Title: More Than A Statistic

Summary: I knew that look in his haunted eyes. Beautiful eyes. Help me, he was saying. I didn't need to overhear his nightly screams to know he needed saving.

Pairing(s): Puck/Kurt, Puck/Quinn (past), Kurt/OC

Warnings: (these include possible triggers...) self harm, suicidal thoughts/actions, domestic abuse (physical/verbal/sexual), homophobia, substance abuse...

Written by StormsInNeverland: Concept, title, summary by Kyle; plot-refining, dialogue, editing by Sally. Kyle's been at me to get this one posted for quite a while, and since he's currently away, I've decided to post this as a pre-Christmas treat for his return...

This story will run at approximately 20 chapters long, can't be too sure. This is simply a prologue, the first chapter should get posted soon, maybe even tonight, it all depends on how long I can drag this bottle of wine out for...

Reviews are little rainbows in disguise! *hint hint nudge nudge wink wink*

(prologue)

I remember the first time I ever heard that song. The one that made me realise how bad the world was. Number one in the charts, a song about hitting the person you love, hating them, hurting them, harming them. And them hitting and hating and hurting and harming you right back.

I love the way you lie.

I never loved it. Not the one time I hit a girl; hit her with the same hand I'd cradled her soft cheeks, breasts, thighs with, only the night before. Not the one time I was hit by a guy; hit with same hand that had caressed me and loved me mere hours before. I never loved it.

On the one hand, crippling guilt that had me curled on the floor, choking on my own breath, horrified, sickened, disgusted by myself. On the other, shock, pure terror, cringing at the lightest touch of a hand, trust shattered in a few seconds, leaving me angry and hardened for so long.

And here two of the most respected artists around the world were singing about it.

I got their point, honest I did. They were making people understand unimaginable pain through song, because they couldn't say it any other way. I got that.

But I didn't like it.

Looking back, I realise how badly I screwed up. If I'd acted sooner, I could have spared him so much pain. Sometimes the shame is too much, and I'll wake up in the dark, loneliness swallowing me. I'll reach over to where he lies, spread-eagled and twisted in the sheets; I'll wrap my arms tight around his waist, pull him in, not caring whether he's shivering with cold or sweaty in the summer night heat, and I'll hold him to me, just to feel his lungs fill and empty, fill and empty, as he breathes. And I'll know he's safe with me.

I read a statistic somewhere. Domestic abuse cases. Deaths and bruises and attacks and jail sentences. Just a bunch of numbers in the small print of a newspaper. It was like they'd forgotten these people, these victims, were exactly that:

People. Victims.

How can you run off a number like three million and imagine three million people?

You can't.

It's just a number. A statistic to shock people into action.

One should be enough to shock people.

Like him.

But people just didn't bother.

Not even me, at first.

I trace his skin while he works, while he laughs, while he sleeps. Just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It's definitely porcelain. Not inky and splotchy. Not broken and tender. And I rub my hands over the planes of his chest, the muscles of his legs, the curve of his hips, the contours of his back. I kiss every inch, like I did day after day, watching him grow, fill out. Fat and muscle gradually clinging to those wretched bones that poked out of him, starved and jagged. I had to be so careful for so long; he was just so delicate. Now I can hold him tight, dig my fingers in and his own will dig right back. I like him better now, though I loved him from the start.

What would I have done if I'd been too scared to act?

He'd have become one of those numbers. And so would I. Dead by domestic. Dead by uselessness.

It scares me to think about it.

I love him. I hate his lies. I don't watch him burn. Not anymore. Now I hold him tight, and he's real. He's a person. Not a statistic. He'll never be a statistic.