I'm supposed to be dead.

My name is Kurt Hummel, better known to the world as "Number Eight". Though I haven't seen a newspaper, or read the online news in over two weeks, I know that's the way I've been identified. Not that all of Lima doesn't know my real identity by now, I'm sure. But the story's been nationwide since Number Five.

I haven't heard my name in weeks, and sometimes I have to remind myself. I refuse to be reduced do a number. I won't even acknowledge the other name that I've been subjected to during my captivity. My name is Kurt Hummel and I will never let anyone change that. I won't let myself forget.

I force myself not to breathe as I feel the hands grip me under my arms and hoist me up only to thrust me back down a few moments later. I make no attempt to break my fall and instead let my body flop lifelessly onto the plastic sheet that has been laid out for me. It takes all my concentration not to cry out as my injuries are exacerbated, but I know if I can't keep myself perfectly still and quiet that there is no way I'm going to survive the next few minutes.

I know that there's a very good possibility that I won't be surviving them anyway, but ironically, playing dead is the only chance I have at staying alive.

Whenever I have to, I allow myself a shallow breath, hoping against hope that it's not observed.

I fear that I'll be suffocated as the plastic sheet is folded over me. A few moments later, my body is rolled, further enveloping me in the plastic. As I'm rolled, I carefully tuck my chin down, doing my best to keep my mouth and nose from being pressed against the suffocating material. I just pray that he doesn't seal the ends, and that air will still be allowed to flow in.

For the first time since my captivity began, one of my simple prayers is granted. I once again force my body to go completely limp as I'm lifted and carried a short distance. I allow my eyes to open just a slit. My vision is too blurred by the plastic to make out any detail, but I recognize the shape of a car. A few moments later, I find myself being dropped into its open trunk.

My captor's enormous hand drops onto the plastic, stroking my cheek through the sheet. I can't let myself react as the hand slides from my cheek down my throat, to my chest. For a moment I fear that he's going to keep going, that my body will betray me and unwillingly respond to his touch. But then his hand is gone and the lid slams down, sealing me into the trunk.

People have been known to die from carbon monoxide poisoning in car trunks. I hate that I can't stop that thought from entering my head as I hear the car engine starting up. If I can survive this car trip I might just make it out of this…depending on where my body is deposited. If I'm like the other victims, though, I can expect that it'll be in one of the dumpsters in the downtown area.

I can deal with that. I'm an old pro with getting out of dumpsters.

I'm not disappointed.

I hold my breath and once again let my body go limp as for what will be the last time he lifts me. A few moments later he blessedly, casually tosses me into the dumpster. The landing hurts, but I don't allow myself to acknowledge it in anyway. It's a struggle not to cry-tears of absolute joy-as I hear the resounding clang of the lid slamming down on top of me.

I wait, listening for the sound of the car leaving. I can't risk exposing myself too soon. For a few minutes, even after the sound of the car engine is long gone I can't make myself move. I'm too afraid that he's messing with me again. That he knows I'm alive and is just waiting for me to pop my head out of the dumpster so that he can laugh and drag me back to the torture room for another go-round.

I shiver as I remember the last time I thought I'd escaped.

I can't let myself think about it. I can't let myself remember the punishment I endured for my escape attempt, even though my captor had practically orchestrated it himself, letting me only think that I had a chance at freedom when all along it was just another part of his sick game.

But unless my guess is wrong, it's the early morning of the fourteenth day. The day that my naked body is supposed to turn up in an alleyway dumpster, wrapped in a plastic sheet much like the one I'm wrapped in now. And once I'm found that'll make me officially victim number eight of the Lima Lunatic or whatever other stupid name the media has given him during my captivity.

So today is the day. Either he's just waiting for me to pop out so he can kill me…or I'm free.

Well, I'm only free if I can get myself out of the plastic. That turns out to be much easier thought than done.

I try first to roll, hoping that the plastic will just unravel. As I roll I can feel the sheet loosen around me just a bit, but there's not enough room to keep rolling. It loosens enough to let me move my arms a little, though.

I briefly consider trying to scream, yell for help. I know that I haven't been able to scream in days, but since my voice gave out I stopped trying, so maybe it has rested long enough. I don't try, anyway; I still fear that this is just another sick game and he's just waiting for me to show my hand.

In my heart I'm almost positive that it truly is over. My current predicament certainly fits the pattern of the other seven victims-except, of course, that I'm alive. But I can't take the chance that I'm wrong. So I lay in wait, my heart pounding rapidly as I try to gather the courage to make a move.

I wonder if the police are out in full force this morning, staking out the dumpster scene waiting for the body dump in hopes of capturing the man who even after countless hours of torture, I still refuse to call his desired moniker of "Master". I can't help but feel a little bit of pride as I realize that he never completely broke me. He came close…damn close…but I still have that one tiny victory.

It's the only thing I've been able to cling to. Knowing that he's literally beaten the piss out of me, that he's held my life in his hands, that he's taken me to the brink of death-beyond the brink more than once…Knowing that he brought me back, each time, even the times that I wished he wouldn't, the times I begged him to just let me go. Knowing all that, yet also knowing that I never gave in, that I never gave him what he wanted most of all.

But he came so close. I held out as long as I could. I knew my death was inevitable, that no one but him would ever know that I hadn't let him break me.

No one but me would ever know I was on the verge of giving in. I was convinced that if I gave in, he'd have gotten all he could from me and would have no more interest. And then maybe he'd let me stay dead the next time he killed me.

It wasn't until he didn't try to revive me after what he thought was another of my deaths that I rediscovered hope and my survival instincts kicked back in. It was pure luck that I had decided to go softly into that good night. I'd decided that I was no longer going to give him the thrill he always seemed to get as I fought him for survival. I was actually welcoming death. So I'd let myself go limp and just let him carry out another murder.

It never even occurred to me that he'd think I was already dead and stop his ministrations. But once he stopped, I realized my opportunity. And I took it, chasing that far off dream of one day being able to see my father again. To be held in strong, protective arms. To feel safe and loved.

But I won't ever feel that unless I can get myself out of the dumpster.

I begin clawing at the plastic sheet. I feel my fingernails tearing instead of the sheet and stop that effort. Maybe now that it's a little loose…I begin wriggling my body. Pain shoots though my limbs but after a few attempts I manage to move myself a couple inches. And then a few more.

I begin to laugh as I feel something slimy and cold against the skin of my neck. I never thought I'd be so happy to feel icky garbage against my skin or caught in my hair. But it's ridiculously reassuring, insanely normal to find myself lying in the garbage. I laugh harder as I realize that I kind of want to roll in it, but as soon as that thought strikes me I realize just how far gone I must be. He may not have completely broken me, but I'm not exactly getting through this unscathed. But I may just have to thank Puck and the others for making the inside of a dumpster somehow feel comforting.

I lie still for a few moments, suddenly feeling petrified again. What if he really is still out there just waiting for me to open the dumpster lid? What if these are the final moments of my life? I have no delusions that I could fight him off if he attacked again.

But I can't stay here forever.

I'm not sure when my laughter turned to tears but I realize that I'm crying again. I want to go home. I want my dad. I don't want to die. But…I don't want to leave this dumpster. Whatever happens once I start moving again, my life is never going to be what it was. If he's out there waiting for me, my life will be over in only a matter of moments. If he's not…I don't even want to think about what the media is going to do with this story. Lima's already been turned into a bit of a media circus with the first 7 victims. And now there's me.

Number Eight.

My name is Kurt Hummel. Nobody can take that from me.

Everyone will already know the details about what's been done to me. The other bodies have all shown the evidence, and the media has exposed all the gruesome details. Countless articles have revealed horrific stories of each victim's two weeks of torture and depravity.

Everyone will know what's been done to me, and no one will ever be able to look at me without thinking about it.

Maybe I should just…stay here.

Except…I want my dad. I want him to hold me and lie to me, tell me that everything is okay. That one day I'll feel safe again.

The dumpster lid is so much heavier than I remember them being, and pain rips through my body as I strain to push it open enough to get out.

It's a blessing that the dumpster hasn't been emptied in a while because I don't think I'd be able to haul myself out if I weren't so close to the top. I'm almost able to just roll out, though I do have to heft myself up just a little bit.

I hit the ground with a horrifically ungraceful thud, my legs not able to withstand the impact. I'm fairly certain that my ankle is broken, and my feet have not healed from…I don't want to think about that. I force myself back to my feet. As much as it hurts, I can still put my weight down and I can walk. Or at least hobble slowly.

I force all of the pain to the back of my mind. I can't let it stop me now.

I want my dad. And Iam going to get home tonight.

I recognize where I am before I'm even out of the alley. I'm only a block and a half away from the garage. About eight blocks from home. I can make it. I know I'm crying, but I can't help it. I'm going to make it.

I stick to the shadows, ever fearful that Not-Master is still out here, that he could see me at any time, that he could catch me and finish the job. Or worse, that he could take me back for another two week stint in his room of torture before killing me.

I also fear being seen by anyone else-I don't care about my nakedness, I just want to get home. I know that if anyone sees me, that's not where I'll be going.

I'm not sure of the time, but the streets seem to be completely devoid of people. The curfew must still be in effect. Not that there'd be any reason for it to be lifted; it's not like the Lima Lunatic had been found. I'm relieved but also a little disappointed that the police don't seem to be out in full force watching for my…the body dump. Maybe my calculations are off or he's changed up the day. I know the Lima PD can't be as stupid as to pass up their chance at catching the Lunatic.

I'm still crying as I see it. My house.

Dad.

Daddy.

The word becomes a mantra I repeat as I stumble the remaining distance. Fumbling toward reaching my single goal.

I don't have my keys, and I don't want to wait outside for my dad to wake up. I just want to be inside. Where it's relatively safe. Curled up in my daddy's arms and protected.

We usually leave the garage unlocked, but I'm not all that surprise when I find that it is locked this time. The Lunatic's changed a lot of things around this town.

I almost give up and return to the front stoop to ring the bell. But then I remember that there's a key hidden…if it's still there…I reach my hand into the bird feeder and feel around the edge. It's there. Oh, God, it's here.

My hand shakes with anticipation as I slip the key into the lock and turn.

Daddy.

I'm home.

I feel my strength draining as I make my way inside. I'm home. I'm safe. I don't have to fight any more. My vision is all blurred again by tears that just won't stop, and I know I'm a mess…I haven't bathed in two weeks. I should clean myself up, but that can wait.

Right now only one thing matters.

Daddydaddydaddy.

I feel all wobbly and have to lean against the wall as I shuffle down the hall toward his bedroom.

I hear something in the kitchen and change directions. He's there. Only a few yards away. The scent of coffee wafts toward me. Oh! He's there. He's there!

My whole body feels on the verge of giving out, but I'm almost there. I can't stop now. I can wait long enough to collapse into his arms. Let him take care of me. Protect me. I just want…

I try to call out to him, but only discover that my throat is still too raw to let out more than a hoarse wheeze. I'm not sure I could form words anyway. So I stumble the last few steps.

It's not Daddy sitting at the table, wearing a bathrobe, warming hands on a steaming coffee cup. It's not Daddy. He's not here. I can't…I can't make it back to the hall. I can't…I just want…I want…

I can't contain my weary sob.

Carole's head snaps up, her eyes wide with fear, the scream I can't make ripping from her lips.

I jerk back, fleeing from the sound. But my legs can't hold me upright anymore. All my reserves are gone. I want my daddy. I want…

I try to crawl toward the hall, but now even my arms tremble as they try to support my weight. I know it's a lot to ask-I know it's probably some sort of miracle that I've made it this far-but I just need to get a little bit farther.

"Kurt?" I hear Carole gasp my name. A moment later she's hovering over me, dropping to the floor beside me, her hand extending toward me. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I flinch away from her. "Oh…Kurt," her voice is thick with emotion as she repeats my name. She reaches toward me, again. This time I force myself not to flinch, though my body quakes from the effort.

"Daddy," I mouth the word, but not enough sound emerges, so it comes out as little more than a whimper.

Her fingers graze against my hair. I can actually hear it crunching, and feel some amount of grime and filth crumble and fall from my thick locks. Carole's hand flinches away from me this time.

"Mom?" I hear Finn's sleepy voice call out from down the hallway.

"Stay back!" she calls out quietly. "Get Burt."

"What's going on?" Finn asks, his voice louder as he moves closer, instead of following her directions. "I heard you scream. Is everything okay?"

"Finn, get Burt. Right now."

"Did you see a spider…or are you hurt? Did you cut yoursel-" he stops talking abruptly and I force myself to look up, seeing him standing in the doorway, staring at me wide-eyed and drop jawed. I know I should make some attempt to cover myself but I can't make myself care enough to do it.

"Finn, now!" Carole insists gently but firmly.

Finn doesn't move for a few moments but then snaps into action. "Burt, Burt get up," I hear him calling out as he moves down the hall.

I feel my arms collapse and my head hits the floor before Carole realizes what's happening. I feel hands sliding gently under my arms, pulling me until I'm partially in her lap. "Hang on, Sweetie," she soothes me. "Your dad is coming. And then we're going to get you to the hospital. You're going to be okay. We've got you."

I shake my head. I don't want a hospital. I just want-

"Kurt!"

And then suddenly he's kneeling on the floor beside me, his hands hovering just short of touching me.

"Daddy," I choke out, the sound completely unintelligible. I struggle to get to him, pressing my body against him, sobbing uncontrollably as I feel his arms tighten around me, drawing me closer.

"Thought I lost you," he utters softly. I feel a new wetness against my neck and realize that for the first time that I can remember he is crying. He ignores all the blood and filth and presses his lips to my temple even has he gathers me into his arms, lifting me back to my feet.

Finn appears at the edge of my vision and I feel a blanket being carefully draped around me. I cling to Daddy as he picks me up.

Daddy.