When Karofsky is finished, he rests against Kurt's back, pushing him into the half-wall of the shower stall with his bulk.
"If you tell anyone about this – even that little prep-school bitch – I'll kill you. I'll find you wherever you go and slit your fucking throat. And don't think I'll leave your family alone, either," Karofsky says, running a finger over the side of Kurt's face as he leans away, fingers grazing the bite marks he's left. "You won't need to wait for another heart attack to plan your daddy's funeral."
Kurt sobs, voice hoarse and choked.
"And besides," whispers the other boy, a hand trailing down Kurt's shuddering chest to pinch at abused nipples, "no one will believe you. You're nothing more than a little slut. You practically begged for it."
Kurt's shaking his head, denial and revulsion washing through him like waves. "No. No, you're wrong."
"I'm not," says Karofsky, pulling back and out of Kurt's body.
The heavy weight that has kept him pinned is removed and Kurt's legs give out, causing him to slam into the ground, hands caught beneath his body.
"You walk around in your fancy clothes, in skirts. You've been begging for this all along, for someone to bend you over and fuck you good." Karofsky pulls up his boxers and then his jeans, zipping them up while he looks down at Kurt with a little smirk on his lips.
Shirt and jacket in place, fully clothed, Karofsky kneels down next to Kurt, and reaches a hand out, which Kurt flinches away from, grabbing the injured boy's bound wrists. As he unties the knots, not careful in the least not to jerk the bruised appendages, Karofsky leers at Kurt. "Such a good little slut."
When he's done and thrown the tie off to the side, Karofsky stands, saying, "Just remember, fag; you tell anyone, and you'll regret it."
Kurt shivers as Karofsky runs his eyes once more over his body, lingering as he gets lower, and then turns and walks away. As he reaches the door, Karofsky turns and says, "See you tomorrow, Hummel." And then he's gone.
Kurt is sobbing in near silence as he lies on the floor. There are so many points of pain on his body that he doesn't know which is the worst.
He feels dirty.
There have been times in Kurt's life when he's done something, like lied to his dad, and felt wrong after. He felt that way when he had kissed Brittany, felt like something wasn't right, like he was doused in guilt. In shame.
This is so much worse. The fear and the pain are auxiliary to this feeling; it crawls under his skin and makes his stomach writhe. It is disgust and shame and some unknown itch combined, coating him inside and out.
Trembling, Kurt shifts stiffly and moans in pain as he pulls his arms around his middle, hugging as tight as he can. He tries to ignore the pain, just focusing on holding himself. It doesn't work.
He doesn't know how long it is before he shifts, before he can move without falling back down, but when he does it is in jerky, uncoordinated actions.
His shirt is still on, pulled halfway down but caught on his arms, which are so sore he can hardly lift his torso from the ground.
It takes more effort than it should to shrug his shirt back on, and his fingers tremble madly, making it nearly impossible to button it back up. When he finishes, he looks at the tie laying a few feet away, and immediately knows he'll never wear it again.
His pants are by his feet where they were discarded, and he gets his feet beneath himself slowly, using the wall beside him to brace against. He pulls back like he's been stung, though, when he realizes exactly what his hand is touching; what had just happened right up against that wall.
His pants are easier to get on then his shirt, and Kurt is in a haze as he finishes dressing and collects his bag, which he had lost when he'd first been propelled into the room.
The walk to his car, getting in and starting the engine, driving home; all of these things are a giant blur. He can't remember any specific details and the thought that maybe he shouldn't have driven goes through his mind, but is quickly laid aside. The next thing he knows he's turning onto his street and approaching his house.
When Kurt reaches his house he parks, shuts off the engine, and then sits with his seat belt still on. His eyes are burning and his body is a mass of pain, but he feels numb. Disconnected. And yet his body is singing with tension, his stomach is roiling, and he can't stop the tears. But, inside, in a way that transcends the physical, he feels nothing.
He knows, on some surface level, that he's probably in shock. His body is hurting, and he's exhausted, and he just wants to crawl into bed and never wake up again. But first he needs to shower. He needs to be clean.
The journey up to the door takes longer than it should, and Kurt's fingers stumble and quake as he tries to fit his key into the lock of the door.
It is still early evening, and the house is empty and dark. Kurt doesn't know if he wants to be relieved that his father isn't home; in some way, one that is buried underneath the rest of his thoughts, he wants his dad to find him. He wants his father to grab him in his arms and hold him tight; he wants his dad to fix this.
When he gets to his room, Kurt shuts the door behind him, turning the lock and checking to make sure it's in place.
He wanders across the room to his bed, where he flicks on a single lamp and just stands for a minute, feeling fine tremors shake him from head to toe, feeling the throbbing ache of many, many injuries.
Coming back to himself, Kurt closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, and then reaches to undo the buttons of his shirt. Once he starts undressing, however, his fingers move swiftly, urgently, pulling the material from his body. He reaches his bathroom and steps inside, flicking on the light and squinting into the brightness as he bends over to pull off his pants and boxers, which causes a flair of pain to erupt in his lower back.
Once he's fully undressed, he turns the shower on, leaving the hot water tap fully open, only adding enough cold to the stream so that it's bearable. Just barely.
Over the next twenty minutes Kurt goes through the motions, washing his hair, once, twice, three times, scrubbing his body over and over again. He needs to get every crevasse, every place that could be dirty. He eventually drops the soap to the shower floor and just crumples downward, propping his back against the shower stall and curling his legs to his chest.
Sitting in the bottom of his shower with scalding hot water raining down on him, Kurt watches the water as it runs to the drain. Whenever he shifts slightly, feeling the burning aches of pain flair to life, he expects to see a streak of pink water join the clear torrent. But he doesn't. He's hurt, bruised, he feels disgusting and sick, but he's not bleeding.
He knows that he should call his dad, get him to drive him to the hospital. But he can't.
Every time he even considers telling someone he wants to scramble for his phone, hear his dad's voice. But then the threats will echo in his mind, and it is almost as if Karofsky is in the room with him. And then his heart starts racing, and he can feel his throat constrict, his chest tighten. The tears will start bleeding from his eyes even faster. So he can't; he can't tell his dad. He can't tell anyone.
It's been a week. It feels like the days are crawling by, like he's swimming in a thick fog and nothing is clear or bright.
He's out with Blaine at the Lima Bean, something that they have done many times before. Every other time before this he's had fun, chatted about things that interest him or Blaine, things that he enjoys. But now nothing is interesting, nothing is compelling.
Blaine has been looking at him in concern since they'd arrived, eyes wide and unassuming, but worried. When Kurt had cancelled their coffee date the week before – there was no way Kurt could have gotten through seeing Blaine that soon after – he'd taken the news with aplomb. But he'd immediately tried to set a new time, and Kurt just kept putting it off. Until he felt he could see his friend and not spill everything.
When Blaine sends him looks, or words his messages carefully, puts a soft tinge to his voice, Kurt wants to cringe and explain. Give his friend something to go off of to reassure him that he's not avoiding him. But he has been avoiding him; just not because of any fault of Blaine's, not at all.
He is trying so hard to keep the smile on his face, but he knows it's not reaching his eyes and it fails every time Blaine looks away. He wants so badly for everything to go back to how it was. How it was before – well. Before what happened.
"Hey, are you okay, Kurt? You seem quiet." Blaine is looking at him intently, a slight frown on his lips. "Are things going alright at school?"
Kurt takes a drink of coffee, feels the newly familiar panic flaring in his chest. "Yeah. I mean, nothing worse than normal," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "Just have a big assignment coming up soon; it's worth a lot of marks."
Blaine nods sympathetically. "Oh I know how that is. Dalton might be a great place to attend, but the curriculum is killer."
Nodding, glad that Blaine has taken the bait, Kurt puts his coffee down when he feels his hands start to shake noticeably. The tightness in his chest hasn't relaxed, and he can feel his hands growing cold and numb. He is suddenly feeling queasy and his thoughts are much less calm.
"Will you," he starts, cutting off abruptly before trying again. "Will you excuse me?"
Blaine knots his brows together and nods, "Yeah, sure. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just need to hit the boys' room." Standing up with much more grace than he thought was possible with how hard he's shaking, Kurt pivots and heads for the bathroom.
When he gets through the door, he braces his hands on the edge of a sink, head hanging low, and tries to control his breathing. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually feels the tension start to seep from his muscles, feels the warmth creep back into his hands.
Looking up at his reflection, Kurt can see where the concealer he'd applied earlier in the day has started to fade, giving him glimpses of heavy black circles under his eyes. The purple bruise on his cheek has faired better, and has remained mostly hidden.
Pulling his shoulder bag open, Kurt grabs the tube of concealer and carefully, quickly and expertly, reapplies a small amount. When he's blended it to his satisfaction, sure that Blaine won't be able to see through it, he puts the makeup away.
Before he turns back to leave, he tilts his head to the side and slides his fingers under the thick scarf he's wrapped around his neck, gently playing a whispering touch across the scabs left from Karofsky's harsh bite.
It's a constant reminder, and he wishes that it would fade as easily as the bruises. But it won't; he knows his skin, how sensitive it is, and this will undoubtedly scar. This will be with him forever, no matter how much it fades.
Readjusting the scarf with quick precision, Kurt leaves the bathroom as someone else enters, and goes back to sit with Blaine.
"Hey," his friend greets, "I got you a refill."
Glancing down at the hot coffee in front of him, Kurt lets out the most genuine smile that has graced in face since – well, since then. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." Blaine smiles and takes a sip of his own coffee.
When Kurt gets home from coffee with Blaine, he goes down to his room and strips off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them in his hamper. He pulls on his fluffy white robe quickly, only allowing his skin to be exposed to the air for a few seconds.
He then goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower, twisting the knobs so that the water is steaming, almost hot enough to burn. He never used to keep it this hot; it would do damage to his skin, which he did not want. But now he needs the heat, needs to feel it peeling at his skin, washing away at his upper layers.
When he's done, skin pink from the heat and from the vigorous scrubbing he had cleaned himself with, he dries quickly, efficiently. Wrapping the towel around his head, he then walks past the mirror, avoiding his reflection, to pluck his robe from its hanger, pulling the thick material over his body quickly.
He doesn't need to see the hand-shaped bruises on his hips, or the bite marks on his neck and shoulders, to know they're there.
He can hardly forget it.