The sound of cracking ribs echoed in his ears as the young man, dressed to the nines, curled instinctively away from the heavy blows that continued to connect with his body. He was surprised he could hear it over his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears, his breaths coming in bursts, the cries of "faggot" and "bitch". He could no longer see his attackers; one eye had already swollen shut, and the other was blurred with tears. He could hardly believe that just minutes ago, he had been having the time of his life. It seemed like hours ago.
Hours ago, he had been dancing around his room, Elvis blaring from the stereo, as he paired ties with collared shirts.
Just this evening, Blaine Anderson had been the arms of a handsome young man; not his boyfriend, but it was a start, anyway. He had felt more shy than he ever had; he had never even held hands with a boy in front of anyone before. They had been dancing, swaying quietly in a corner to the strains of an Aerosmith song, avoiding like the plague any eye contact with those who stared, glared, whispered. And now he was a sack of flour being kicked to hell. Now, he didn't even know where his date was.
Just this evening, Blaine had been pressed, tucked, and shined in a suit jacket he had saved for weeks to buy. His curls had been combed to fall just so, a dab or two of cologne pressed to his neck. Now, dark locks of his hair had been roughly sheared from his head by hands that then slapped and punched. Now, he smelled of fear, blood, and the urine of his attackers.
The sound of sirens now entered Blaine's hearing. The kicking stopped. For a moment, Blaine almost thought he could breathe.
"Shit, man," a voice from above him spat. "Let's go!"
Hurried footsteps receded from him. Blaine thought they had all finally left him, but then a warm dollop of saliva smacked onto his cheek. Then, footsteps receding once more.
The boy struggled feebly, helplessly, to regain some sort of composure as the sirens drew closer, and the sounds of new voices began to reach his ears. He reached up to wipe the spit from his face, then stopped with a wince, biting his already split lip as pain shot through his shattered collarbone. The voices were getting louder.
"Oh my God!"
"Isn't that that gay kid?"
"Well, what the hell did he expect?"
Had Blaine had a better grip on his consciousness, he would have cared that not one of the people standing there tried to help him. He would have made some kind of sarcastic comment, or laughed bitterly. As it was, his vision swam, then failed