Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, or the awesome character of Kurt :(

Warning: includes violence, bullying, and possibly some bad language. Set just after Furt.

The moment the bell rang for their next period, Kurt was on his feet. He hauled his satchel onto his shoulder and let the sheet music drop from his fingers onto the chair behind him. He'd barely even looked at it throughout the meeting; he didn't even know what song it was. Mr. Schue tried to take his arm as he passed, clearly hoping to have a little heart-to-heart, but Kurt brushed him off and quickened his pace. He didn't care what the others thought of him. The sheer humiliation of the glaring cut on his lip was destroying him. It was as if Karofsky had left a brand on him, a sickening, tattoo to show all the world how pathetic he was, how weak, how passive…

Mercedes' footsteps were drumming behind him. He pretended not to hear her when she called for him, but he couldn't ignore her when she grabbed his jacket and held on, refusing to let him go. He stopped at last, doing his best to avoid her gaze. She pulled him around to face her, trying to touch his lip, her eyes wide.

"Why wouldn't you talk to me? God, Kurt, look at you… It was Karofsky, wasn't it?"

He pushed her hand away. "Don't."

She let her hand fall, blinking in surprise, clearly hurt. Guilt washed over him at once, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't stand their concern. Every time they reached out to him, he felt even more alienated. When he was alone, he felt so vulnerable that he found himself desperate for any kind of company. When he started using groups for protection, he felt like the most pathetic, worthless, helpless creature on the entire planet. He felt like everything Karofsky told him he was. It was a vicious circle, and he was sick of it.

He tried to side-step her, but she moved into his way, her dark eyes burning defiantly. "Hey! I thought we all decided that we were going to get you through this. I thought we agreed we were going to help you–"

"And what are you going to do?" he demanded, his voice cracking before he could even attempt to disguise the tremor in his throat. "You can't watch me all the time. I don't want to be watched all the time! And still, every time I turn around, I know he's going to be there!"

"You can't give in to him, Kurt!"

He shut his eyes, searching for words that could put what he was thinking into words, but nothing would come out. She could never understand how he was feeling, she had never felt that gnawing, bottomless hole that had crept into his stomach and was slowly consuming him. He looked at her again, pushing his fringe out of his face – and a shoulder rammed into his chest in a flash of yellow and red. Caught off guard, he found himself hurled back against the wall, his legs tangling helplessly. He could dimly hear Mercedes crying out in indignation, darting to his side in a flurry of anger, he could hear the rumbling response from the tall boy in the football jacket… He could taste bile. His heart was pounding so hard that he could barely differentiate between beats; his chest had grown unbearably tight, an invisible fist closing around his lungs. He forced himself to lift his eyes…

Dirty blonde hair, a lop-sided smirk, a skinnier frame. Another footballer, called Ross, if he remembered rightly. And he was already leaving, perhaps unnerved by Mercedes' furious abuse.

Kurt tasted bile. He shut his eyes, trying to swallow it back, trying to breathe through the vice in his throat. He knew the blood had drained from his face, knew that he was trembling again worse than ever.

"… such an idiot," Mercedes was saying scathingly. "Brain the size of a toenail. Don't you dare pay any attention to that jerk… Kurt? God, Kurt, can you hear me?"

But real nausea was rising up inside him now, and he couldn't try to pretend he was imagining it any more. Suddenly horribly aware of what was about to happen, he bolted past her and sprinted for the nearest bathroom for the second time that day. Only this time he barely had time to lock the door of his cubicle and stumble to his knees on the dirty tiled floor before he retched.

It wasn't the first time he had thrown up, but it that didn't make it any more pleasant. He gripped the toilet seat with white-knuckled hands, shut his eyes, and did his best to hold out and endure. He could feel tears blazing out of his eyes again, this time from the lurching sickness in his side. It felt like hours before his stabbing retches finally gave way to dry heaves, and then a steady, weary spluttering that left him weak and shivery. He sat down heavily on the ground, leant back against the cubicle wall. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, trying to pant, swallow and sniff at the same time and managing to achieve nothing at all.

Slowly, he became aware of Mercedes calling his name. She was outside his cubicle – he could see her sneakers under the door. She banged twice, her voice small and panicked, laced with real fear. He pressed his hands over his face, trying to silence his shuddering breaths.

"Please, please answer me, Kurt. Just tell me you're okay, please? Kurt, you're really scaring me. Just say something!"

His lips wouldn't work. She kept trying, kept begging, close to tears herself. She had fallen silent before he could muster the strength to get out even a couple of words.

"I'm okay."

He heard a rattle as she pressed herself against the door. "Please open the door."

He shook his head. She couldn't see him, but she seemed to understand all the same. He heard her sigh heavily.

"Please?"

"I just… I want to be on my own."

"Kurt, don't be like this. We can fix this, we'll call the others in."

"Mercedes just… just go."

She stayed a little longer anyway, hovering just outside the door in silence. He shut his eyes, imagining that his whole body had suddenly gone completely numb, leaving his mind free to pull away from the disgusting mess in the toilet beside him, the hard floor, the ache in his throat. And eventually, after a long, long pause, she left him alone. He remained on the ground, his eyes shut, blocking himself off from the world. His mobile hummed with text after text, but he ignored them all. He didn't cry this time. He didn't think. He just sat. Just for once, he didn't want to feel anything at all. Just for once he wanted to fall into himself and lie there in darkness until the stabbing emotions in his gut had left him alone.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he opened his eyes at last, but his lashes were heavy and his arm had begun to tingle, caught between his weight and the corner. He sat up, flexing it gingerly, and sat motionless for a few seconds. A tap was dripping steadily. It rang eerily through the thick silence like gunshots, and he realised that he could hear no one in the corridor outside, no distant voices chattering or laughing, nothing at all. He reached for his mobile, eyebrows jumping at the number of texts clogging his inbox. Most of them seemed to be from Mercedes, pleading with him to meet her after school; there were a couple of tentative questions from the other members; there was even one from Puck offering to go 'screw with' Karofsky; there were several from Finn, first asking what was going on, then if he was okay, and then where he was. His eyes jumped to the time, and he huffed in surprise to see that it was nearly five o'clock. He'd been sitting there on the bathroom floor for over two hours. He pushed himself up to his feet, slid out of the cubicle. It was no surprise really - he hadn't exactly been sleeping all that well recently. No wonder he had so many texts from Finn - he was supposed to meet the other boy for their shared lift home after last period, which had ended a good while ago now... Perhaps he would need to walk back, or catch a bus. Finn would probably have given up and gone home alone by this time.

He studied his reflection in the mirror. His lip still looked gross, but at least it hadn't swollen up any more. He poked it, scowled. If he could find some concealer he might be able to disguise the bruise enough to avoid the stares of other students. He'd hidden bruises before. He washed out his mouth, wincing at the dry, furry taste that had invaded it, and then retrieved his bag from the floor. Then, brushing his hands wearily across his eyes, he shuffled slowly out of the bathroom. At least now there was nobody around to look, no fear that Karofsky would be lurking behind the next corner. The corridors were empty, and his solitary footsteps echoed loud as fire crackers in the dimness. The only people who would be here now would be the few straggling teachers who had some last minute task to complete in their offices, perhaps a couple of football jocks practising on the field. The caretakers wouldn't be there for another half hour at least. He was well and truly alone. And it was nice to have the space for a little while.

His locker was his first stop before he left - he still had to pick up his books he had dropped off earlier. He somehow managed to squeeze them all into his bag, not really caring if some of his work was crumpled in the process, his bag balanced on his knee. His mobile buzzed again and he let his bag drop to the ground, kicking his locker shut before glancing at the text. Finn again: 'Man, where r u? not funny. just txt me' He reached for his bag, flipping his mobile up to key in a response. Finn had every right to be pissed at him - of course he should have txted him before now. He hadn't meant to spend so long in the toilets. How had that even happened? He paused suddenly, and then went back to his inbox and scrolled down. He would text Finn right away... but first there was someone else he needed. He found Blaine and leant against his locker as he began to text.

Bad day. Courage not working. Don't no what 2 do.

He sent it, felt some of the crushing heaviness leave him. Whatever Blaine said, it would surely make him feel better. He returned to Finn's message, tapped in 'sorry', and was trying to come up with a decent, believable excuse for his absence when a clatter from behind him reached his ears. He suppressed a sigh of frustration - please, don't let it be Mr. Schue desperate for a 'chat' - and lowered his mobile, glancing over his shoulder. His heart plunged into his stomach.

"About time. You've kept me waiting for ages, you little fag."

He reached out to touch the lockers for balance, not trusting his legs not to betray him. He tried to remain stony-faced, tried to keep breathing, but neither was going to happen. He knew that he looked terrified. He took a step backwards as the other boy began to move forwards, his pace slow. Kurt had a sudden image of a wolf stalking towards a rabbit that crouched motionless, frozen with fear, unable to run...

"You and me need to talk, homo."

He still couldn't move. His heart was hammering wildly, his mind screaming. Get out, get out, get out! it cried desperately, and yet his legs ignored him. He gripped his locker, aware that he was beginning to hyperventilate.

"Well? Not gonna say anything? Come on, lets hear your proud little gay rights speech!"

There was just a couple of metres between them now. And the reality of what was going on suddenly hit Kurt face on - they were completely alone. The Neanderthal could do whatever he wanted, and there would be nobody around to stop him, nobody to hold him back... Kurt's brain jolted on again and he did the only thing he could do: he ran. He turned on his heel, allowing his mobile to fly from his fingers, he sprinted for the double doors leading to the car park. He'd never run so fast in his life, but he knew he had left it too late. Within seconds the footballer was on his heels, meaty hands fisting in the back of his jacket, dragging him roughly backwards. He let out a yell as the larger boy hurled him to one side, into a dark classroom where he staggered straight into a desk. It skittered away beneath his weight and he crashed to the ground hard, pain leaping up his arm from his twisted wrist. He yelped, sheer terror exploding through him.

Karofsky was standing in the doorway. His eyes were shining with something mad, something inhuman that had Kurt's skin crawling. Something in the other boy had snapped beyond repair, and whatever it was, Kurt knew he was about to feel the punishment. He stared up at the immense form of the footballer, fear acrid in his mouth, panic fluttering in his throat. Karofsky stepped forwards.

And this time, there was no one there to help him.

Gasp! Cliffhanger! :) Sorry, I can't help it. Just as a warning, the next chapter will include lots of violence...

Reviews are welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.