"We're just trying to live, if anyone would let us."

-The Virgin Suicides byJeffrey Eugenides

Puck's car. Was. Disgusting.

"That doesn't even look like it used to be edible," Kurt hissed, dragging himself across the duct-taped leather seats and away from the maroon colored lump of would-be hamburger meat.

"Shouldn't you be barfing up blood or something?" was Puck's retort, turned a sharp corner as the last of the sunlight left the sky and the strip of Lima store fronts colored the streets. Kurt decided this was a valid question, because he could barely see himself through the rear view mirror and all he saw was pale skin covered in blood-not movie blood, not Technicolor or anything. Deep red, almost black like Kurt's very heart and burst through his pores in messy streams of jell-o.

And Kurt felt it too, even when Finn had shoved his lettermen jacket in his face and allowed him to wipe the worst of it from his eyes. Felt the crusted life ruining his complexion, making him into something gruesome, a walking horror film. It didn't suit him well.

He saw Finn pull his phone out from the front seat. "Who are you calling?"

"Your dad," he said.

"No." Kurt leaped for the phone, ignoring the throbbing stabbing burning in his chest that shot through every other tendon he couldn't think of even though he had an anatomy quiz on Monday. He again thought of his father and he thought of the sheer rage in his eyes when Finn had let loose a couple '"faggy"s. It wouldn't be a pleasant conversation to take part in.

The sudden movement caused Puck-an already haphazard driver-to jerk the wheel and nearly fly the car off the road. "Yo, watch it."

Finn said, "The hospitals gonna call him anyway-"

"We're not going to the hospital!"

Puck slammed his hand against the wheel, "Damn it, Hummel, will you sit down before we total."

It was now that Kurt realized he was almost completely leaning over the front of the car, holding the phone away from Finn's ear and dripping blood over his grey t-shirt.

And, oh.

He let out a kind of grunt as he fell back against the seat, clutching his ribs and closing his eyes. "Don't go to the hospital. Just…just take me home."

Whether out of general concern or fear of another outburst, neither Puck nor Finn protested, and Kurt heard the phone snap shut.

The Hummel home was dark, but for one singular light radiating from the living room. Kurt looked on with dread from the back window and Puck pulled in at an awkward sixty degree angle, killing the gas with a rather forceful twitch. He turned around. "Lemme look at you."

Kurt backed away from the larger boy's hands; not because of some PTSD symptoms, more because they were the same hands that were usually thrashing him into a pile of garbage.

As if reading his mind, Puck scoffed. "Shit, Hummel, there ain't nothing to throw you in."

Kurt swatted him away and fumbled with the door. "Your concern is touching, but I can assure you I won't be bleeding out in your car-"

As he opened the door and flung one foot out, Finn told him, "We're gonna beat those fucks into the ground. Just so you know." He paused. "Are you sure your okay?"

"It's nothing that I can't handle."

Which was a lie, because this was worse then a ripped Gaga outfit and old spaghetti stains on his Marc Jacobs jacket, because he'd never bled this much in his life and he'd never been this dizzy or this sore, but he'd also never been this frantic to get out of a car before.

But his words seemed to cut Puck like a knife. He became uncomfortable and made a show of clearing his throat.

Finn turned fully so that he was facing Kurt, who twisted his face into a mixture of boredom and impatience. He wasn't sure how convincing he was just then, but there it is.

"Listen," Finn said quietly, "I'm sorry about what happened the other day."

Kurt stiffened. "It's alright."

"No, it's not." He breathed out heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Your dad was right. Shit like that…I don't want to be like those guys and I was and I used to be and…I'm really fucking sorry, Kurt." His words were rushed, like he was spitting them out the moment he thought of them. Kurt couldn't be sure what he was apologizing for-calling his décor faggy? his football buddies ripping him a new one?-but he liked the sound of it and left the car with his words ringing in his ears.

"Oh my god."

He tried, he really did, to make off swiftly towards his room. A ninja Kurt Hummel was not.

And if Kurt Hummel was not a ninja, Burt Hummel was a bear with tap shoes. And bat-like hearing, it would seem.

"What happened to you?" Burt barked, stomping over to his sun and clutching his chin in his hand. His skin had gone pale his eyes were sort-of-shocked-sort-of-pissed, the same way he'd look at Kurt when he'd ask for a Barbie doll when he was younger.

"Nothing, dad," Kurt said, turning his head and inching closer towards the hall.

"Does nothing have a fist?"

Kurt sighed and kept walking, avoiding Burt's eye.

"You tell me the bastards who did this, Kurt, and I'll-"

"Dad," Kurt cried, "I just got into a fight, okay? It's not a big deal-"

"Is that why it took you four hours to come home-"

"-I had glee club-"

"-and don't you pull that fight crap because I know how those kids are-"

"-and it's fine and-"

"-and have you looked at yourself-"

"-it looks worse then it is-"

"-do you think this is okay, Kurt? Do you think this is okay?"

"Look," Kurt said sharply, his hand between his eyebrows and his other folded at his side, "I was out of the school and they were drunk and they shoved me around and its fine, dad. It's not like I'm not used to it."

The words were like a slap to Burt who, to Kurt's knowledge, stayed blissfully unaware of the extent of Kurt's unpopularity amongst the more brutish circles. And in all honesty, there was no need-it had never escalated past dumpster dives and the occasional shove in the hallway. But the entire meaning behind it was getting old, to be frank; yes, we get it, you're a boisterous frat boy with severe sexuality issues. No need to take it out on the less muscularly blessed.

"Does your principal know about this?" Burt demanded, "Does-Kurt, your bleeding."

It was then Kurt felt the slow trickle of blood run down his temple, and the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo (a purely physiological effect, Kurt deducted).

Burt picked up a dirty dish towel and squeezed it to his son's forehead. "Did you walk home like this?"

"No, ah-" pain stabbed through Kurt's neck and down his spine, "-I got a ride."

"From who?"

"Some guys from glee-dad!"

He wasn't sure what had happened, but a sudden flame was ignited in his chest and he had to stumble into the bathroom and throw his head in the toilet in less then a blink to keep projectile vomit off the carpet.

A/N Um I seriously have no idea where this is going and I am totally in hate with those last few paragraphs but I just bought the cutest dress and this guy said I had pretty eyes on face book so I'm good =)