a/n: Ever since the Valentine's Day episode, when Rachel told Santana that the only job she would have would be working on a pole, this story would not leave me alone. I decided to get over the fact that I haven't written anything in years, and try to do the story in my head some kind of justice. The title is shamelessly stolen from a Lady Gaga song (Scheiße) and the characters themselves belong to Ryan Murphy, Fox, etc.

Please review. I'm unsure whether or not I want to continue, having not written in so long. Whether you like it or hate it, please let me know. Anonymous reviews are okay, too. :)

i wish i could be strong without somebody there

chapter one

The truth is Santana, you can dish it out but you can't take it. Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe I am destined to play the title role in the Broadway musical version of Willow, but the only job you're going to have is working on a pole.

Every single night Santana Lopez strutted onto the stage of the divey strip joint she worked at, she heard the words of Rachel Berry ringing in her ears. She would take a deep breath, close her eyes, and curse both herself and her former classmate. She would shake thoughts of Berry, and her own wasted potential out of her head and do what she had always done best: blatantly flaunted her sexuality in ways that were beneficial to her.

It was never the life that Santana had wanted, but it was the one she had ended up with. She had planned on going to college and studying something like psychology or maybe accounting; anything she was good at and that could get her a job. Santana had even decided that she wanted to keep singing, just because it was the only thing that made her truly happy and allowed her the freedom to express herself.

Jose and Maria Lopez were happy for their mischievous daughter. Santana had always been a troublemaker, and they were proud of her when she announced her acceptance and subsequent plans to attend the college of her choice. Her mother had pulled her close and kissed the top of her head, telling her how proud she was of the girl. Her father had smiled at her tenderly, and told her that he always knew she would do great things, and that he would pay for her education. For the rest of the school year, she had walked down the halls of McKinley with her head held high, happy to continue torturing lesser beings secure in the knowledge that she finally had her parents' support instead of their disapproval and that she was finally going to get away from all the Lima Losers around her.

Her happiness further grew when the Glee Club continued to perform well at competitions. Her senior year had the best one she'd had at that ridiculous excuse for a high school. The Club had recruited new members to sway in the background happily as she and her fellow seniors led the Club to ultimate victory at both Sectionals and Regionals. Santana had even started being openly nice to her teammates (or at least insulting them less), and when New Directions won Nationals, she had hugged every single one of them.

Santana was ready to ride the wave of happiness and contentment all the way through the final month of school and into her university life, until the Glee Club came home from Nationals, and her whole life fell apart.

As soon as she had walked through the door, a smile on her face and her overnight bag slung over her shoulder, she knew something was wrong. Everything was quiet, too quiet, and she could hear the faint sound of crying coming from the living room.

She had moved into the room slowly, dread settling into the pit of her stomach as she had seen her mother sitting on the couch. She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper tightly in her hands. Santana's father stood at the window, staring outside silently.

"Mami, what's wrong?" she had asked, darting her eyes between her parents.

Her mother had only sobbed, burying her face into the paper she held. Santana's father had turned around, a deep frown set on his face, and stared at his only daughter.

"Santana, is it true?"

Her brow had furrowed. "Is what true?" she had asked, her voice trembling slightly as she felt her heart jump into her throat. They know. A very short letter written but never sent would be her downfall.

"Don't play stupid, mija," he had growled at her. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Santana had just stood in the doorway of the living room dumbly, her body and her mouth frozen while her mind went into overdrive. Oh, god, they know; they know; they know; they know.

She had finally managed to gather enough wits about her to realize that she needed to say something. The silence had stretched on for several minutes now. "It was just a joke, dad. We were just messing around."

Enraged, her father ripped the paper from her mother's grasp. He had started at the paper he held like it might burn him. "Brittany, I'm ready to come out. I love you. This is a joke to you, Santana?" he had screamed, his anger causing his daughter's eyes to fill with tears. "Do you think we're stupid?"

Santana had remained silent, staring at her shoes and watching as the pattern on them blurred.

Maria Lopez finally stood up. "Santana, look at me," she had whispered, waiting for her daughter to raise her head. "We can get you help. There are programs out there. You're just confused. That Brittany girl has just been putting ideas into your head," she had pleaded.

A silent tear had slipped out and Santana had gaped at her mother. "No, mami, I don't need to go into a program. Brittany didn't do anything to me. She just made me happy," Santana had whispered as more tears began to gather in her eyes.

Her vision was blurry, but she had still been able to see the look of absolute disgust on her father's face. She had felt dizzy and nauseous. Her father had never looked at her like that, not once; not when she had been brought home in the middle of the night by the police for underage drinking at a party, or suspended from school for a week for beating up an underclassmen who had insulted Britney; not when he had caught her having sex in her bedroom with Noah Puckerman, or trashed their house completely after throwing her own underage party. He had looked at her with disappoint or frustration as he lectured her, but he had never looked at her like this. Jose Lopez had looked at his only daughter with what could only be described as loathing. "Get out," he had whispered, turning away from her.

"What?" had been the only word she could say, staring at her father's back.

"Get out," he yelled, whipping around and pointing towards the door. "Get out of my house."

Her mother had only sobbed loudly as she fell back onto the couch, muttering what sounded like a prayer.

Fresh tears had gathered in her eyes as she turned around and numbly walked to the door. She had walked out of the house she grew up and never looked back.

No, taking her clothes off for money had never been the life Santana Lopez had wanted. But it was the one she ended up with.

"That's your cue, kid," her manager muttered as one of the other girls walked past her.

The house music started up, and she shook her head, clearing it of any thoughts that might affect her performance. She always did well, and tonight would be no different. Words spoken at her in anger a lifetime ago rattled through her head, and she clenched her fists, trying to calm herself down.

Feeling the glare of her manager behind her, she sauntered out on to the stage to the sound of cheers and catcalls. As she wrapped one hand around the lone pole in the center of the stage, she looked out at her audience. There, sitting right in front of Santana Lopez, was the owner of the very voice that had haunted every day for four years: Rachel Berry.

The voice in her head snarled at her loud and clear: "The only job you're going to have is working on a pole."