Chapter One
Blood runs into his hair. His arm burns. The bullet grazes his shoulder and he falls onto the floor. He spins on the floor, trying to breathe. Fire hot pain seizes his body. Finn screams and collapses onto the kitchen tile. Cradling his stepbrother to his chest, he ignores the blood as he holds Kurt in his arms.
He leans into those burly arms and hopes for salvation. The men dressed in dark colors advance toward them. Sirens wail in the distance. They flee. Finn glares at them as they pull Kurt out of his arms by force. He looks at Finn, hoping he can save him. They shove guns into his face and they haul him out of the kitchen.
"Take both of them," Paul says, "Leave Carole here. She can run negotiations later on-she won't sacrifice her son."
"No," Finn protests as Joey shoves him onto his feet, "leave my brother here. Please. I'll go with you."
"I don't think so," Simon replies, "you're coming with us."
Blood spills out of his arm. He gasps for air, for something beside the pain radiating down his left side. They carry him away from his house. Carole stays in the living room, the gunmen forcing her to remain behind. She cries out as the men march the two boys into the garage. She refuses to keep silent. The garage twirls under his unsteady feet.
They drag them into a sedan. The leather seats surprise him and he feels the smooth material under his back. They shove Finn into the car and he lands by his side. Picking him up off of the seat, Finn holds Kurt and lets him bleed all over his football jersey that he wears to bed every Friday night. He cries as the car pulls out of the driveway. Tears roll down Finn's cheeks. Fear runs through their veins.
"She didn't mean it," Finn says, "You know my mom. I swear, she didn't mean what she said Kurt."
His head rests against his broad chest. The car merges onto the highway. Night swells around them. The wind rattles through the trees. He lets Finn hold him and wishes it were Blaine Anderson instead. The thought of his crush comforts him as he bleeds onto the seat and the driver turns on the radio. These men trapped them in less than an hour.
The pain tears up his mind, leaves him breathless and cold. Finn cries for a doctor. The car stops at a deserted rest stop. The two young men tremble as the men up front get out of the sedan and walk around the car. Paul opens the back door. His grey eyes settle on Kurt. He points a thick finger at Finn.
"Put him on the picnic table," he commands, "we've got to be quick about it. Keep him quiet. We don't want to draw any attention. You understand, kid?"
Finn hugs him in a protective embrace. He clutches at his jersey, terror racing through his aching head. Finn slides out of the sedan with Kurt in his arms. They venture out into the dark winter night. The trees twirl as the men-Joey, Paul, and Simon-guide them over to the picnic table. He clutches his stepbrother, moaning when they lay him onto the wooden slab. A black bag appears at the end of the table.
"Keep him quiet if you want us to sew him up," Paul says, "Joey, give the kid your flask."
Joey, tall and large like a post, steps forward and he sets the silver can beside his wounded shoulder. Finn looks at him with worried eyes. He wants to go home, he wants to die there. His shoulder hurts with fierce fire. Picking up the flask, Finn presses it against his lips and he turns his head away. He hates the taste of alcohol. April showed him what it does to people.
He refrains from it after the incident at school, the one where he threw up all over the guidance counselor's shoes. Finn persists in his gentle administrations. The wind whips across his shoulders, making him shiver harder than before. He clutches at the table as the flask touches his lips again. The smell of whiskey travels up his nose. He gasps for whatever air he can inhale. The flask pushes into his bottom lip.
"Drink it kid," Paul says, "we'll patch you up right here."
Fear runs through his heart, gripping him in full as he complies and swallows down bitter whiskey. The taste leaves him grimacing. Finn holds his hands. A needle flies at his arm. Someone disinfects his bullet wound. He squirms under their hands.
The needle moves in and out of his skin, sewing it back together. The pain leaves him stupid and desperate for escape. He clutches Finn's broad hands. The park looks desolate in the winter wind. He lies on the bench and they put stitches in his arm. They throw a blanket over his exposed chest when they finish. He trembles in Finn's arms as they march them back toward the sedan.
They cannot run. Breathing requires most of his focus. He cries while Finn carries him to the car. Sliding into the back seat, they lay him down and order his stepbrother into the car. Finn hurries inside. Once they slam the door closed, strong arms wrap around him and haul him back to warmth. He leans against him and breathes.
The radio turns on once more. He listens to the classic rock station, unable to sleep in such pain. His body rocks on the seat. They ignore his soft groans of distress. Paul keeps driving. Joey smokes a cigarette in the passenger's seat. Simon sits beside Finn, watching every movement and studying every word they say.
They drive away from Lima. He shivers in the blankets as nausea rolls through him. Finn rubs at his back, trying to comfort him. His arm throbs.
"Do-do you have any more whiskey?" He asks.
"He needs a doctor," Finn replies, "he may have stopped bleeding, but he's shaking like a leaf."
"He'll live," Paul says, "but he's ours now. So are you."
"I don't understand," Finn answers, "we live in Lima."
Paul rolls his eyes.
"You're not paying attention," he complains, "You're ours. You won't be coming home until your father does some things for us. Understand?"
The statement chills him further. He pulls the blanket closer around his bare chest, worried for his future. The sedan weaves through barren hills. He thinks about Blaine as he curls into a fetal position. The Warblers welcomed him into their group. He has school on Monday and homework to complete before the weekend ends. Finn holds him to his chest, warming him up with his body heat.
He must have learned something in Health Class. The heat soothes the persistent ache in his head. He needs something to quell the pain in his arm. Carole told them. He hears the words she uttered to them before the bullet hit his arm.
"No!" Carole says. "You're not taking my son away from me! Take him-take Kurt instead!"
She screamed at them. Paul spun on his heels and fired his gun. Kurt misses his father, wants him there to make things right. He thinks about school. The essay was due on Monday and Wednesday for his Calculus homework. The assignments sit in his room, waiting for his attention after a quiet Friday night dinner. This evening turned into a living nightmare.
The three men stormed into their house with guns, looking for loot and leverage. They talked about insuring the garage's safety. Paul found the two boys downstairs in the kitchen, preparing for a meal with their mother. Carole made her choice. He moans into Finn's chest.
"It's alright," Finn says, "I promise-I promise-I won't let them hurt you."
"You can't stop them," he says with a hoarse gasp, "They already hurt me. My arm-please, see if they have any more whiskey."
"Okay," he agrees, "Please, let him have some more whiskey. He needs something for the pain."
Simon turns sideways in his seat, regarding them with cool eyes.
"Give him the whiskey," Simon says, "it should quiet him down a little. I don't want to hear this the whole way."
The flask rests against his lips. He drinks the whiskey, less reluctant this time, and he splutters at the wretched taste. The liquor travels through his stomach in an instant. He feels a slight buzz in his head and closes his eyes. Pain stings through his arm. He moans again, disturbing the tense silence in the sedan. The flask returns.
"Drink it Kurt," Simon demands, "it'll make you feel better."
He drinks half of the flask, hating himself for wanting the whiskey in the first place. Finn keeps him upright and resting against his chest. The taste of fermented barley lingers on his tongue. He despises alcohol. It always leads to bad things. He remembers the way his chest burned when Blaine exchanged a drunken kiss with Rachel. This hurts more and at the time, he was certain nothing could be worse than that evening.
His arm burns with bright pain. Tonight is worse. He can deal with an oblivious lead singer and Rachel Berry. These men put him in this car, forcing him to leave his home. Finn looms over him on the seat. He takes comfort in his presence, because he has nothing else to hold onto at the moment. The weekend promised a fun group project with New Directions.
He misses his old school and he feels out of place in his new private school. They drive for hours. Paul stops at a fast food restaurant and he lets them out of the car. Kurt has no energy or strength to walk. They make him urinate on the side of the road. Finn helps him through it while Simone watches. He feels self-conscious as he zips up his blood stained jeans and shuffles back to the car.
The stitches in his arm hurt. His whole body aches, pain curls around his chest every time he tries to move his wounded limb. Paul and Joey come back with food for them. They eat grease covered chicken and Kurt throws it up an hour later, unable to keep the heavy meal down. Paul has the courtesy to stop the sedan and let him vomit on the asphalt. He curls around Finn, sick and miserable as he finally succumbs to sleep.