalpel in biology class) is nothing short of torture, but only because Santana's got better things to do and well, it's awkward sitting across from the woman your affair apparently loves.

Plus, Miss Pillsbury won't stop staring at her with those large, nervous brown eyes, and Santana's got an issue with being stared at.

Finally, she breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Can I go now?"

"Santana . . ." and Santana can tell that the counsellor's going to break into some sort of lecture, so she just stands up.

"Abused. I was seven. It was my stepfather. Went on for three months, my mother found out, dumped his ass, and I'm fine."

Miss Pillsbury opens her mouth, slightly, and Santana grabs her bag, slams through the door.

"And no, I don't want to talk about it," she snaps over her shoulder.

She doesn't wait for an answer, but she pulls out her phone and calls Carl at work.

"Can you come?"

"Give me half an hour."

He's at the back of the school in twenty minutes. She straddles the sun-hot seat of the motorcycle and growls in his ear.

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

/~/

Santana's mom gets a phone call from the school and faces her daughter, who's sulkily spinning a fork on the granite countertop.

"You skipped school again?"

Santana doesn't answer, and instead of yelling, like Mrs. Lopez normally does, she just sighs.

"When are you going to smarten up?" she asks, instead.

Santana raises her eyes to her mother's, and not for the first time, sees guilt behind the anger. She's used the guilt to her advantage before, but somehow, she's just not feeling it tonight. She's failing to care.

"Sorry, Mom," she tries instead, and her mother sighs.

It'll mean more therapy, but at least it stops anything from happening now.

Later, she traces the knife over her fingers, across her lips, and presses almost until she can feel the cut. She plays with the idea of calling Carl; she plays with the idea of calling Brittany. She ends up burying her head into her pillow and pushing until her nose closes over, her mouth fills with the musty scent of feathers, and the scream bubbles up in her throat, her skin roughly chafing against the pillowcase.

And she stabs her razor-sharp fingernails into her hands over, and over, because it's the only thing that makes her feel. The only thing that makes her hurt – the only thing that makes her cry.

Sometimes the tears feel good. Tonight, they just make her angrier.

/~/

Second session with Miss Pillsbury; today, she's feeling a little raw. She's squeezed out a few tears for the counsellor's benefit, but Emma ends up putting her pen down and uncrossing her legs with a sigh.

"I think conventional methods, Santana, are just going to make you close up more."

"I really don't care," says flippant Santana, but at Emma's resigned look, she simply sighs.

"Everyone wants to fix it. I don't care. I really don't. It's done. I'm damaged goods," she snaps, using scare quotes that make Miss Pillsbury simply look, if possible, sadder.

"Your lack of self worth is what concerns me the most."

"Your psychobabble concerns me, but it annoys me more."

"Do you always have an answer for everything?"

"Do you always strive to keep calm and quiet? Your voice is pissing me off."

"Santana, you can be angry, but it's no cause for disrespect."

"I fucked your boyfriend," says Santana, finally, and watches Miss Pillsbury's façade crumble.

Emma's face grows pale, and she rises slightly from her chair. Santana watches, first with satisfaction, and then with something akin to regret. The guilt suddenly rushes in, strongly.

"I'm sorry," she blurts, and then gets up to go.

Emma doesn't say anything, but when Santana looks back, she's staring at her desk, two spots of colour burning high on her cheeks.

When Santana passes the guidance counsellor's office again that day, Emma's not there.

She doesn't come back for three days.

/~/

If Carl knows Santana told Emma about their affair, he doesn't say anything about it. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. He opens his hand for her knife, but she doesn't give it to him. Finally, she just comes out with it.

"I'm bored. And you're sort of Johnny One-Note."

"What?" Carl's black hair is showing silver strands of grey, which normally would turn Santana on. Now she just feels dirty.

"I'm bored with you. And to be honest, I was a long time ago."

"You're kind of a bitch." It's a rough thing to say, especially to a sixteen-year-old, but Santana takes it in stride. It's true, after all.

"I know," she says. "Thanks."

"For what?" His face is dark; he hates her, probably thinking of why he decided to fuck her over trying to pursue a relationship with Miss Pillsbury.

"For entertaining me for awhile."

He doesn't say anything else, but after, she doesn't see him around the school anymore, and Miss Pillsbury takes his picture from her desk.

/~/

Sometimes it would make more sense to confront it head-on. She knows this, inherently; she knows it when she's cutting herself, when she's licking blood, or when she's begging to be fucked harder and longer. The pain is a release, but it's temporary. She knows what happened isn't right, and living like this is far from healthy.

She knows that sixteen year olds care about school and parties and marks and the cheerleading squad, and don't troll Craigslist looking for older men who are sick of their wives.

But even knowing all of this, she doesn't know how to fix it. And she doesn't care, either.

Apathy keeps her looking for an out. Apathy keeps her from letting anyone get too close; from experiencing the sweet, innocent love that is rightfully hers to have.

She doesn't go back to Miss Pillsbury, but she does notice that the older woman looks at her more closely in the hallways, examining her curves, her fake boobs she bought over the summer with a criminal lawyer's gullibility. Santana knows exactly what the redhead is thinking – what exactly did Carl see in her?

Santana wishes that she could see herself the way Carl does; the way Puck did, the way the stream of older men through her life do. Confident, bitchy, angry, and beautiful.

The problem is, Santana sees herself the way Emma sees her.

And that's what keeps her rubbing salt in the wounds.