Some days he seriously considers cutting his vocal chords out.
Like this one.
If he can't sing, he wouldn't have to be here, this legalized torture chamber of musical proportions. He wouldn't have to deal with all of this, this constant pressure and those impossible demands and the everything that was driving him crazy, though sometimes deep down inside he thought that kind of maybe he deserved it.
But then again, if he he's not Jesse St. James, the oh-so-talented and debonair singing sensation, he's just Jesse St. James, the kid that no one really likes.
And the only problem with his idea is that he'd probably end up killing himself in the process. Which isn't really a bad thing if he really thinks about it. But his mother would be upset about the blood on her carpet, and his father would shake his fist and damn Jesse for taking away their money source.
Because his parents were delighted, so they told him, when they realized that the unwanted accident of a child that had sprung screaming into their lives after nine months of inconvenience had the potential to bring them money, fame, and the kind of life they'd always wanted.
They got all that, and they saw more of the money he brought in through his dance competitions and his singing competitions than Jesse himself.
So this morning, over a breakfast of nothing because his mother thinks he's getting too "chubby", when he asks if he can take a break from performing in all the various activities he's coerced into, his mother digs her long, red acrylic fingernails into his forearm across the table and hisses that if he quits anything, he'll be out on the street.
Jesse doesn't think that'd be so bad. Because it really wouldn't be. But he knows he's too cowardly to run away, to escape. He's weak like that.
He doesn't push the issue, and he goes through school like he always does, zombie-like. His parents don't care about grades, just as long as he maintains the 2.0 GPA that's required for him to be in Glee. Jesse knows he's smart. He really does. But his parents made him take the bozo classes for the nearly mentally retarded so he could spend all of his time making them money (he's actually surprised they haven't started making him "work the streets" yet. It seems like something they would do.).
Jesse makes it to the end of the day and wishes that his seventh hour math class would have lasted longer, because now he's at Glee rehearsal. And his gut is telling him that he's going to hurt today. And his gut, honed by years of experience, is never wrong.
When his mother calls Ms. Corcoran in the middle of rehearsal and tells her that Jesse wants to leave Vocal Adrenaline, he can literally see the rage that spreads like wildfire across her face.
He's scared. To death, really.
Ms. Corcoran screams at him when he's flat, when he's sharp, when he's off beat, when he's out of step, when he's not in sync, when it's his partner's fault, when it's nobody's fault.
But when she's mad, really, truly angry, she doesn't scream.
She hurts.
And she's deathly quiet now.
She's dangerous.
He still has the scar on his hairline from when she threw her water glass at his face, after he forgot the words to Unchained Melody. It hurt. A lot. His parents didn't notice. His teachers didn't notice. His non-existent friends didn't notice. No one did.
And right now, he's thinking he's going to get another scar. If he's lucky.
Ms. Corcoran slinks up to him with the prowess of a tigress, taking her time to stand up from her chair and climb up the stairs of the stage, staring him down all the while, as if daring him to move.
Jesse thinks about running, but there is no place he can go and no one he can turn to.
He's doomed.
His pulse rises, echoing in his ears, and when she stands so close to him that he can smell her perfume he feels like he's going to throw up; the odor, a strong, musky floral, makes him nauseous.
But he knows not to vomit. Because last year, a kid got dizzy from the lights and puked onto the stage floor slippery with sweat; Ms. Corcoran made him eat it, made him lick it off the floor like a starving mongrel.
Jesse will not humiliate himself like that in front of the accusatory eyes of the other members of Vocal Adrenaline. They hate him, tolerating him just because he's their lead and without him their chances of winning for the six consecutive time in a row are severely diminished. He doesn't want their friendship, their acceptance, even, though he kind of thinks that it would be nice to have friends. He wouldn't know-he's never been allowed to have any, and no one ever seemed interested anyway.
She opens her mouth, and he can smell the hot herbal tea she was drinking. Jesse's grateful that she didn't throw that at him this time; burns hurt like hell.
"Jesse, Jesse, Jesse," she says, breaking the silence with a condescending tone, bringing her hand to his face and caressing his cheek with the pseudo fondness of a lover.
The corners of her mouth turn up when he flinches.
He desperately wants to move-his instincts tell him to flee and his mind is screaming DANGER and his mind is never wrong-but he forces himself to freeze. Like a predator, Ms. Corcoran likes the chase of the hunt. Jesse won't provide her with any more entertainment. He just won't.
Jesse readies himself for the punishment she's bound to dole out when her hand drops from his cheek.
She snaps her fingers, and two of the more brawny guys join her on the stage. They're smirking, and Jesse knows they enjoy this just as much as Ms. Corcoran does.
He lets them walk behind him and grip his arms and grab his hair and angle his head just right. Because there's nothing he can do to stop them. Nothing.
Jesse's breathing hard now, and the feeling of utter hopelessness that washes over him and threatens to drag him under makes him want to sink into the black stage floor and die.
Her heels click on the floor as she daintily steps in front of him, twisting each of her rings so they face inward.
He waits for the pain.
And he's not disappointed.
Her hand whips through the air and lands upon the cheek that she had moments before petted with a sicking crack, the ring's sharp edge cutting like a saber through his skin.
Jesse winces, the pain exploding like red-hot fireworks into the pool of agony surrounding his face.
Ms. Corcoran slaps him again and again. He lost count at ten.
He thinks he can see the blood dripping from her hand.
And when she tires of the motions, she steps back and for a moment he foolishly, naively, believes his ordeal to be done and sags in the boys' arms. But she merely beckons for the rest of the members, who have been observing from the front row seats, to stand in their customary line.
Jesse welcomes the break before his classmates abuse him.
They relish it as much as she does, he thinks.
But all conscious thought is driven into the back of his head when a fist is driven into his gut.
And when the feeling is doubled, tripled, quadrupled, he realizes he really, truly, wants to die.
There's nothing he can do about it now, though, and he settles for second best, welcoming the familiar feeling of dripping into nothing. He knows that they'll stop when he can't feel the pain anymore.
And then there's nothing.
When nothing becomes something, he opens his eyes. And he immediately wishes he didn't, because Ms. Corcoran's face, the one he sees in his nightmares, is right above his.
"You want to leave Vocal Adrenaline?" she whispers, smirking at him through the dark brown hair that's falling on his face, repulsing him. "Then fine. Leave."
He doesn't try to hide the relief that flows through him; he thinks he should be happy, but that emotion has been extinct for a while now. Jesse sags against the stage floor, because that's all he can do. Maybe when he gets home he will smile.
"Just know, Jesse," she says, reaching out and tipping his bleeding face up with one blue fingernail, "You are nothing without me."
Staring into her eyes, he exhales, a breath that is more like a broken sob than a puff of air.
Because she's right.
He'll be nothing without Vocal Adrenaline.
He can't leave.
He can't be nothing.
He just can't.