Fic: Breakdowns and Breakthroughs (12/?)
Title: Breakdowns and Breakthroughs (12/?)
Pairing: Rachel/Santana
Rating: R fort this part
Word Count: 1691
Spoliers: None, really.
Disclaimer: Not at all like what I usually write. A little angsty, but knowing me, it’ll turn fluffy at some point. Some trauma triggers in there. Be warned.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don’t own these characters.
A/N: Thanks to my beta, sky_splitz for encouraging me to test out these new, angsty waters.
***Well, we're coming to a close pretty soon, guys. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, but I hope you like it. Once again, please continue to share your thoughts. Your comments have meant so much to me.***
Mr. Lane smiled and stood up, picking up a pitcher of water from his desk and walking over to the stand to refill Santana’s glass.
“You’ve been through a horrible ordeal, Ms. Lopez,” he said, after returning the water to his desk.
“Yes, I have,” Santana said, purposefully keeping her answers short and to the point.
“Would it be fair to say, do you think, that it was a traumatic experience?”
“Yes,” Santana said, warily.
“Do you have flashbacks to the event of April 12th?”
“Sometimes,” Santana replied. How could she not have flashbacks, especially when she had to relive that day over and over again for the trial.
“Did you feel numb, emotionally distant from your peers?”
“Not all the time,” Santana said.
“But you do sometimes? Feel emotionally distant, I mean.”
“Sometimes,” Santana confirmed.
“Have you had any nightmares?” Mr. Lane continued.
“Yes, but wouldn’t you have -”
“Thank you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said, cutting Santana off. “Is it true that you were sent to a trauma psychiatrist?”
“Yes, after I was released from the hospital,” Santana said, narrowing her eyes.
“And is it true that you were diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“Objection,” the DA shouted. “The victim cannot testify to somebody else’s diagnosis.”
“Your honor, the diagnosis was already released to us directly from the trauma psychiatrist who, unfortunately, died in a car accident last month and is therefore obviously absent from court today. Ms. Lopez would only be confirming what the court already knows.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “You can answer the question, Ms. Lopez.”
“Yes,” Santana said, closing her eyes for a moment as she took deep, calm breaths. “I was diagnosed with PTSD.”
“I’d like to introduce exhibit A,” Mr. Lane said, walking to his desk and picking up a piece of laminated paper. “This is a list of symptoms associated with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Ms. Lopez, can you please read the highlighted portion aloud.”
Santana took the document, glancing at Rachel to calm her nerves. It didn’t really help. “Flashbacks, nightmares, loss of interest in activities, difficulty falling or staying asleep, feeling jumpy and easily startled, and…”
“Go on, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said, smiling.
“Inability to remember important aspects of the trauma.”
“Inability to remember important aspects of the trauma,” Mr. Lane repeated, facing the jury.
“I remember everything that happened to me,” Santana said, her voice strong.
“Did you continue to see a therapist after your alleged attack?”
“No, I only went a few times,” Santana said softly.
“So you haven’t worked with a professional to come to terms with the events as you disclosed them?”
“No,” Santana said.
“There’s nobody who might have helped you fill in the blanks, nobody to attest to your continued progress?”
“No, but - ”
“So then you really can’t say that you remember everything, can you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said calmly, smiling at the jury. “After all, how would you know if you’re forgetting something when, by nature, forgetting means that you don’t remember?”
“I remember every single thing,” Santana said, sitting forward and speaking directly into the microphone. “I remember throwing up all over myself in the trunk of John White’s car. I remember the feeling of his skin underneath my finger nails. I remember the way it burned when he forced himself inside of me. I remember the cracked ribs and bruises all over my body. I remember the fear, the uncertainty, and every single moment of pain from the minute he grabbed me to the second I woke up this morning, terrified to come here and relive this. I haven’t blocked anything out. I haven’t forgotten anything.”
In the front row of the courtroom, Rachel swelled with pride and squeezed Mrs. Lopez’s hand. Next to her, Puck beamed.
“I’m not arguing that you don’t remember the details, Ms. Lopez,” the attorney said. “All I’m saying is that it’s possible that you’ve blocked some things out. Or are you somehow immune to certain symptoms?”
Santana said nothing.
“Ms. Lopez, do you believe that you’re physically or emotionally immune to particular symptoms of PTSD?”
“No,” Santana said, gritting her teeth.
“Then isn’t it possible that you’re experiencing loss of memory?”
“I’m not blocking - ”
“Ms. Lopez, I’m asking you whether or not it’s possible.”
“Yes,” Santana sighed. “It’s possible.”
“So, it’s possible that the events, as you remember them, might not be accurate?” Mr. Lane asked.
“I’m sorry, let me get this straight,” Santana said. “You’re asking me if it’s possible that I’ve dreamed up being attacked, beaten, and raped?”
“I’m asking you if it’s possible that what actually happened might be different from what you remember. Is it possible that the bruises on your ribs came from the strenuous cheerleading practice that you, yourself, testified to participating in?”
“It’s possible, sure,” Santana said, seething. “But we don’t throw punches in cheerleading?”
“So you’ve never been accidentally injured in cheerleading?”
“Of course I have, but - ”
“That’s fine, Ms. Lopez, thank you. You’ve answered my question,” Mr. Lane said, smiling. “I’d like to move on to something else now.”
“I’m all ears,” Santana said, sitting back in her chair.
“Watch it, Ms. Lopez,” the judge warned.
Santana sighed, and nodded, idly wondering when she became the defendant.
“Thank you, your honor,” Mr. Lane said, smiling. “Ms. Lopez, are you a lesbian?”
Santana’s eyes widened.
“Objection,” Richardson yelled. “Relevance?”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Move to a different line of questioning.”
Santana stared at him, shell shocked. She knew full well that Lane had expected the objection…he only wanted the jury to suspect she was gay. Rural Ohio, she thought, staring desperately at Rachel. How would that affect the jury’s view of her?
“Of course, your honor. Apologies,” Lane said, continuing. “You’ve stipulated that you were a virgin, prior to the events of April 12th?”
“Yes, I was a virgin prior to my attack,” Santana answered, emphasizing the key word. The word that Lane was actively avoiding.
“But your reputation at school seems to refute that.”
“What are you talking about?” Santana asked, sighing. She had been afraid that this was going to come up.
“Isn’t it true that you’re known as…how did one of your classmates put it…the village bicycle? Everybody gets a ride?”
“Objection!” the DA shouted, pounding her fist on the desk. “I can’t even pick a reason! Here say, badgering the witness, take your pick!”
“I’ll rephrase,” Mr. Lane said. “Santana, are you aware of your reputation as easy at school?”
“I’m aware of the rumors,’ Santana said. “But that doesn’t make them true.”
“No, it certainly does not,” Mr. Lane said. “So I assume, then, that you’ve actively sought to refute these rumors?”
“What do you mean?” Santana asked, furrowing her eyebrows.
“If, as you say, the rumors about you aren’t true, then you must have taken some action to prove their falseness.”
“Not really,” Santana replied uneasily.
“No? Why not?”
Santana remained silent, staring at Rachel, praying for help. Rachel just stared back at her, biting her lip.
“Ms. Lopez, answer the question,” the judge said.
“I…don’t know,” Santana said.
“Remember, Santana, you’re under oath,” Mr. Lane said. “So I’m going to ask again. Why haven’t you tried to disprove the rumors about you? Are the rumors true?”
“No, of course not,” Santana said, her eyes narrowing. “It’s just...”
“Just what, Ms. Lopez?”
“The reputation I have at school makes me popular.”
“Appearing to be easy makes you feel popular?” Mr. Lane asked, pacing in front of the stand. “Wanted? Desired, even?”
“I guess so,” Santana said, closing her eyes for a moment and praying that he’d finish with her soon. She was so tired.
“And you like to feel desired?”
“Who doesn’t like to feel desired,” Santana snapped.
“Your honor, permission to treat Ms. Lopez as a hostile witness,” Mr. Lane said.
“Granted,” the judge said.
“So, Santana, you’re okay with boys telling the entire school that they slept with you as long as it makes you feel desired and popular?”
“Having people think that you’re a slut doesn’t actually make you one,” Santana challenged.
“No, it doesn’t,” Mr. Lane agreed. “What matters to me, though, is that you’re okay with people thinking you are.”
“There’s a big difference,” Santana said, sitting up straight.
“A big difference between what and what?”
“I never stopped the rumors because I didn’t mind them,” Santana said. “I told your client no, I yelled at him, I screamed for him to stop. And he didn’t. I have the right - ”
“Thank you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said with a cheerful grin. “I only have one more question.”
Santana stared at him.
“Why did you call your friend Brittany after your alleged attack?”
“What do you mean?” Santana asked furiously. “I’d just been beaten and raped. I needed somebody with me.”
“Let me rephrase,” Mr. Lane said, stepping closer to the stand. “After such a traumatic experience, why didn’t you call your parents?”
Santana blinked. “I…they were busy. At work.”
“Don’t you think your parents would have dropped everything to come to you?”
“Of course, they would have,” Santana said, looking at her parents and then back at the defense attorney.
“Then why didn’t you call them?”
“I was ashamed,” Santana whispered.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Mr. Lane said, cupping his hand around his ear.
“I was ashamed,” Santana repeated.
“Ashamed of what?”
“I don’t know,” Santana said.
“Once again, Santana, I’m going to remind you that you’re under oath.”
“Okay, alright!” Santana said, snapping. “My parents know about my reputation at school. Lima is a small town, there’s nothing I can do about it. I didn’t call them because I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me!”
“Disappointed? If you were, as you’ve said, completely victimized…if this alleged attack was one hundred percent forced upon you, why would your parents be disappointed in you?”
“I don’t know, but -”
“Is it possible that you’re not as innocent as you’d like us to believe?” Mr. Lane asked, raising his voice.
“No, I’m…this wasn’t my fault!” Santana shouted.
Mr. Lane simply smiled. “No more questions, your honor.”
Pairing: Rachel/Santana
Rating: R fort this part
Word Count: 1691
Spoliers: None, really.
Disclaimer: Not at all like what I usually write. A little angsty, but knowing me, it’ll turn fluffy at some point. Some trauma triggers in there. Be warned.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don’t own these characters.
A/N: Thanks to my beta, sky_splitz for encouraging me to test out these new, angsty waters.
***Well, we're coming to a close pretty soon, guys. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, but I hope you like it. Once again, please continue to share your thoughts. Your comments have meant so much to me.***
Mr. Lane smiled and stood up, picking up a pitcher of water from his desk and walking over to the stand to refill Santana’s glass.
“You’ve been through a horrible ordeal, Ms. Lopez,” he said, after returning the water to his desk.
“Yes, I have,” Santana said, purposefully keeping her answers short and to the point.
“Would it be fair to say, do you think, that it was a traumatic experience?”
“Yes,” Santana said, warily.
“Do you have flashbacks to the event of April 12th?”
“Sometimes,” Santana replied. How could she not have flashbacks, especially when she had to relive that day over and over again for the trial.
“Did you feel numb, emotionally distant from your peers?”
“Not all the time,” Santana said.
“But you do sometimes? Feel emotionally distant, I mean.”
“Sometimes,” Santana confirmed.
“Have you had any nightmares?” Mr. Lane continued.
“Yes, but wouldn’t you have -”
“Thank you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said, cutting Santana off. “Is it true that you were sent to a trauma psychiatrist?”
“Yes, after I was released from the hospital,” Santana said, narrowing her eyes.
“And is it true that you were diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“Objection,” the DA shouted. “The victim cannot testify to somebody else’s diagnosis.”
“Your honor, the diagnosis was already released to us directly from the trauma psychiatrist who, unfortunately, died in a car accident last month and is therefore obviously absent from court today. Ms. Lopez would only be confirming what the court already knows.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “You can answer the question, Ms. Lopez.”
“Yes,” Santana said, closing her eyes for a moment as she took deep, calm breaths. “I was diagnosed with PTSD.”
“I’d like to introduce exhibit A,” Mr. Lane said, walking to his desk and picking up a piece of laminated paper. “This is a list of symptoms associated with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Ms. Lopez, can you please read the highlighted portion aloud.”
Santana took the document, glancing at Rachel to calm her nerves. It didn’t really help. “Flashbacks, nightmares, loss of interest in activities, difficulty falling or staying asleep, feeling jumpy and easily startled, and…”
“Go on, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said, smiling.
“Inability to remember important aspects of the trauma.”
“Inability to remember important aspects of the trauma,” Mr. Lane repeated, facing the jury.
“I remember everything that happened to me,” Santana said, her voice strong.
“Did you continue to see a therapist after your alleged attack?”
“No, I only went a few times,” Santana said softly.
“So you haven’t worked with a professional to come to terms with the events as you disclosed them?”
“No,” Santana said.
“There’s nobody who might have helped you fill in the blanks, nobody to attest to your continued progress?”
“No, but - ”
“So then you really can’t say that you remember everything, can you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said calmly, smiling at the jury. “After all, how would you know if you’re forgetting something when, by nature, forgetting means that you don’t remember?”
“I remember every single thing,” Santana said, sitting forward and speaking directly into the microphone. “I remember throwing up all over myself in the trunk of John White’s car. I remember the feeling of his skin underneath my finger nails. I remember the way it burned when he forced himself inside of me. I remember the cracked ribs and bruises all over my body. I remember the fear, the uncertainty, and every single moment of pain from the minute he grabbed me to the second I woke up this morning, terrified to come here and relive this. I haven’t blocked anything out. I haven’t forgotten anything.”
In the front row of the courtroom, Rachel swelled with pride and squeezed Mrs. Lopez’s hand. Next to her, Puck beamed.
“I’m not arguing that you don’t remember the details, Ms. Lopez,” the attorney said. “All I’m saying is that it’s possible that you’ve blocked some things out. Or are you somehow immune to certain symptoms?”
Santana said nothing.
“Ms. Lopez, do you believe that you’re physically or emotionally immune to particular symptoms of PTSD?”
“No,” Santana said, gritting her teeth.
“Then isn’t it possible that you’re experiencing loss of memory?”
“I’m not blocking - ”
“Ms. Lopez, I’m asking you whether or not it’s possible.”
“Yes,” Santana sighed. “It’s possible.”
“So, it’s possible that the events, as you remember them, might not be accurate?” Mr. Lane asked.
“I’m sorry, let me get this straight,” Santana said. “You’re asking me if it’s possible that I’ve dreamed up being attacked, beaten, and raped?”
“I’m asking you if it’s possible that what actually happened might be different from what you remember. Is it possible that the bruises on your ribs came from the strenuous cheerleading practice that you, yourself, testified to participating in?”
“It’s possible, sure,” Santana said, seething. “But we don’t throw punches in cheerleading?”
“So you’ve never been accidentally injured in cheerleading?”
“Of course I have, but - ”
“That’s fine, Ms. Lopez, thank you. You’ve answered my question,” Mr. Lane said, smiling. “I’d like to move on to something else now.”
“I’m all ears,” Santana said, sitting back in her chair.
“Watch it, Ms. Lopez,” the judge warned.
Santana sighed, and nodded, idly wondering when she became the defendant.
“Thank you, your honor,” Mr. Lane said, smiling. “Ms. Lopez, are you a lesbian?”
Santana’s eyes widened.
“Objection,” Richardson yelled. “Relevance?”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Move to a different line of questioning.”
Santana stared at him, shell shocked. She knew full well that Lane had expected the objection…he only wanted the jury to suspect she was gay. Rural Ohio, she thought, staring desperately at Rachel. How would that affect the jury’s view of her?
“Of course, your honor. Apologies,” Lane said, continuing. “You’ve stipulated that you were a virgin, prior to the events of April 12th?”
“Yes, I was a virgin prior to my attack,” Santana answered, emphasizing the key word. The word that Lane was actively avoiding.
“But your reputation at school seems to refute that.”
“What are you talking about?” Santana asked, sighing. She had been afraid that this was going to come up.
“Isn’t it true that you’re known as…how did one of your classmates put it…the village bicycle? Everybody gets a ride?”
“Objection!” the DA shouted, pounding her fist on the desk. “I can’t even pick a reason! Here say, badgering the witness, take your pick!”
“I’ll rephrase,” Mr. Lane said. “Santana, are you aware of your reputation as easy at school?”
“I’m aware of the rumors,’ Santana said. “But that doesn’t make them true.”
“No, it certainly does not,” Mr. Lane said. “So I assume, then, that you’ve actively sought to refute these rumors?”
“What do you mean?” Santana asked, furrowing her eyebrows.
“If, as you say, the rumors about you aren’t true, then you must have taken some action to prove their falseness.”
“Not really,” Santana replied uneasily.
“No? Why not?”
Santana remained silent, staring at Rachel, praying for help. Rachel just stared back at her, biting her lip.
“Ms. Lopez, answer the question,” the judge said.
“I…don’t know,” Santana said.
“Remember, Santana, you’re under oath,” Mr. Lane said. “So I’m going to ask again. Why haven’t you tried to disprove the rumors about you? Are the rumors true?”
“No, of course not,” Santana said, her eyes narrowing. “It’s just...”
“Just what, Ms. Lopez?”
“The reputation I have at school makes me popular.”
“Appearing to be easy makes you feel popular?” Mr. Lane asked, pacing in front of the stand. “Wanted? Desired, even?”
“I guess so,” Santana said, closing her eyes for a moment and praying that he’d finish with her soon. She was so tired.
“And you like to feel desired?”
“Who doesn’t like to feel desired,” Santana snapped.
“Your honor, permission to treat Ms. Lopez as a hostile witness,” Mr. Lane said.
“Granted,” the judge said.
“So, Santana, you’re okay with boys telling the entire school that they slept with you as long as it makes you feel desired and popular?”
“Having people think that you’re a slut doesn’t actually make you one,” Santana challenged.
“No, it doesn’t,” Mr. Lane agreed. “What matters to me, though, is that you’re okay with people thinking you are.”
“There’s a big difference,” Santana said, sitting up straight.
“A big difference between what and what?”
“I never stopped the rumors because I didn’t mind them,” Santana said. “I told your client no, I yelled at him, I screamed for him to stop. And he didn’t. I have the right - ”
“Thank you, Ms. Lopez,” Mr. Lane said with a cheerful grin. “I only have one more question.”
Santana stared at him.
“Why did you call your friend Brittany after your alleged attack?”
“What do you mean?” Santana asked furiously. “I’d just been beaten and raped. I needed somebody with me.”
“Let me rephrase,” Mr. Lane said, stepping closer to the stand. “After such a traumatic experience, why didn’t you call your parents?”
Santana blinked. “I…they were busy. At work.”
“Don’t you think your parents would have dropped everything to come to you?”
“Of course, they would have,” Santana said, looking at her parents and then back at the defense attorney.
“Then why didn’t you call them?”
“I was ashamed,” Santana whispered.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Mr. Lane said, cupping his hand around his ear.
“I was ashamed,” Santana repeated.
“Ashamed of what?”
“I don’t know,” Santana said.
“Once again, Santana, I’m going to remind you that you’re under oath.”
“Okay, alright!” Santana said, snapping. “My parents know about my reputation at school. Lima is a small town, there’s nothing I can do about it. I didn’t call them because I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me!”
“Disappointed? If you were, as you’ve said, completely victimized…if this alleged attack was one hundred percent forced upon you, why would your parents be disappointed in you?”
“I don’t know, but -”
“Is it possible that you’re not as innocent as you’d like us to believe?” Mr. Lane asked, raising his voice.
“No, I’m…this wasn’t my fault!” Santana shouted.
Mr. Lane simply smiled. “No more questions, your honor.”