The Fourth, The Fifth

Part One

It only took a single moment to change everything.

Santana Lopez had never been one to think about her life. It was easy to fall into a rhythm, to let the days pass by without giving a second thought to what might happen. It was easy to pretend that she was always going to be at McKinley High, head of the Cheerios, ruling the school. It was easy to pretend that she had all the time in the world.

It was easy to pretend, until the moment the SUV drifted across the center line going far too fast, the same moment that she was too busy struggling to dial Brittany's number to notice the headlights until they were shining directly in her face. She barely had time to register what was happening before impact.

"Fuck!"

She lurched forward, the seatbelt digging abruptly into her neck as the sound of metal on metal and shattering glass filled her ears. Her chest erupted in pain, brief and intense, before her head slammed against something hard and everything went black.

The smell of smoke was the first thing she noticed when she came to. The second was the pain, which forced her eyes open the moment she tried to move her arms. A tiny gasp snuck past her lips before she bit down hard on her tongue, trying to unbuckle her seatbelt. Her entire front end was compacted, pinning her tightly against her seat with a combination of twisted metal, plastic, and glass. Every time she moved the pain only worsened, until she finally hit the button to release her seatbelt. One barrier to being free was gone.

With a whimper, Santana gripped on to whatever she could, using her hands and feet to push her as hard as she could towards the open driver's side door. There was a vague sharpness against her abdomen, but the feeling was overwhelmed by panic as it bloomed in her chest. A blur of strained wriggling and a final push was what managed to free her from the demolished inside of the car, sending her crashing to the concrete.

All she could do was lay there, the safety glass poking sharply against her skin, chest heaving in and out as she tried to catch her breath. All that greeted her was the sound of her own heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears, deafening. It was like every last muscle in her body was shaking of its own volition, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. All she could do was lay there and wait until sirens approached.

Santana couldn't focus on the EMT's as they rushed out of the ambulance, not even when their hands and eyes seemed to be everywhere, examining her. They had her on a gurney faster than she could process, and she was heaved into the back of the truck. Straps were pulled tight around her, bright lights blinding in comparison to the darkness she'd been blanketed in outside, forcing her eyes shut.

Once she did, there was no going back. She was just so exhausted, like every last bit of her energy had bled out against the pavement. She couldn't even find it in her to open her eyes again, to brave the painful lights or the concerned looks. She just kept her eyes shut and let herself drift, the sirens and voices slowly fading away until all she could hear was a whisper.

"Wake up."

When Santana woke, it was once again to blinding lights and the beeping of machines. She immediately shut her eyes again, not wanting to face the impossible task of adjusting to the brightness just yet. What the fuck happened? She had just been driving over to Brittany's house after dinner, like she always did. One minute, she'd been trying to send a text to the blonde to let her know that she was on her way, and the next she'd had headlights in her face.

"Fuck…" She barely recognized her own voice, it was like someone had taken sandpaper to her throat. God, this was so dumb. If she'd just been paying attention, maybe she could have avoided that fucking SUV and she wouldn't be in this mess.

"San…?" A familiar voice sounded meekly from Santana's right, forcing her eyes open once more. It took a hand to shield some of the light and a moment of blinking for everything to stop being blurry, but Brittany's form slowly came into view from a chair against the wall. As soon as the blonde realized she was awake, she was up and out of her chair in an instant, striding over to the bed and grabbing the hand that wasn't preoccupied with IVs and monitors.

"Hey, Britt." Santana managed, lips painfully cracked. Speaking hurt like hell all over, so did breathing for that matter, but it was Brittany. She had never been able to deny the girl anything.

"I got really worried when you didn't come over to my house last night." Guilt began to pour into her gut when she noticed her friend's red, puffy eyes, like she had been crying all night. Knowing her, she probably had. "It got really late, so I called your mom and dad and they said you were in an accident and were in the hospital so I made my mom bring me here."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not mad. I was just scared."

"You don't have to be, I think I'm okay." With her free hand, Santana checked beneath the thin hospital blanket, finding a large section of her abdomen covered with secured gauze. Vaguely, she could remember getting cut, at least the pain of it. Gently, Brittany squeezed her hand, forcing Santana's gaze back up to meet her baby blues.

"I'm glad you didn't die."

Santana didn't know what to say.

Before too long, Brittany was forced out and her parents filed in, followed closely by a doctor. The look of relief on their faces only added to the guilty, which sank low in her gut. This was ridiculous, she didn't even know why she felt so guilty, besides making herself unable to avoid the oncoming car. What the hell had actually happened, anyway? What she could remember felt like a dream. Bits and pieces were missing entirely. Hell, she didn't even know what had happened to her physically to land her in the hospital. Luckily, the question was answered without her even having to ask.

"Santana, you were in a bad car accident last night. A drunk driver drifted across the center line and hit you head on. You were really lucky to escape with only a few cuts and bruises. The worst is on your stomach, which it seems you got from pulling yourself out of the car. It needed stitches, so we're going to have to ask you to take it easy for a while. You're going to be sore for a while, and you probably won't heal up for a few weeks at least. For as bad as your crash was, your state right now is a miracle." Santana just stared at the doctor as he spoke. The crash wasn't her fault, and she'd managed to walk away from it with nothing but a few minor injuries. She wanted to be thankful, but she couldn't.

Quietly, she murmured a thank-you to the doctor before he left the room, leaving her alone with her parents. For the longest time, they just stared, making Santana squirm. She always hated it when people stared at her for too long, especially like this. She couldn't tell if they were going to yell at her for not paying enough attention or if they were going to break down into thankful tears. Neither happened, and she wasn't really surprised.

"How are you feeling, mija?" Her mom sounded tired, like they had been up all night. They probably had.

"Sore, and really tired, but I'm okay." Santana even managed a tiny smile, just for them. "Are you mad at me?"

"Why would we be mad?" Santana just shrugged. "We're just so thankful that you're okay, Santana. I don't know about your mami, but there's really nothing else I could feel right now except for thankfulness."

Santana nodded, allowing her mind to drift when she realized that her parents were content to simply be in the room with her, knowing that she was awake. Maybe it just reassured them that she was really going to be alright, she didn't know, but it was nice to have a moment to think.

It had been a terrible accident, that much she'd pulled from both what the doctor had said and how her parents were acting. How the fuck had she walked away from it with nothing but a deep cut and some bruises? Was everyone just overreacting? She doubted it. While her parents were the type to, she didn't think that the doctor would over exaggerate something like this. The only question she could think to gauge the severity of the situation was a blunt one, but she'd never been known for her tact.

"Papi, what happened to the other guy?"

There was a long pause where her father was silent, his dark eyes shifting from the floor to her and back again.

"He died."

It was only one more night. Just one more night alone before she could go home and sleep in her own bed and watch something other than horrible soap operas and court TV. It would all go away when she had other things to think about, school, Glee, Cheerios. She just had to make it through one more night alone with nothing but her thoughts.

It was all just so overwhelming, her feelings, curiosities, everything washed over her and she had no idea where to even begin. She had been messing with her phone, then headlights, then the crash, blackness, pulling herself out of the car and then the ambulance. Everything was just too foggy to actually remember anything worth focusing on, but she just couldn't stop.

Phone, headlights, crash, blackness.

There was definitely a part she just couldn't remember. A whole chuck of time where she was pretty sure she was unconscious. The doctor hadn't mentioned any head injuries. Maybe it wasn't important? Still, she couldn't even feel a bruise. Shouldn't she feel a bruise if she'd hit her head hard enough to be knocked unconscious? It just didn't feel right.

All she could remember, and she wasn't sure 'remember' was the right word, was a whisper. It was so impossibly quiet and so hazy that she wasn't sure if it had happened at all. It wasn't anything fantastic, it was just a voice, a girl's voice, whispering a command that she had obeyed.

"Wake up."

It played over and over again in Santana's head as she tried to sleep, and it didn't even bring her any closer to figuring out what the hell it meant. Even if she had made it up, where the fuck did something like that come from? It didn't make sense.

She ended up staying awake for most of the night.

"I think it's a good thing you weren't at school today." Brittany shattered the calm silence in the sudden way that she usually did, and for the first time in their friendship, Santana jumped. Brittany didn't seem to notice, so she just ignored the sudden rush of adrenaline and tried to regard her with the same hint of amusement that she always did.

"How come? Did something happen?"

"Not really, you just would've punched Puck and I don't think fighting's good for your stitches." It was like she thought that that completely clarified the situation. In her mind, it probably did, but Santana wasn't following.

"What did Puck do now?"

"He was being a jerk to Quinn again. I know you hate it when he does that to her."

Santana pushed back the flare of anger as quickly as it came. It wouldn't do any good for her to lose her temper over something she couldn't even do anything about, at least not now, and it certainly wouldn't help her recover when stacked on top of the persistent feeling that something was wrong. The doctors had said that she might be emotional for a while, post traumatic stress or something like that, but it just didn't feel like it. It wasn't like she was having flashbacks or anything like that, something just felt off. It bothered her, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out where the hell the feeling stemmed from. Like an itch she couldn't scratch. Under normal circumstances, she would be content to just give up and let go of the whole situation, but she just couldn't. Not when it felt like the feeling was getting worse. It didn't help that it was keeping her on edge, making her go from zero to enraged even faster than usual.

"I wouldn't have punched him." It was almost like she had to force the words out. "Remember how I said I can't do that shit for Quinn anymore? I really can't. I would have waited until he did something else petty and stupid and I would have punched him twice as hard. But it wouldn't have been today."

Brittany giggled slightly, making Santana's eyes narrow. It wasn't exactly a laughing matter, the whole situation, and the blonde was the only one she'd ever explained everything to. It wasn't like she could forget exactly how terrifying the whole thing had been for her. How terrifying it still was, sometimes.

"I dunno why you're such a scaredy cat about it. It's not like Quinn will know just cause you do nice stuff for her. She'll just think you're being a good friend." Santana sighed softly, setting down the magazine she'd been reading.

"I can't be her friend, Britt, we've gone over this."

"You won't be her friend cause you're scared you'll kiss her again, I know." Brittany caught her gaze, an uncharacteristic seriousness painted on her face. It was the look she only gave her when they talked about Quinn, and it almost made Santana feel sick. As sick as she did that night, when she turned up on Brittany's porch, soaked by summer rain. At least it hid the tears. "Quinn isn't dumb. She probably already knows you like her, anyway."

"Don't say that." Adrenaline pumped through her veins again, feeling of fear not helped by the fact that she was constantly on edge. She just wanted to run and hide and never face Quinn fucking Fabray ever again.

It was Brittany's turn to shrug, substituting it for the end of the conversation. Their silence was a lot more uncomfortable than usual. Santana was overwhelmed by her own thoughts, again, while she knew that Brittany was thinking she was acting stupid and childish. Maybe it was stupid and childish, but she couldn't help that she was scared out of her mind about the whole thing. She always had been.

It had been a year since she'd decided that she and Quinn couldn't be friends, for both of their sakes.

They were fifteen and drunk, giggling uncontrollably as they left some jock's party, stumbling back towards Santana's thankfully empty house. Quinn had managed to snake her arm around Santana's waist, using it to keep from falling over, and she could barely focus on anything other than how pleasant the warmth was against her side. She just couldn't stop grinning, the alcohol-induced warmth hiding a blush that certainly would have graced her cheeks had she been sober. Quinn never failed to tease her about it, especially when they were alone. It was easy to act like she hated it, like she did with everything, but she honestly like the attention. She knew Quinn knew, and she couldn't help but wonder if that was why the girl kept on teasing her. When it came to Quinn and Brittany, she didn't even care that they both managed to see through her façade. As far as she could tell, they were the only ones. It needed to stay that way.

Even though it was uncomfortable, she couldn't stop herself from letting her guard down around her best friends. She let them see bits and pieces of her that she didn't dare share with anyone else. In a lot of ways, she'd cherished it. It wasn't like she got to be open very often, and it felt nice to feel so close to someone. It was the only reason she let Quinn fall completely into her arms when she tripped on the front step.

"God, you're terrible at holding your liquor." Santana mumbled against Quinn's hair, her arms wrapped tightly around the blonde in a valiant effort to keep them both upright as she giggled into her chest. Forcing the key into the lock was a difficult task when she was both drunk and supporting almost all of Quinn's weight, especially when the girl did absolutely nothing to help her efforts to get inside of her house. Finally, the key turned, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground. Quinn managed to stand on her own as Santana locked the door behind them.

"I think we should definitely lie down." Santana followed her unsteady steps up the stairs and along the familiar path to her room. They kicked off their shoes as soon as they crossed the threshold, and Quinn flopped down face-first on the bed.

"I'm pretty sure I've never had so much fun at a party." Her words were muffled by the comforter, but Santana still managed to decipher them, crawling under the covers on the opposite side of the bed as best she could with Quinn on top of them.

"Just admit that it's because I was there, because we both know that's the reason." Quinn giggled as she struggled beneath the covers and rolled over, their arms pressed together.

"You're kind of an arrogant bitch, you know that?"

"Yep. And alcohol makes you mouthy." Quinn slapped her lightly, making her laugh, which in turn made the blonde roll to face Santana.

"You're not supposed to laugh when someone hits you!" Santana shrugged, turning to face her friend, who still managed to look gorgeous even when she was barely illuminated by the light coming in through her window. It was enough to spark the fire, the one she always managed to quell when she was sober but just couldn't seem to force away when drunk. It was want and need, two things she was pretty familiar with, coupled with something else.

It was probably love. Deep down, she knew it, but it was easy to force away. Easier. If you don't acknowledge something, it will go away eventually. It had to. Despite all her efforts, her body still didn't have the same idea as her mind.

"It's just because your hitting is super adorable. I can't help it." Santana wasn't sure when their faces got that close, so close that their noses were nearly brushing. Her breath hitched as Quinn fell quiet, like she was trying to figure out what to do. She could feel the pull, how easy it would be to move just a few inches forward and close the gap, and from the way Quinn caught her gaze she could tell that she felt it, too.

In a blur of motion, Quinn's lips were attached to her own, kissing her with such ferocity that Santana was momentarily thrown off. Their lips moved in a rhythm, like their bodies knew exactly what to do, even if they'd never done this before. It wasn't like she'd never made out with someone, she had, but it had never felt like this. There had never been such a fire, one that sent warmth from her head to her toes. It was so much to take in, the feeling of Quinn's fingers in her hair and her smooth skin beneath her fingertips. She gasped as Quinn's lips found their way to the shell of her ear, doing nothing to quell the burning.

It was easy for Santana to lose track of time, to forget just how long they'd been doing this. Just kissing, languidly, a dance of lips and tongues and skin that she couldn't fully comprehend. If she was being honest, she never wanted it to end. It just seemed so perfect. Too perfect.

As the sun rose above the horizon and Santana woke with Quinn's arm around her waist and her body pressed tightly against her back, she realized that she couldn't stop her heart from beating wildly in her chest. She couldn't control herself.

She couldn't let that happen again.

Despite her parents' convictions, Santana went back to school three days after the accident. She was tired of sitting around and doing nothing, especially when she knew people were talking about what happened to her. She wasn't going to let her whole reputation go to shit by not coming back as soon as possible. It wasn't like she wasn't affected by the accident, she was, but she'd never let anyone know. Pretending not to care was kind of her thing, and she'd worked hard for that. She wasn't going to throw that away, even if all she wanted to do was talk to Glee club about how weird she'd been feeling, how she got a sick feeling in her gut every time she tried to remember what exactly had happened that day.

It was like she wasn't supposed to have the answers, and that pissed her off more than anything else. She was Santana fucking Lopez, she always got what she wanted, especially when she wanted it this bad. It was infuriating, but at least it made it easy to put on her bitch face the minute she walked through the double doors.

The satisfaction in knowing that she still terrified the whole school was enough to carry her through the day. Her thoughts stole her attention, so much so that she didn't even realize that she'd come to the choir room fifteen minutes early rather than five minutes late. By the time she realized it, it was too late to go back. The only people in the room were Rachel and Finn, both practicing their vocals, while Quinn sat alone in one of the chairs. It wasn't unusual for her to look sad lately, ever since Jacob Ben Israel released the truth of her condition. Every time she saw that look, it never failed to remind her of when Quinn demanded to know why she just suddenly stopped talking to her.

As always, there was a tiny sliver of Santana that ached every time she saw those mournful eyes. And, as always, she forced it away.

Quinn shot up and out of her seat faster than Santana thought a pregnant girl could move, making lengthy strides towards her. It was as intimidating as always, and she wasn't quite sure if she was going to get slapped across the face or not. All it did was leave her even more unprepared for the tight hug Quinn pulled her in to. Shock kept her frozen, arms awkwardly at her sides while Quinn squeezed the hell out of her. It was the most contact they'd had in a year, outside of Cheerios practice, and it certainly wasn't helping the giant pile of confusion already muddling her mind. It seemed to take forever for Quinn to release her, and the moment she did Santana took a quick step back.

"Brittany told me what happened. I'm so glad you're okay."

Just like that, Quinn shattered the unspoken rule that they'd built. Don't acknowledge your feelings, and certainly don't voice them. Santana had given her no reason to continue to care for her, but still, it seemed she did.

Santana couldn't say she still cared, she wouldn't. Not when she couldn't even figure out if she was happy to be alive.

It was a week after the accident when the dreams started.

At first, she figured it was just her subconscious trying to sort things out, that her dreams were super weird because of all the stress. It kind of freaked her out, but that was normal, right? They were always so disjointed that she could barely pull any meaning from them, so she did her best to brush them aside. It became clear after the first few restless nights that they weren't going to give her any straight answers.

When she began having dreams every single night, dreams that she could always recall with startling clarity, she began to really worry. Her dreams had never been vivid, not like this. She could remember the feeling of soft grass against her skin, the weight of arms around her, the smell of a particular perfume, and they haunted her well into the day.

It was both distracting and unnerving, but it wasn't like she could tell anyone about it. What could she possibly say? That she'd been having weird feelings about everything since the accident, and now she was having creepily vivid dreams every night? They would just write it off as something normal, like post-traumatic stress, and that would be more frustrating than keeping mum.

It wasn't normal, she knew it wasn't.

Every time Puck opened his fucking smug mouth, Santana wanted to punch him in the face. It was like he was a child incapable of critical thinking, like he couldn't focus long enough on anyone else other than himself to realize the consequences of his actions. He was just walking all over Quinn, again, refusing to step up to the plate and actually do something. Quinn had every right to call him on his attitude, but he always acted like she was being ridiculous.

She wasn't.

Fucking Puck and his inability to be a good person for once in his life. He couldn't even manage to pull it together long enough to get a real damn job and take care of his kid and the girl he'd knocked up. Sure, it wasn't like they loved each other or were devoted or anything, but it was the decent thing to do to help her out. Still, he refused, and acted like he had the right to. If she wasn't so fucking pissed she would've realized just how hypocritical she was being, but it wasn't like she would've apologized to Puck for thinking he was a stupid ass.

After all, she was angry enough to break her cardinal rule. She walked over to her as Puck left the room, turning his back on her for the millionth time.

"Sorry he's an asshole." It wasn't elegant or deep like it probably should've been, for the first time they'd talked in a long time, but she didn't really care. There was no graceful way to launch into it. She was a Lopez, anyway, so she just threw herself into the deep end and hoped she wouldn't drown.

"Whatever. What else could I really expect from the Puckasaurus?" The disdain nearly made Santana chuckle, and in her attempt to hold it back, her face contorted into a grimace.

"You deserve better." The look of shock on Quinn's face made it almost worth the momentary lapse in mental filter. At least until her self-preservation kicked into high gear and forced her mouth shut. Thankfully, Quinn didn't reply, her mouth opening and closing like she didn't really know what to say. It was hard enough to force her pulse to stop racing wildly and to focus on breathing, she couldn't deal with awkward conversation on top of it.

That was exactly what the whole exchange was: awkward. Painfully so, but still, she couldn't make herself regret it.

Two weeks and Santana still couldn't shake the idea that something was wrong with the whole situation. She mentioned it once to her dad, but just like the doctors, he brushed it off. Post-traumatic stress, he'd said. She was just pushing herself too much, going too hard too soon. After all, the other driver had died. She was just overwhelmed.

Santana knew it wasn't that, she knew, but she shrugged the feelings away and continued with her life the best she could. What other choice did she have?

It's a woman that haunts her more than anything else.

The dreams aren't even eventful. It's always just simple things, like cooking breakfast, or cuddling, nothing serious. But still, Santana just can't get her out of her head. In particular, there was an image that stuck with her of the woman lying in bed next to her, the morning sun spilling brightly onto her skin. She was like a fucking crazy person, because once she saw that image behind her eyes, she concentrate on anything. It was like she was being slowly consumed, drowned by the hand of someone she didn't know.

She knows exactly what the feeling is, the burning need seeded deep in her chest, but she wasn't going to say it. It was a goddamn dream.. It would never be real, and it was ridiculous for her to feel such a strong sense of loss every time she woke up. It didn't make sense.

She'd never even seen the woman's face.

Fuck, she'd even decided a long time ago that love wasn't meant for her. It only complicated things and made her feel terrible, like she was a piece of shit person who didn't deserve to have people close to her. Love had never made her happy before. Not until the fucking dreams started. Maybe that was why it felt so wrong? She definitely wasn't meant to fall in love, not like fucking romance novels. It just wasn't her.

Hearing a contented sigh from the other side of the bed, Santana rolled over, her lips automatically curling into a smile. She was met with an exposed back, the pale, smooth flesh ungodly enticing. Gently, she placed a kiss to the woman's shoulder blade, mumbling against her skin.

"Good morning, baby…"

She was starting to get royally pissed. It didn't matter how much she exhausted herself, or how void she tried to make her mind before she fell asleep, she always ended up having a goddamn dream. The only comfort she had was that they stopped being all about that fucking woman.

Every dream with littered with people and places she didn't know, but she was supposed to. It was like being in a persistent moment of déjà vu. They weren't even scary, or unsettling. Most of the time, they were so goddamn happy that Santana couldn't take it. It was just unnatural for her to be that happy, even in dreams, and it felt even more wrong for her to revel in the feeling. She found herself wishing that she would never wake up, creeping in between her racing thoughts, making her sick to her stomach. It was like her subconscious believed that her dreams were a step up from the mental hell she faced every day. Hell, maybe they were, and the fact that she thought that was the problem.

"This fucking sucks…" She muttered to herself, rolling out of bed and heading to the shower to try and wash away the sick feeling in her stomach, to cleanse her mind. It never worked, but at least it made her feel a little bit better. Even Brittany had been no help in cheering her up.

"Why are good dreams making you so sad? I mean, if they're good, shouldn't you feel good too?" Santana just sighed at her friend's response. That was exactly the problem, she couldn't feel good. It was like she was missing a huge puzzle piece that was right in front of her face. Nothing had ever made her feel so inferior before. Fuck, if she couldn't even figure out what the hell was going on with her, how could she do anything else?

Santana didn't really know what her parents expected, if they thought that she would open up to a total stranger just because she was feeling bad and wouldn't tell them why. If trying to talk it out with her closest friend didn't work, how would telling some therapist help? It didn't matter how well educated he was, he was never going to know her better than she did.

"So, your parents mentioned that you were in a very bad car accident a few weeks ago, and since then you haven't been talking to them." His tone was enough to irritate Santana right off the bat, and she crossed her arms tightly against her chest.

"I know they're worried, but I'm fine. I just haven't really felt like talking lately."

"The other driver in the accident, he died, right?" Santana nodded. "Do you think you might feel guilty for what happened?"

"No. It wasn't my fault. He was drunk and he hit me. Why would I feel guilty about that?"

"Alright. Your parents also mentioned that you haven't really been sleeping since the accident."

"I have bad dreams." She wasn't really quite sure where along the line she decided to be truthful, but it was already out in the open and there was no taking it back.

"About the accident?"

"No."

"Well, do you mind me asking what they're about?"

"People I don't know, but I know they're my friends. Places I don't know, but I know I live there. They all just make me feel sick and it's pissing me off. When I get angry, I don't talk much. There you go, problem solved."

"Santana, I don't think that's really the heart of the issue. Did you have these dreams before the accident?"

"No."

"So, do you have any idea why you might be having them?"

"If I did, they wouldn't be pissing me off so much, and I wouldn't be here paying you to be completely useless."

That one seemed to get to him, and he faltered. It took fifteen minutes of his questioning for her to finally get sick of listening to his condescending voice.

"Okay, listen. My parents wanted me to come here because they thought it would help, and obviously this isn't doing shit, so I'm going to go waste my time somewhere else." With that, she stood, turning and walking out of the room without listening to his protests. The minute she was outside, she reached into her pocket for her phone, following the familiar path to Brittany's number.

For a moment, she couldn't help but go back to right before the accident, when she'd been doing the same thing. It was the reason why she hadn't been able to swerve out of his path. It was the reason he'd died. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she willed the thoughts away as the dial tone echoed in her ear. Finally, Brittany picked up, greeting her as cheerily as she always did.

"Hey, wanna hang out?"

Santana grinned softly, capturing her attention. She couldn't quite make out her face. It was like there was a fog over it, one that was keeping her from remembering.

"I love you." It was nearly lost in the chatter echoing in the small bar, but she could tell the woman heard her. Their kiss was quick, chaste, but Santana still felt her heart swell.

Why had this happened to her, out of everyone? There were plenty of other people on the road, plenty of other inattentive drivers. So many chances for things to turn out differently. Why did it happen to her?

It had been a long time since she'd believed in God, since she was eleven and refused to go to Church. It took a while, but eventually her parents stopped trying to make her. She didn't believe in fate, or predetermination. There was just chance, which meant that a million different events needed to turn out just right for this to happen to her. One little change, and everything would have been different.

She didn't believe in God, but she couldn't stop thinking that this was some sort of sign. Part of her wanted to scoff, to blow it off as some freak accident and leave it at that, but she just couldn't drop it. What if it was? What if it was supposed to be a wake-up call, that all these dreams and all her guilt were meant to push her to something? Something better?

She'd never been a good person. Selfishness was the way to push her forward, to push through the ranks. She never really thought about other people, not in the long run. Maybe the disgust she'd felt since the accident, the way she always felt sick to her stomach, meant something.

The accident was kind of pointless, if it was supposed to be a wake-up call. She'd always known that she was bad news. She was like a bull in a china shop, she destroyed everything around her. She used people to her advantage, and then threw them away when they stopped being useful.

She was never a good person, not really.

It had never made her sick to her stomach before. In fact, she'd always kind of been proud of her skill in manipulation. Her ability to not become attached to anyone or anything. Of course, a lot of it was just fueled by her reputation, but she was proud of the fact that she'd managed to build that, too. She'd created Santana Lopez, molding her into exactly what she'd always wanted to be.

Untouchable.

Badass.

Perfect.

She wasn't any of those things, not really, but there was no way in hell that she was going to let people know that. The real Santana was vulnerable and emotional and weak.

Santana Lopez was nothing like that. She was a bitch, not afraid to go after a person's biggest weaknesses. She channeled her anger into physical fury, forcing the school into submission with her tongue and her fists. She was perfect at everything Santana was not.

Nausea settled deep in her stomach, making her dizzy, and she suddenly felt like crying.

Santana Lopez was a monster, a monster that she'd created on purpose.

It was repulsive.

Its three weeks later when a seed plants in Santana's head.

She was just laying on her bed, staring blankly out the window, music softly disturbing the silence. For the hundredth time, she was reprocessing the situation, looking for a detail she might've missed, anything that would explain why she was feeling the way she was.

Anything that would explain why she lived when he didn't.

Cell phone, crash, blackout. Blackout was where she always got stuck, where something nagged at her and just wouldn't stop. She could barely remember what had happened. Had she hit her head? She must've, she could vaguely remember pain right before she blacked out.

When she woke up, her head didn't hurt at all. Everything else did, but she'd been trapped between her seat and the steering column. She'd hit her head, she knew she did, but there was absolutely no head pain. Her parents had mentioned that they'd run all kinds of tests to make sure that there was no internal bleeding and no brain injury. They'd all come back clear.

Santana cradled her head in her hands, eyes shut, focusing everything she had on trying to remember. She'd pulled out her phone and started to pull up Brittany's number to let her know that she was coming over, the headlights got her attention, the SUV slammed into driver's side of the front of her car.

She'd screamed, chest pain, head pain, nothing. There was no way she could've hit her head that hard with no injuries. The one time she got a concussion from Cheerios didn't even hurt as bad as that. Something fucking happened, and she just couldn't remember it.

"Fuck." She threw herself back on the bed, covering her eyes with her hand, trying to focus on the moment that she'd blacked out. Maybe she'd had a crazy-people dream, like the ones she'd been having since the accident. Maybe hitting her head had even triggered them. It made sense, but nothing really came to mind. The unconsciousness only lasted what felt like a second, no dreams, nothing. She sighed.

The other guy was dead when the paramedics got there. He'd been drunk, and he was driving an SUV, things that should have given him a leg up. He shouldn't have died, not if she lived, sober and in her tiny Jetta. They'd both been wearing their seatbelts, both been going fast, too fast, and they'd hit each other head on. If he died, she should've died, too. There was no logical reason for her to be alive.

And, just like that, the idea sunk its claws in.

Maybe she'd died.

The minute she thought of it, she wanted to forget.