Oh.
That couldn't be good.
Dave sat up gingerly and looked blearily at his surroundings. He recognized the tacky wallpaper, the oddly-shaped lamps, the feel of the lumpy orange couch beneath him, but he couldn't quite place it. His head was spinning.
He brought up a large hand and pressed it against his forehead, trying to block out the pain from the little streams of sunlight filtering in through the curtained windows, the grinding roar of Azimio's snoring.
Azimio.
That's right. This was his mom's house. He remembered now. Azimio was with his mom for the weekend, and she always let them have a little something when he came over. She was cool like that. Too bad Azimio only saw her every other weekend and his dad was kind of a hard ass.
He pushed himself up until his feet touched the floor. What they hell had they been doing last night? He sniffed and struggled to his feet, trying desperately to ignore the terrible pounding of his pulse reverberating through his skull. He needed to talk to his best friend about what they'd drunk light night because damn. They must have been flying high if the hangover was this bad. Too bad he couldn't remember it.
Dave stumbled his way to the bathroom, relying more on his memory of where it was than his burning eyes. Water. Water helped. He needed some pronto.
He turned the corner and found the room he'd been looking for, if the image of the bright porcelain toilet was to be believed. He dragged himself over to the sink and placed his hand on the tap, but what he saw stopped him.
There was something funny all over his hand. He brought it up close to his face, squinting against the pulsing ache in his head that made it so hard to focus. Tiny flakes of something fell from his fingers as he flexed them. What a strange color. It was almost black under his fingernails. It almost looked like…
Oh god.
That was blood, wasn't it?
He bolted over to the toilet and bowed his head over the bowl, expelling anything he'd eaten last light along with strings of tangy bile. Oh god, what had they done?
He fell back hard to the floor, his tailbone thumping loudly against the linoleum. He stared down at his shirt, at the spattering of dark spots against the fabric. He breath was coming to fast; he wasn't getting enough air. Why couldn't he get enough air?
He scrambled to his feet and threw himself over the counter, turning on the sink and plunging his hands under the sudden rush of water. Oh god, it wasn't coming off. What did they do? What the hell did they do?
He scrubbed his hands furiously together, trying desperately to rub off any remaining traces of blood, splashing water over his shirt for good measure. This would come out. It had to come out. Dave watched as the rust-colored water dripping from his hands swirled around the curved bottom of the sink into the drain. This wasn't so bad. This wasn't anywhere near as bad as it looked.
He needed to wake up Azimio. He needed to get himself together. He needed…he needed to calm down. Form a plan. Nothing was wrong. They could cover this up, fix this. Nothing had happened.
Nothing at all.
It was the talk of the school on Monday.
That gay kid, the one who walked around in corsets and knee-length sweaters, Kurt Hummel, had been attacked Friday night. According to his friends, it was bad. Really, really bad.
The kid had landed in the hospital with a shattered wrist, a broken jaw, his ribs all in pieces. He'd been beaten near to death with shoes and fists and a cinderblock. A cinderblock of all things. The media was calling it a hate crime. There hadn't been any trace of the guys who did it except for a few smeared footprints. The investigation was ongoing.
The woman who'd found Kurt had simply been out for a walk with her dog. Her interview was plastered all over the news. She was scared, had never seen so much blood in her life. There was this kid, lying alone on the dirty pavement of an empty lot, drenched in his own blood. She'd thought Kurt was dead, but he'd been breathing. Her finding him when she did probably saved his life.
Dave kept to himself, didn't talk to anyone except Azimio. As long as no one asked, he wouldn't have to tell. Besides, he couldn't have done that. Yeah, he'd pushed the kid around, thrown slushies in his face, little stuff. It wasn't a big deal. Hummel was irritating, damn it. Everyone thought so, with his high little voice and those ridiculous outfits. But Dave wasn't capable of attempted murder. Even if he couldn't recall his whereabouts Friday night.
They'd find the guys who did this to Hummel eventually, and Dave was innocent.
Not remembering something shouldn't make you a prime suspect.
Nothing happened, and Hummel would recover. He'd be back to his annoying little self soon, flouncing down the halls of McKinley like nothing ever happened.
Yeah.
This wasn't his fault.
Nothing happened.
Yeah, nothing had happened at all.
Author's notes: Another prompt fill (really, what else do I write?). This is supposed to be based off of this anti-meth ad: ht tp: / /www. coloradomethproject. org/ View_Ads /tv/ popup TV4. php (fun fact: the bully with the cinderblock really is Max Adler, who plays Karofsky), and it is, albeit loosely. I'll be honest: that ad scared the pants off me when I first saw it air on TV. There were two others from this particular PSA campaign (which is still ongoing, by the way) that stood out to me, but this one hit the hardest (no pun intended). Also, I'm kind of liking writing Karofsky. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
In other news, I am a terrible person for continuing to do things like this to Kurt. He's an easy target, I guess.