Attention: I do NOT claim/own Glee or its characters, except those of my creation.

Standing in Glee Universe: After "Hold On to Sixteen", 2011. I don't know what Sebastian does in next weeks episode of "Michael", but when the story comes to that point in time, we'll see what he does/does not do.

Authors Note: This chapter is longer and looks more closely at Anne and the things going on in her life. Pay attention to what happens because they will develop more throughout the story. I will also update every Sunday/Saturday—please review! Your comments keep me going and help me become a better writer, so don't be afraid to be critical (or super sweet).


"How often do you masturbate a week?"

I'm taken by surprise as I feel something cold and hard knock against my chin, shocking me out of the cool concentration I had just moments ago. Before I begin to face the right, I already know that it is Jacob Ben Israel, and silently thank God that I am wearing a loose jacket to hide my "curves". Our eyes meet only for a second before I swat his sleek digital recorder away from my face and turn back to write my news article. I manage to not roll my eyes.

"Do I take that as an 'often'?" His nasally voice is persistent and I can feel his beady eyes looking me up and down. I start to grow insecure but stop, reminding myself that it is Ben Israel and the worst the pervert can do is masturbate. I am strong, I remind myself, nothing can phase me and hell if it is Israel. I straighten my back, lift my chin and resume typing. I can hear him breathing beside me and silently hope that he goes away.

I should have known better. "Fist, fingers, or dildo? Oh, I bet you use your fingers—-"

"Stop it," I say loudly, swinging my left fist around to—hit him? I stop myself and lower it to rest on my thigh, still balled up into a fist. Day after day, I had Journalism with this sick bastard and he won't leave me or the other girls alone—but me especially. The motherfucker had leverage on me as editor-in-chief and he knows, he knows that he has to write a letter of recommendation for his successor next year, and that I was dying to take his place. How can I be strong if he exploits his position and uses it to annoy the shit out of me? I'm playing a game; of sexual desire, Vaseline and tissue boxes. Sometimes I imagine that I give in and show him my breasts, and continue to make crazy love to him and take his virginity. Afterward, I would only need to whisper into his ear and oila!, an outstanding letter of recommendation with nothing but praise for me. It doesn't need saying that I try thinking of puppies to "cleanse" my mind.

Jacob takes the moments silence as a chance to repeat his question, careful not to move his recorder too close to me. "How often do you masturbate," he asks, licking his chapped lips.

I grimace and resist the urge to throttle him. Over his shoulder I see Johanna give me a look of sympathy and deeply sigh; the battle can't be won—just go with it. I sound tired as I respond, "I don't masturbate."

Jacob raises his eyebrows and incredulously says, "So you're telling me that you have never tasted the sweet bliss of vaginal penetration?" His mouth forms a "O" before I can respond and the recorder begins to slightly shake, "Or anal penetration?"

If even possible, I grimace more but try not to look at him in open contempt. In his eyes, I can hate the question but not him. "No," I say, annoyed. "I do not masturbate and do not intend to. What is this even for?"

He says all too quickly, "For a blog segment on masturbation, obviously. For an aspiring journalist you're not quick to catch-"

"Is it really, Jacob? Or this for personal use?"

"What kind of person do you think I am, Arnaud? Everything I do is for pure 'investigation'. That's what makes me, editor-in-chief." He ends the sentence smugly and is all too pleased with himself. I curse in my head.

"How silly of me to forget—you contribute so much to the newspaper," I say in appraisal-coated-mock. False. He barely lifts a finger and it falls to me, assistant editor. Only the unaccustomed freshman begin to give Israel their articles, but eventually learn from everyone else to give them to me. Every two weeks I have to edit a minimum of twenty-five articles (in addition to writing some myself) and oversee the layout of the next paper. Our journalism teacher, a coach trying to make extra pay, is obviously no help. The fact alone that he has kept Jacob as editor-in-chief says how invested he is in the class. However, I try to see the brighter side of things. When it comes time for voting, the class will obviously hopefully vote for me in mass majority. They pay attention to my haggard appearance the day of deadlines, my reassuring smiles and constructive yet friendly criticism...right? I look over Jacob's shoulder and stare at my classmates. Suddenly, I become afraid that no, they have not noticed any of it and will vote for their friends and someone entirely different. Oh God, maybe subtlety was the wrong choice, I should have gone for open burden and tension. I can feel my stomach tie itself into knots and there is a deep sense of dismay starting to fill me. Thank God I wore a hoodie today, otherwise I would have had to find something else to curl inside in.

I am too wound up in my thoughts that I am once again startled by Jacob. He clears his throat and I snap out of my daze, pushing my dismay to the back of my head. He looks pleased with himself, obviously missing the hidden scorn in what I said. "Anne, please. You know as well as I do that flattery won't persuade me to write you the recommendation. Personal ties can't interfere with the nomination." I surprise myself by not rolling my eyes, but instead smile sweetly and let him go on. "But," he leans forward and lowers his voice, "it doesn't mean I won't remember." Even if I was going to respond, he doesn't let me. He winks at me (I almost gag) and gets up, walking away, obviously pleased with himself.

I sag into my seat in relief but immediately tense as I remember the upcoming election. The rest of the period I cannot concentrate on my article and finally abandon any hope of writing anymore. I get up and walk to the middle of the room towards Sonya, my best friend since freshman year. She has papers spread out across her desk, absentmindedly doing research, for when I sit down in the desk beside her, she look up and pulls her papers into a pile without any hesitation—just delight.

Maybe I look upset because Sonya frowns and knits her black eyebrows together, reaching out to place a hand on my elbow. "What's wrong?"

I don't want to sound pathetic, or meek. Nor do I want to sound greedy and thirsty for power. But before I can help it, I find myself telling Sonya everything that had just happened and my growing sense of doom. I don't look at her as I am talking and instead look at my shoes, but when I look up, I don't know whether to be relived or hurt that she is smiling softly.

After a moments silence, she says, "You have nothing to be afraid of." I start to protest but she holds her finger up and I fall silent. "You were—are—badass enough to have become assistant editor as a freshman and to have kept that position for three years. You're not a stuck up biatch and trust me, everyone knows; do you remember Kendall from freshman year?" I smile, remembering the blond editor-in-chief that called everyone names and trampled on their hard work. Of course, I wasn't smiling then. "Mr. Salvos doesn't do shit to help us write articles and three-fourths of the class remembers the beginning of last year when you stood up in front of the room and gave us mo'fucking lessons." She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "Lessons! Holy—I can't even, I was so proud of you! You couldn't and can't stand to see the newspaper fall into disarray and it's obvious, so obvious that you will do whatever it takes to make it better and to help those involved. Sometimes before class begins, I hear people talking about and empathizing with you. They know how hard you are working and appreciate it like breast milk and porn!" Sonya throws her hands up into the air and I start laughing. It's a laugh mixed with embarrassment (did she really think that?) and absurdity. Porn?

I suddenly notice how light I feel, that I no longer have my stomach in knots or an overcast gloom—I feel spirited and hopeful. I can't stop smiling and I reach in to hug Sonya tightly. She smells of lavender—of reassurance and hope.

It is around six o'clock when I set my bag on the kitchen table, exhausted by the days events and activities. Jacob Ben Israel, my then-anxiety about elections, tests, homework, debate team...I eagerly pour myself a glass of cold orange juice until the carton is empty. The house is starting to come to life as the family is back together; my younger sister is in the family room watching TV, my dad opening the mail on the kitchen table and my mom watering the plants around the house. It's a cold Thursday night and soon, the fireplace will come to life even though we can use the heater—my family likes to wrap ourselves in blankets and make s'mores.

When I go to throw the carton of juice away, I open the bin and see that the trash is full, even though it should have been emptied last night. It was my sister's responsibility this week but no doubt "she forgot" for the billionth time. Instead of reprimanding her myself, I innocently call out to my mom, who is in the living room. "Mom! The trash is full and I have to throw the juice carton away!" I stay in the kitchen, patiently waiting for my mom is scold Danielle, who is three years younger than me.

My mom comes into the kitchen carrying an empty water pot and sets it down on the counter. Her eyebrows are knit but instead of calling out to Danielle, she faces my dad. "Will, did you forget to take out the trash last night?"

"What do you mean," he says, reading a letter.

"Did you forget to take out the trash last night?"

My dad looks up and his eyebrows are knit together as well. We look at each other, wondering what sort of crack my mom is on.

"Me? No, it was Danielle's responsibility this week," and says louder, "Danielle!"

As my sister comes into the kitchen, my mom is confused. "Danielle? Will, I thought it was your turn?"

My dad gives a small laugh and says, "Viv, I think you're starting to forget things." He gets up and as he is walking past my mom, tugs on a brown strand of hair and jokingly says, "I think you're starting to get greys." Everyone except my mom laughs as my dad ties the drawstrings on the trash bag and motions for Danielle to pick it up.

I'm standing beside my mom and so it's why I can hear her mutter, "From working so hard." I nervously glance at my dad, weary of where this will lead. Unfortunately, we were on the right path because my dad is looking at my mom, his face blank of laughter from just seconds ago.

"Excuse me," he says, rather than asks. A challenge.

My mom turns around and fiddles with the watering plot, moving it over to the sink. "Nothing," she says lightly.

"No, tell me what you said." His voice is still soft but if this continues on, I know what it will become.

My mom turns around and leans against the sink, arms crossing against her chest. She looks at the tile beside my dad's shoes. "It's just that I've been taking longer hours at the hospital, that's all." She looks up at the my dad, her face defiant.

"We both have," says my dad slowly, squinting his eyes.

"Yes, of course. We both have." A short silence follows and no one moves; Danielle is still holding the trash bag in mid-air and I suck in air. My parents stare at each other, my mom defiant and my dad clenching his jaw. It was as if there stares were relaying a conversation.

"Are you saying that I'm not working hard," my dad asks quietly.

"To eventually pay for Anne's college tuition? I don't think so, no." I don't look at my dad—I'm afraid to. Why would my mom say that, what was wrong with her? My dad—both of my parents—work equally as hard. Both of them have come home late a few times or taken shifts on the weekends. How could she say that? I begin to knit my eyebrows together, growing angry at my mom.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Sorry that I don't work at a hospital that is open 24/7, unlike an office that is only open for twelve hours!" My dads throws his hands up in the air, his voice starting to rise. "Shame on me for working twelve hours! Maybe I should get a part-time job as custodian and work for another five hours!"

"Or maybe you can do a decent job and get a bonus!"

My dad pounds his hand on the counter. "Damnit Vivian, I missed one bonus!"

"And what does that say about your next one?"

"My bonus? How about yours? When the hell have you ever gotten one? Don't take your crap out on me-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" My parents start raising their voices and Danielle and I exchange glances. Quietly and slowly, we walk across the kitchen to the family room, to avoid yet another recent fight.

"WHY, BECAUSE I'M TELLING THE TRUTH?"

"YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE-"

"THEN WHY DON'T YOU QUIT BEING A STUPID NURSE?"

"ONLY WHEN YOU STOP FUCKING YOUR CO-WORKERS!"

It is only for a few seconds, but it seems like a lifetime. Danielle and I are on the edge, between the tiles of the kitchen and hardwood of the family room. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart stops beating. I try breathing, but it's shallow. What did she say? What did my mom say? I look at Mom, and see her crazed face. Her eyes are wide and her hair is messy; her cardigan is falling off. What did she mean? Dad loved us. He loves us, what does she mean?

Dad grabs a bowl and throws it on the floor—SMASH! A million ear-splitting screeches assault me. He grabs another and another, SMASH SMASH! His face is red but that it is all I can remember because my heart is racing and I'm scared. I take Danielle's hand and run to the stairs, my socks slipping on the wood and my knees hitting the stairs as I try to run away. My heart is pounding in my ears and I don't know when Danielle lets go but I run into my room and slam the door behind me and lock it. I stand in my room but can't stand still, pacing back and forth, fidgeting until I grab my comforter and trample into the walk-in closet. I shut the door behind me and it isn't until the comforter is wrapped around me in the dark that I can feel safe.

I am breathing heavily and as my eyes adjust to the dark and I can feel tears running down my cheeks. I don't remember crying but I am now. My body shakes as tears pour down my face and cling to my chin. I think of only days ago when I wrapped my arms around Mom and clung to her, telling her I love her. I kissed Dad on the cheek this morning and his fingers ran through my hair. What is happening? I can't hear my parents, I don't know if they're still fighting. Is Mom okay, is she hurt? Would Dad hit her? I feel ashamed and nauseous for thinking it but that is all I can think of. Did he beat her, will he beat her? Dad is strong, can Mom run away? I involuntarily imagine Dad slapping Mom across the face, breaking her jaw, pushing her against the wall, choking her, calling her "bitch" and "slut". Mom will scream and beg, yell his name but he will only come at her harder. My stomach is in tight knots, they will never untie. I want to throw up, I want to throw up. I lean forward and dry heave but nothing happens, yet my stomach is mushy and my body is shaking. What happened, why was Dad acting like this all of a sudden? Why are my parents yelling at each other? Why is this happening often? I start praying to God to but I can't because I stop to listen for anything, anything from downstairs and I'm afraid that something is happening.

My phone vibrates in my pant pockets and my heart jumps. I forgot about it but now I dig into my pockets and clumsily hold it upright. It's a message from Danielle, reading...

My heart stops and my throat catches. I can hear my pulse in my ears and I can't tear away from the message, even though the white light is burning my eyes. I'm not thinking anything, just hearing the message playing as a loop in my head, with Danielle's accusatory voice. It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault.

It's my fault. My senses are dull; I don't feel anything but an emptiness, like my body is a shell—like I'm hollow. I slump against the wall. It's my fault. I made them talk to each other. I started it. I'm the reason they're fighting. I need to go to college. They need to pay the bills. It's my fault. The light turns off and I am swallowed in darkness.

I don't know how long it has been since I sat there but when I check my phone, I see it has been eleven minutes. I am no longer disheveled or distraught—just empty. Maybe crying washed away my grief, or time. Or the realization that I will have to be strong, to own up to what I did and make it right.

The darkness and comforter are soft and reassuring—I don't want to leave just yet. I consider calling Sonya but I don't want to. I don't want to talk about it just yet. I consider falling asleep, but what kind dreams will I have? None. I stare at my phone, looking at Danielle's text message with detachment. Effortlessly, without thinking, I touch the right arrow and look at a previous message. It's from Tina, recounting something funny from a class she was in today. The one before that is from Hugo, reminding me of debate practice. The one before that is from Sonya. Georgina. Brad. Sonya. Sonya. Kristen. Taylor. Lauren...Sebastian; "what are you up to? x", from three days ago, and around two weeks since our last encounter.

Thinking back, I remember getting it during English and scoffing. I hadn't even considered texting him a reply. Scum, I had thought. Pretentious "x"–posh asshole.

I still think he is scum. A skanky, pretentious, arrogant, sleazy douche bag. But I can feel the empty void through the dark and to be frank, I don't give a fuck anymore. Perhaps it is my dulled senses but I find myself texting a reply, "nothing. you?" My finger hovers over "Send" but it is only a moments hesitation before I touch it. Sent. I consider what I just did. What did I do? I sent Sebastian a text. Aren't you afraid of him? Not since we met again. Don't you hate him? Yes. Don't Kurt and Blaine hate him? Yes. Doesn't Sebastian want to steal Blaine away? Yes. Isn't what you are doing morally wrong? Yes.

But I can't be bothered with it right now.

Two minutes pass until my phone vibrates again. I eagerly read the message. "a bit late to reply, vivian. are you always this slow? x"

Vivian, I forgot about that. Again, without thinking, I reply: "only when i'm graced with the likes of you." And as an afterthought, I add an "x" to the end. I touch "Send" and notice that it hasn't even been a minute. Does it make me seem eager? I suppose so, but whatever.

Surprisingly, and to my delight, Sebastian replies in kind, maximum reply time thirty seconds. "ooo, cheeky. you've got a lot of that ;) xx" I manage to smile, even though he is talking about my butt. "xx", I see you...

"and you have a lot of mousse and ego. xxx"

Sebastian: "no one complains afterwords. xxxx"

Me: "the drunk don't count " I smile, wondering what he will do next.

Sebastian: "touche x"

I'm a bit disappointed. I had thought he would try and continue the game, but I guess I was being immature or it became boring—

Sebastian: "x"

I scrunch my nose; I don't understand.

Sebastian: "x"

What?

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Somehow, from some part of my brain that has not been touched with the misery that has engulfed me in the past two hours, I laugh. It comes out in a burst, touching only my jaw but then spreading to my cheeks, my nose, my eyes, my head...It feels good. It's a relief and I feel a bit lighter.

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

I drop my phone on the floor, it's vibrating like crazy and won't stop! I laugh again (did I ever really stop?), and watch it twitch like mad for a few seconds. The vibrations aren't coming in intervals but rather is a straight, full on vibration. Sebastian, I think, grinning. Quickly, I grab the phone gingerly on the sides, so the vibration doesn't tickle me and somehow manage to send, "omg stwhap! ur3 kirlling mre!", in between his messages.

Vibrate. Sebastian: "sorry"

I start texting a reply when:

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

I drop my phone in haste, first mad at him but then delirious with giddiness; he's killing me!

After about a minute (I tried waiting but couldn't), I text: "i hate you!"

Sebastian: "more than you do already?"

This catches me off guard. I mean, duh, he knows I hate him, but...do I hate him? I try to make myself say "yes", but...there is something holding me back. Is it tonight, the texting back and forth that is making me stop in my tracks? I want to say yes, but...it would be absurd to. What did we do tonight that would make me change my mind? It was nothing but banter and a silly game, that's all. It was fun but that shouldn't mean I feel differently about him. He is the same kind of person as Jacob Ben Israel; if I did this with Jacob (I shudder), would I be in the same dilemma that I am in right now? Taking that hypothetical situation, I can't see myself at all reconsidering my hate for Jacob. So why Sebastian? Is it because he made me laugh? Because laughter is a remedy for many an illness, and he was one of them? I grimace, the light from my phone turning off. Sebastian is a sleaze; a skanky, douchey, pretentious, good-for-nothing, slutty, man-whore homewrecker. He's sick, gross, greedy and selfish. All he wants is a good fuck (I can feel my cheeks growing warm) and then he moves on. Of course, I hate him. I do, I do, I do!

I groan, falling onto my back on the comforter. I bury my face in my hands but I can see Sebastian's stupid face floating under my eyelids and it doesn't matter when I open them either. Why can't I say I hate him? It feels wrong for some reason, but there is no reason why it should. He gives me the creeps sometimes, but...

Do I consider him a friend? Maybe it feels wrong to hate him because he was "with" me when I wasn't with anyone else. He made me feel happy when I didn't think was possible. Maybe I feel as if I am betraying that moment of reassurance if I say I hate him. I sigh, hating myself for walking into this mess. What careless abandon I had when I first texted him is gone, long gone. I need to make my mind up now, to figure out where I stand with him. I have an obligation as a friend of Kurt and Blaine to hate the perv. So why can't I?

I check the time—seven minutes have passed. I feel tired and I want to sleep, regardless of what I will dream off—anything to escape reality. I turn my phone off and throw it aside, burrowing into the folds of the comforter.