Victim (Glee)

15. Heartache

No more school for Santana. That was my new motto. No. More. School. I hadn't been in school for the past one and a half week. I faked being sick to both my parents and friends. I was doing a hell of a good job. I had gotten calls from Mercedes, once from Tina. I had also gotten texts from Brittany and that Brittany poser. I answered none of the texts. I didn't have time for more games. I had myself to sort out, games took too much time. I hadn't left my bed in a week, basically. I was done.. I felt like everything was useless. It felt like no matter how hard I tried, or how much I fought it - I always turned out to be the victim of something around here. Back home, it was the other way around. I guess that was the right time to start believing in karma. And it really is a bitch.

I tried to go to the kitchen and make myself something to eat but just ended up going back to bed, empty handed. My parents were working so it meant I was home alone for all these days until around 4pm everyday. That's when my mom came home most days. The only positive results I got from staying home was that I hadn't hurt myself in a week - and the negative thing was that I started to think about hurting myself in places people could see because I thought I wouldn't go to school anyway so who the hell cares if they're visible?

Me and Brittany didn't talk ever since she sent me that text, the real Brittany's number. She texted me several times after it, even called me some times, I never answered. When the fake number called or texted, I didn't answer either. I was scared of finding out who would be on the other line - every part of me that could ever trust another human being went away. Every damn part of it. I could barely trust my own mother anymore. However, I felt bad for ignoring Brittany, but it was time I started feeling bad for myself instead. I mean, ever since I moved here, things hadn't gone well, not even one day. There was always something, always someone. So I decided to hide from it all. Faking being sick was my get away from the constant fear, from the constant feeling of being worried. I looked at the clock. One hour left until my mom got home. I looked back at the times and I found myself pressing my face into my pillow. How could I become this? I blame New York for all of it. I blame this damn city, I cursed it. I decided to try this sleeping thing I hadn't done in a while. Three hours of sleep per night drives you insane. I should be in a mental instution by now. All these thoughts, the self harming.. It was a lot for me. I looked at the clock on my phone - 3.30pm. I placed it back on the nightstand and turned my face to the fall and closed my eyes. A beep stopped me from falling into that dark place again instead of sleeping, you know, that place inside your mind that makes you think about doing bad things?

"Hey you.. I know you're still not talking to me.. I wish you did though. But I have nothing to say. I mean.. um.. I don't know. I don't even know if I could call us real friends from the beginning, did we even get there? I don't want to make this text too long.. So feel better. I hope we'll see each other soon. Brittany."

I had gotten the same type of texts from her every two days during this one and a half week. I didn't feel anything anymore, I expected them to come although I always did the same thing - opened the text, half assed read it - put the phone back where it was.

I shut my eyes again. This time, that dark place attacked me. It reminded me of all the bad things that happened, all the bad things I have done to myself. Come on, Santana. Go. It was like whispers in my head. It annoyed me so much, it was breaking my insides, it was making me fall into pieces without noticing it myself until I woke up one day with so much hate inside me for nothing. I sat up on the bed, I looked at the bathroom door, it was right outside my room, it was open. It was inviting me in. Encouraging me. I stood up, straightened my shirt, brushed my hair with my hand. I got a quick feeling of dizziness.

"Where is that damn thing?" I mumbled to myself as I kept looking around the bathroom for the blade.

I opened the locker where I used to keep it, hidden inside my "face creme" keeper. It wasn't in there either. I looked around the bathroom and thought of other places I could keep it but that and under the washing machine was the only two places I kept it. Who the hell could have taken it? My mother? No. My dad? absolutely not. I was utterly disappointed, I was looking forward to create something I could hate myself even more for. I decided to place it on my arm this time, maybe by the wrist. The reason I did this, it wasn't to look at something bloody, it wasn't because it was fun, obviously. The reason I began cutting myself almost two months ago was because the instant thoughts that hit my head as I walked into the locker room, or my room, or school. The thoughts that hit me wherever I went, they became too hard to wrestle. I hoped that feeling physical pain, the pain of something else for a change, would maybe make me get my mind off everything that kept haunting my thoughts. Guess what? It made it worse, because whenever I looked at my scars, I remembered the reason to every each one of them. I see the scene of when it happened in my head. It gave me something new to wrestle in my head. And the reason to why I couldn't stop doing it, was because during the exact moment the blade got pressed against my skin - during the moment the blood slowly starting to drop on the floor in small forms - I actually felt a light swell of happiness in my chest for some quick seconds, because for some seconds, I didn't feel the mental pain.