A/N: Warning for suicide, character death (Jacob), bullying, racial/sexual orientation/appearance slurs. This is a fill for the Glee Angst Meme.

Jacob's alarm rang, making him jump from his computer chair. He completely switched off the alarm on his clock, so it wouldn't bother his parents the next day. They wouldn't need to worry about that. He had cleaned his room that Wednesday, and taken his DVDs and books back to the library. He emptied everything from his locker on Thursday. He was ready. Jacob made the last preperations on his computer, and then he got up to crawl out of yesterday's clothes and put on fresh clothes for the new day. It was Friday, so usually Jacob would be making plans for his lonely weekend. Today was different though. He had no plans for after this Friday. He wouldn't need any.

Jacob went into his parent's room and opened the top drawer of their night stand. He remembered when his father had gotten the gun, "just in case" he had said. Jacob checked the chamber for bullets, before pocketed the small gun into his jeans. He walked into the Kitchen to see his Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen isle sipping on coffee. He poured himself a cup. Jacob schooled his face into a cheerful expression as he was turned toward the coffee machine.

"Sweetheart, do you want a bagel? You're father went to that bakery we like and got fresh bagels for this morning," he turned to see his mother staring at him.

"No, Ma, I'm fine until I get to school. I'm sure I can eat in the cafeteria with my friends. You know how I am after I wake up."

"Oh, well that's fine. You can have one after school for a snack. You'd probably be better off in the mornings if you didn't spend all night on the computer, though. Don't think your father and I don't hear you banging around up there," she smiled knowingly, and Jacob tried to laugh back.

"Don't pick on the boy, Gloria. You remember when we were kids. No worries Jacob, you'll outgrow it when you get your first real job," his father got up to put more coffee in his cup.

Jacob could feel his façade failing. For a brief moment he considered handing his father the gun and letting his parents make everything right again. No, he couldn't. He had everything prepared already. Jacob picked up the backpack that he had left in the kitchen the day before and began walking toward the doors.

"I love you," Jacob yelled before he went outside. He stayed in the doorway until he heard them both say it back.

Jacob felt the gun in his jean pocket all day. Prom was coming up that weekend, and the classes were winding down. The idiot teachers showed videos and prepared for final tests. The hallways were the same battlefields they always were, with slushies flying and unpopular kids grabbed up for the next humiliating blow. But this day Jacob didn't feel like the whiny, pathetic loser he usually felt like at school. He felt powerful. He could shoot the Cheerios who laughed in the corner, muttering something about his "Jewfro". He could finally make sure those jocks never treated him like trash again.

His new found confidence must have been an annoyance to Azimio and a couple of the hockey jocks, because they caught him from behind after fifth period. He tried to run, but it was no match for the girthy, barbaric jocks. They pulled him through the halls, their intimidating stares daring him to scream. When they had him outside at the dumpter, practically carrying his limp weight, they heaved him up and threw him inside.

"That's what you get for bein' a loser in my school," Azimio called from the outside. Jacob, sitting in day-old cottage cheese and thrown-out plastics, heard one of them beat on the metal side before their voices started moving farther away, toward the parking lot.

Jacob pulled out the gun. He stuck his head out, seeing that the parking lot was empty except for the three jocks advancing toward a nasty old pick-up truck. He aimed the gun at the jocks. He removed the safety, hearing the stark click.

Then he watched them get into the pick-up truck and drive away. Of course he couldn't pull the trigger; he was just the coward behind the camera. He was the one who watched people get humiliated and abused everyday, but never told a soul for fear of more bullying happening to him.

He was beyond retribution now. He had over thirty emails written on his computer, on a timer to be sent at the end of the school day or when he activated it with his cell phone. Each email had a painful suicide note and every video of extreme bullying that he could find on his harddrive linked. All the media outlets would get his message: national and local, tv and radio, down to the bloggers and online magazines. Lima, Ohio, would finally feel ashamed of what they did and failed to stop. People would have sympathy for him. He pulled his phone out and sent his computer the call it was primed to wait on. Right at that moment the emails were being sent. He felt the rush of energy as he saw his planning come to its finale.

He slunk back into the dumpster as he heard the deep voices of more jocks coming outside. He stared at his gun, preparing himself for what would happen next. At least it would be these cruel people who found him, not his mother or father. His parents could take comfort in each other. His younger siblings would be better off without him. When they got to high school, it would be a safer place thanks to what he was about to do. He didn't have friends, only people who laughed at his blog then ignored him at school. Rachel didn't love him; she would never return his feelings. He didn't matter to anyone. Dying would be his biggest accomplishment.

Jacob put the gun to the side of his head. He took a moment to feel the steal against his temple, the power that he held in his right hand. His finger lingered on the trigger, and his heart leapt. He felt his stomach churn. There was no backing down, not when he had gotten this far. He let his finger apply the tiniest pressure.

A sharp bang roared through the school. There were screams and police officers and crying. Jacob would never know that people cried over him.