IMPORTANT - PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE CONTINUING
This is the first official chapter for this story. I apologize for the lengthy wait, but I continue to warn you to expect long delays between chapters, I can't guarantee to pump them out quickly.
First -This story is still currently un-beta'd. I am looking for a Beta and have made inquiries. Once I have one confirmed, the chapters will be re-loaded if there are changes made. In the mean time, I apologize for any mistakes I may have made.
Second - This chapter was exceptionally difficult to write. It features Kurt and Burt and I will warn you now, they are completely OOC.
Writing this about Kurt was physically painful for me, but very, very necessary for the story to work. (I promise you, I hope that this never ever happens to Kurt, Chris or any other person, regardless of the reason)
WARNINGS: This chapter has VERY dark themes of abuse, assault and suicide attempts. Mentions self-harming and eating disorders. It also features strong language and sexual references (not rape). If these themes are two much for you, I suggest you not read.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or it's characters, I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement (not that I find the content of this chapter amusing.)
Awfully long A/N to go with an awfully long chapter. Hope you enjoy.
This chapter takes you back to how it all began, please be patient, the meat of the story is coming, but you need to take the journey to get there.
RE-LOADED WITH MAJOR CHANGES WITH MANY, MANY THANKS TO MY LOVELY BETA -Brellegenana
I hope you all enjoy the revised chapter!
6 Months Earlier
Kurt held his breath and closed his eyes as he felt himself in the familiar free-fall into the dark, cavernous, rank pit otherwise known as McKinley High cafeteria dumpster. The wind was knocked out of him with a slight yelp of pain as he landed awkwardly on his back, something solid digging into his already bruised kidneys. Kurt kept his eyes closed has he tried to get his breath back, focusing on only breathing through his mouth and purposely not thinking of exactly what he may be laying in. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight pouring through the container, right at that moment a red and white jacketed senior threw his bag onto his head, its contents spilling out into the rancid mess of day old food scraps. Tentatively touch above his right eye where one of the buckles of his bag had hit, he winced and pulled his hand away to see blood. Fabulous, another wound and another bruise he thought.
Kurt lay there waiting until he could no longer hear any voices from outside. When he was sure he was alone and probably only minutes from the late bell, he gingerly moved each limb to make sure there were no serious injuries. Taking his time, he sat up, head swimming and stomach turning as he caught a whiff of what smelt like two day old Tuna Surprise. He'd become something of a connoisseur when it came to the cafeteria dumpster. I'll take Rancid Food Stains and Odours for $500 thanks Bob Kurt thought dejectedly as accidentally put his hand into a pile of what he was sincerely hoping was old mustard.
Discerning that he had no broken bones, he attempted to gather all his belongings as best he could. Tossing the bag over the edge of the dumpster, he stepped onto the ridge half way up and threw his hands up to curl around the edge. Ignoring the twinges of pain as his sore shoulder protested he hoisted himself up so he was lying across the edge, scrabbling side-ways, he rolled over and hung from his fingertips for a few seconds before he let go and collapsed on the ground, the ankle he'd sprained the other day giving way on him.
Giving himself the once over now that he could see better, Kurt picked himself up off the ground and peeled old lettuce from his jacket. Snatching up his bag, he hobbled over to the doors of the school, as he started to climb the stairs, the geometry teacher hurried past him, nose wrinkling slightly at the less than attractive odour permeating off him. Kurt didn't even bother rolling his eyes or getting upset anymore. He had, for all intents and purposes, become invisible at this school – well, except from his tormentors of course.
With a mental sigh, Kurt hobbled towards his locker to grab another set of clothes. He used to just carry a set in his bag, but after his tormentors had escalated to destroying it at least three times a week, he started keeping them in his locker. Of course, they weren't always safe there, what with the constant vandalism, so he would keep a few sets in his car too. Between both places he was usually able to find something to wear.
Reaching the bathroom, Kurt checked to make sure he was alone and then locked the door. Peeling off his clothes he inspected them and found multiple stains. At least he didn't care too much about these clothes. He long ago gave up his penchant for high end fashion. After the first six months of high school and having practically his entire wardrobe ruined, Kurt resorted to Target. He stuck with long baggy clothes so that his injuries wouldn't be aggravated or on display.
Grabbing some coarse paper towels and wetting them, Kurt cleaned himself up as best he could. Using generic deodorant to try and over power the stench of garbage. Kurt then turned his attention to his head, rinsing out his hair with cold water and quickly running a brush through it. He never bothered trying to clean himself up with shampoo or soap any more, he knew it was a waste of time, he would just ended up covered in something else later on during the day. The record currently stood at three dumpster dives, four slushies and a bowl of beef ragout thrown in his face.
He cleaned the cut above his eye and was thankful that at least he didn't require stitches this time. Getting dressed in a pair of grey sweats and dark blue hoodie, he tied the laces on his sneakers and put all the filthy clothes in a bag to take home. Checking the time to see he only had 10 minutes until second period, Kurt stepped out into the hall and quickly walked in the direction of his second period French class, deciding to pass the time in the alcove hidden under the stairs near the room.
Kurt had lots of hiding places around the school, he was never found by any of the jocks who'd made it their mission to keep him miserable, and he was miserable. Kurt couldn't remember the last time he spoke to anyone. He gave up on fighting back verbally with the jocks, hell; he just gave up fighting back period, as it only made things worse. He wasn't called on in class, he had no friends, and he didn't even speak to his father anymore. In fact, the last time he'd seen his father face to face was about 3 months ago.
He didn't think his father hated him, or at least he hoped, but their lives just passed by each other. Kurt spent more and more time locked away in his room, not willing to let his father see the bruises and injuries. His father, for his part, spent more time at work or anywhere that just wasn't at home. Kurt knew it was hard for his father to be in that house, surrounded by memories when his wife only passed away nearly three years ago. But Kurt lost his mother, and for that, Kurt felt resentment to his father. Kurt needed him, and he was just never there.
As Kurt sat huddled on the cold concrete floor under the stairs trying to get comfortable, his left shoulder still in pain from where the jocks had dislocated it three days ago. Kurt couldn't help but reminisce to the time before his mother had died. She had died just before he started 8th grade in a car accident caused by some drunken college student. It was that summer that changed his entire life. Before she had died, Elizabeth Hummel was Kurt's greatest source of pleasure, everything a boy could ask for in a mother. She was kind and funny, strict when she needed to be, but kept their house full of life, love and music.
She was a singing and piano teacher, working from home. It was through her that Kurt had made a lot of his friends during his childhood. Rachel Berry was a near constant presence in their home, as was, surprisingly, Noah Puckerman. While these two where in his class at school, outside of the Hummel home, he didn't actually have much to do with them. After her death, he never spoke to them again.
That summer, he had also made the biggest mistake of his life. He came out. His mother had hugged and kissed him, telling him that she had already known, which had astounded Kurt because he'd only just figured it out himself that he didn't like girls the way all the other boys did. His father had just smiled and given him a hug. Kurt had thought that meant that he didn't care; now he's not so sure. He also told his best friend, Jonah Davis, sworn to secrecy in the tree house his father had built him when he was seven, over the sacred spit, slap, and click of their secret handshake. Never would he have believed that his best friend would have told everyone on the first day back at school.
It started with shoves and name calling, it escalated to punches and vandalism. The first day that he went home limping with a split lip and trying to hold his ripped bag together, he met his father in the kitchen and sobbed the whole story out. His father, not known for being able to show support in emotional times, had awkwardly patted his back and told him to keep his chin up.
"Friends like that aren't real friends at all Kurt."
No shit Sherlock, Kurt didn't even try to interject that they were not his friends to begin with. It was the start of everything. He never told his father anything that happened after that. Kurt became quite adept at covering bruises. He would lie about tripping to cover any cuts he came home with. He didn't bother going to the faculty, if his own father was turning a blind eye, what hope did he have that the school would be any different.
People stopped talking to him, afraid to catch the gay or be beaten by association. Kurt tried to keep his chin up, he really did, but by halfway through his freshman year of high school, he just gave up. The bullies where bigger now, stronger, and had found new forms to inflict terror and pain. It was at this point that Kurt withdrew from the world; he became a shell that that walked around, attending classes and was subjected to constant torment.
The bell rung, pulling Kurt out of daze, he huddled in closer on himself and waited for the noise of stampeding students to pass before slipping into the classroom and taking his seat at the last second.
For the rest of the day, Kurt tried to make himself small and invisible to the jocks. He would be the last to walk into the classroom and the first to leave it, hurrying to one of his many hiding places to wait so he could move a little freer to the next class. Lunch was spent in his usual spot, hiding under the bench in the audio control booth of the auditorium. He didn't eat, he never ate. Even if he could summon the desire to eat, the beatings that he takes to his stomach make it nearly impossible to keep food down.
At the end of the day, Kurt would retreat quickly to the nearly always empty library. The jocks never went in there after school. Kurt would hide in one of the rarely used corners at the back, between the stacks that held the 30 year old encyclopedias. He would sit there until the library closed at 5 p.m., doing whatever homework he had or sometimes he would just read the out of date encyclopedias, hoping that all the practices had long been over with for the day.
Leaving the library and walking to his locker to dump his books, Kurt thought that the day had not been so bad. After the ritual morning dumpster toss, he'd only been shoved into a locker once and slushied twice. It was as he neared his locker that he changed his mind. The locker had been jimmied open and spray painted with the word 'fag' over the door. Inside, they had sprayed all his belongs with a deep purple. They'd also been a little more creative this time and placed a neon blue dildo inside with a note taped to it 'enjoy, cock sucker'.
I wonder if should send them a thank you note Kurt thought sarcastically with a grim smile. It wasn't the first object that had ever been left for him; he'd received cock rings, vibrators, butt plugs and ball gags before and once, even a pair of rainbow coloured fluffy handcuffs. With a sigh, Kurt stuffed everything into his bag and dragged it behind him with some difficulty. realizing he'd missed the last bus; Kurt tried to not groan at the knowledge that he now had a 3 mile walk home.
Since his mother's death, Kurt had stopped everything to do with music. He stopped singing and playing the piano, he threw out his stereo and disabled the kitchen radio. He had also boxed up his collection of musicals and Disney movies and put them up in the spare room next to his mother's belongings that his Dad couldn't bear to throw away.
As such, Kurt would pass the time by reciting multiplication in his head. He'd already mastered the art of dividing, and addition and subtraction posed no challenge for him. He'd also pretty much mastered the art of multiplication as well, but at least it was still something to pass the time. 6250 x 250 =1,562,500, 6250 x 251 = 1,568,750 by the time Kurt had gotten up to 6250 x 364 (2,275,000) he'd reached his street.
As he approached his house it became clear that something was very wrong. An acrid black smoke was rising from the lawn, getting closer; Kurt saw that the jocks had really upped the ante this time. Across the lawn it appeared as though many unoriginal slurs had been created using sulphur or something, Fag, Donut Puncher, Cock Sucker, Arse Slut, Homo to name just a few.
For the first time in ages, Kurt saw red. He was used to this at school, but never had they brought it to his home before. He got a few anonymous phone calls, but they'd never vandalized his home. Whirling around in despair and anger, Kurt found himself face to face with 5 of the worst offenders – Karofsky, Azimio, Larganthaal, Saunders and Browning. He knew what was coming; he should have known they would stick around, if only to see his reaction to the lawn.
Standing his ground and tilting his chin up a little, Kurt did something he hadn't done in a year.
"WHAT the fuck is you're problem?" Kurt screamed.
"Are you talking to US?" Azimio questioned as they circled around the smaller boy.
"Fudge-packers have no right to talk to normal people" Karofsky sneered.
Kurt opened his mouth to retort but never got the opportunity to speak. Largenthaal and Saunders tackled and grabbed both his arms, twisting them in their sockets so far Kurt was sure they would dislocate both shoulders this time. Karofsky spat on his face while Azimio threw the first solid punch to his stomach, Browning grabbed his hair and pulled his head back so it was staring straight up at the almost completely black sky.
Browning's arm came across his neck in a choke hold nearly severing his air supply while keeping his head firmly pulled back. Largenthaal and Saunders, still pinning his arms painfully behind him also started to throw fierce kicks at his calves and ankles. Barely able to stand or breathe, Kurt did the only thing he could. He started multiplying. 6250 x 365 = 2,281,350, 3250 x 366 = 2,287,500...
With his brain occupied, Kurt detached himself from what was happening. He didn't acknowledge the fists or feet that rained across his body. He closed his eyes when his head was jerked forwards still reciting the sums in his head while a fist smashed his nose. The blood was pooling down his face as the hits kept coming, and still Kurt recited his multiplications. 3250 x 424 = 1,378,00.
He didn't even notice as his tormentors dropped him and started to back away. It was only when he felt a hand grab his crotch in a tight squeeze, palming him roughly, and someone biting his lip, drawing blood and then licking into his mouth with a moan, that Kurt became aware of what was happening. Opening his eyes to stare with cold hatred at his attacker, he saw Karofsky staring back at him with lust darkened eyes, and he heard the words 'tell anyone and you are dead.' Palming Kurt one more time, Karofsky then stomped on his wrist, snapping it, before walking away to catch up with the others.
As Kurt lay there on the grass, the dark night sky above him, he was only sure of one thing. Karofsky was gay. He couldn't tell you if he laid there for five minutes or five hours, he couldn't tell you if the hitched breaths where because of the pain or because of the anger and he couldn't tell you if he were quietly whimpering or openly sobbing. The only thing he could say for certain, is that Karofsky is gay. And that son-of-a-bitch was literally making his life a living hell for something that he was himself.
Kurt eventually pulled himself up, cradling his broken wrist against his chest, he grabbed the strap of his bag and tried to walk to the house. His battered legs made it difficult, he was also pretty sure they had broken some ribs this time too as he continued to wheeze painfully. He shut the door behind, remembering to flick the catch on the lock and dumped his bag on the floor at the door. Not his usual practice, but he quite literally couldn't hold it anymore.
He fell against the door, letting it support him. He could feel his eyes swelling and was sure that within an hour they would have puffed up enough so he wouldn't be able to see. He wanted a shower. He wanted his bed. And most of all, he wanted his mother. He eyed the stairs which led up to his bedroom, he knew he wouldn't be getting up them. He was half tempted to just collapse where he was, but he knew then his father would find him.
The thought of his father was enough to cause a spark of rage within him. Once again, he needed his father, and he just wasn't here. He stayed away to let his son be almost beaten to death and sexually assaulted on their front lawn. The memory of Karofsky's hands and lips on him made Kurt retch. If he actually had anything in his stomach, it would be sitting on the doorstep right now.
Without conscious thought, Kurt made his way to the bathroom on the ground floor. He felt dirty. He wanted to erase the memories of what Karofsky had said and done. When he reached the bathroom, he didn't even look into the mirror; he knew he wouldn't like what he saw. Instead, he turned the hot water tap on and waited until it was scolding hot. Grabbing one of the spare toothbrushes that were kept there, Kurt began to feverishly brush his teeth. He brushed his teeth three times, scrubbing viciously; hard enough that his gums started to bleed.
It wasn't enough, shucking his clothes off and leaving them on the floor, he would burn them later he resolved, Kurt stepped into a scalding hot shower and scrubbed his body several times, not caring that his aching body and broken wrist screamed in protestation. He washed his hair and scrubbed his skin until he was red raw from the heat and force of his bathing. As the water turned cold he stepped out and stood in front of the mirror. Wiping away the fog, he finally glanced at his reflection for the first time and let out a gasp.
He couldn't recognize himself. There were dark bruises forming, adding to the older ones, all over his torso and neck. His legs held perfect footprints of bruises and his wrists had individual handprint bruises. The broken wrist was at an odd angle, screaming with pain at him now. He had lumps forming on his jaw and his nose was most definitely broken, eyes black and swelling shut.
But all that he had expected, what shocked him was that he couldn't see himself in the reflection. The parts of his eyes that he could see where a flat dull grey, gone the sparkling mix of blues and greens, they looked lifeless. He'd lost so much weight that he was all bones and angles, farewell the lithe dancers body he once had even as a preteen.
He couldn't stand to see himself like this. Grabbing the clothes he'd left on the floor, he quickly pulled them back on, trying to cover up the battered body. Catching his reflection again, Kurt couldn't stop the tears from spilling over, tears of hurt, tears of pain, and tears of heart break. Staring at himself, he realised that it was no longer just his body or his heart that was broken, but so was his soul.
A soul, he thought to himself, a person is not a person without a soul. They had taken it, with everything else they'd done; they had finally taken the very last thing he could cling too. With a scream of frustration, Kurt threw the fist of his un-broken arm into the mirror, cracking it in radiating spirals like a spider-web. That's me he thought dejectedly, they've shattered me beyond repair.
With hard fury blazing in his eyes, Kurt picked up the toothpaste. Squirting some on his finger, he smeared it on the mirror, writing just two words, Fuck This. With that he picked up a razor out of the cupboard and with a final glare at himself in the mirror, he cut two long stripes up the insides of his wrists, the line on the right wrist more of a squiggle because of his broken wrist. As he watched the blood start to pour out, he let himself collapse onto the bathroom floor. They can't take this from me now was his last conscious thought.
Burt Hummel had his head resting in the palm of his hand; the other was currently clasped tightly around the smaller one of his son's, silent tears tracking down his stubbled face. The often present baseball cap was not in its usual perch on his head and he was still wearing the grease-covered overalls that he had on when he left the garage in a hurry three days prior.
He'd received an anxious phone call from his neighbour saying that she was sure she had seen his son lying as still as death on the front lawn when she had returned home from work. She thought she had seen five large boys walking away from the house as she drove down the street. When she had parked her car and raced over to where the boy had been, all she found was blood on the defaced lawn.
She had immediately called through to the garage and explained through anxious gasps of breaths what she had seen. She then informed him she would call the police, even if it was only regarding the vandalism to his lawn, but by that time, Burt Hummel had already flung the phone down and was racing his truck home, terrified by what he may find.
He took small comfort as he drove, thinking that if Kurt had been able to get inside then he wasn't so badly hurt. He cursed the rush hour traffic that turned the usual 15 minute drive into closer to half an hour. Parking his truck across the driveway, he wrenched the keys out and almost knocked himself out when he tried to run through the front door. Of course Kurt would lock he thought as he fumbled for his keys.
Getting inside and nearly breaking his neck when he tripped over Kurt's school bag, Burt felt his heart clench, Kurt never dumped it at the front door. "K-Kurt?" Burt stuttered out as he raced upstairs to check Kurt's room, as that was where his son spent most of his time. He wasn't in his room or in Burt's, nor was he in the spare room where they kept all his mother's belonging and he wasn't in the bathroom upstairs.
Running out of ideas of where his son would usually go, Burt raced back down stairs and searched there. He didn't find him in the kitchen or living room, nor was he in the garage. Thinking he would check out the back, he paused and opened the downstairs bathroom and felt the world collapse around him. With a sob, he had fallen to the floor where his son lay, pooled in his own blood, he took in the words written across the smashed mirror and clutched at his boy with heart-wrenching sobs. Grabbing the towel on the floor and pressing them to the self-inflicted cuts, he tried to keep pressure on both wounds as he was sobbing, calling for his son to wake up.
He didn't remember hearing the police enter the still open front door. He couldn't feel when one of the officers grabbed his shoulder trying to get his attention. But he certainly noticed when the young female officer tried to pull him away from his son. He fought and he fought hard, he couldn't let go of his boy. It took both officers to bodily haul him off the prone boy, the female officer was trying to talk to him, asking his name and his sons name. Burt could only respond in sobs of 'not my son, not my boy!'
He had watched as the other officer had taken over his position trying to resuscitate his child. He felt the woman try to move out of the way, still talking to him. Suddenly the tiny bathroom was filled with people as paramedics arrived. Burt watched as both officers led him out of the room, the paramedics working efficiently as the first resumed resuscitation and the other wrapped pressure bandages around the cuts.
Burt heard the words 'lots of blood, broken nose and wrist, strangulation' among others. They fuelled Burt's fury that people could do this too his child, wanting nothing more than to hunt the bastards down and destroy them little by little. But first, he had to make sure his son was okay. The paramedics had placed Kurt on a stretcher and wheeled him out of the house, one of them still desperately trying to pump life back into the small body.
Burt felt himself being bundled up into the back of the police car. With sirens blaring on both emergency vehicles they reached the Lima Memorial Hospital within minutes. Kurt was ushered straight through the emergency room, doctors and paramedics speaking a language he couldn't understand. He fought to follow his son into the ER room, but was forcibly restrained by a security guard and the two police officers.
He had waited, four hours that passed by the slowest he had ever known. He was a catatonic mess until a young nurse came out half an hour after Kurt had first disappeared through the doors, speaking the words that Burt clang to in fierce hope.
"They've managed to revive him and keep him breathing through a machine. It's been touch and go, he's lost a lot of blood and there is some severe damage caused by the cuts. They are doing everything that they can, but, at this stage, the prognosis is uncertain."
Taking her leave, Burt was able to raise his head and watch her go, finally taking in his surroundings and the situation to full extent. Sobbing, he looked to the two officers who were still seated beside him.
"Why? Why would he do that? Why? My boy! He's the only thing I have left!"
The female officers was quick to place a hand on his shoulder and try to offer comfort, confirming the nurse words that the doctors were doing everything that they could. The male officer returned with a strong cup of black coffee, handing it to the broken man. Once slightly calmer and the coffee finished, they took his statement, asking for any small detail that he could remember, promising that they would start an investigation into the vandalism and the alleged, at this stage, assault.
The older male officer left to return the Hummel's home to cordon off the crime scene and start the initial investigation. The female officer waited with Burt, needing the doctor's report to confirm that there was an assault so that they could add that to the investigation.
Three hours later and a female doctor wearing blood covered scrubs, Kurt's blood, came out and requested a short moment with the officer. Burt watched frantically as they walked down the hall out of sight. He was desperate for news, why wouldn't the Doctor give it to him? Why did she need to speak to the police first? He was Kurt's father; surely he should have been the first to know anything. Just as he'd made up his mind to follow them and demand an explanation the pair of women returned back to his side. The officer had a note-pad out and was writing something down as the Doctor sat down next to him and introduced herself.
"Mr Hummel, my name is Doctor Pearse…"
"What's happened? Where is Kurt? Is he okay? Can I see him?"
"Calm down Mr Hummel, your son Kurt is still alive. As the nurse probably explained, there were a lot of complications. At the moment, your son is in a critical but stable condition."
Burt listened as the Dr Pearse explained Kurt's various injuries, his heart thumping wildly as he heard the torture that his son had been put through. Through the medical jargon, he understood that Kurt had had his windpipe nearly crushed, severe internal damage to his stomach from the blows he'd received. Both shoulders had damage and the marks on his arms suggested that two people had held him while at least two others had beaten him. His legs had muscular damage from where it appeared someone had been kicking him in the calves and finally a shattered left wrist, probably from someone stomping on it.
Burt felt the bile rise in his throat as he listened, the female detective who had been taking notes during this discussion saw the colour drain from the man's face and quickly grabbed a nearby trash can and both doctor and officer watched as the normally strong man lost his stomach into it. The doctor quickly called a nurse for a glass of water and Burt rinsed his mouth gratefully. Staring up at the doctor with deadened eyes he asked if he could see his son now.
"Not yet. First we are keeping a close monitor on him for a while, to ensure that he doesn't go into cardiac arrest again. Once he is more stable then he will be moved to a private room."
With a quick glance at the officer, Doctor Pearse hesitated. While her instincts were screaming at her that the man before her was innocent and more than likely unaware, she had to follow up with the line of questioning as per procedure.
"Mr Hummel, your son Kurt, when he came in, he presented with older injuries, injuries that couldn't have been self-inflicted."
"What are you saying?"
"While being the most severe, this doesn't appear to be the first of your son's beatings."
The doctor watched as the man's eyes widened in horror at the implication of her words before she continued.
"There are some injuries as well as bruising and scars that look to be weeks old, some from perhaps even longer. I took the liberty to check your son's medical records, in the last two years; your son has visited many various ER's and clinics with wounds that required professional medical treatment. Next of Kin contact was made to yourself."
"What? No, never," Burt shook his head emphatically, "He would have told me if he had to go to the hospital, and no one ever contacted me about it. You must have the wrong file."
Burt watched as the doctor opened up the file to the first page showing patient contact information, under Next of Kin was 'Burt Hummel – Father' with a mobile number for contact.
"That's not my number. I don't even have a mobile phone. It's Kurt's number."
Shaking his head sadly, Burt stared at the doctor horrified. His son, his only flesh and blood needed medical treatment multiple times? He was never there; he didn't even know what was happening with his son.
"Do you know where your son's phone would be?" asked the officer.
"Probably still at home with all his things. He'd dumped his bag at the front door. He never does that."
Burt watched as the female officer pulled out her own phone and contacted her partner, requesting him to find the phone and confirm the number. After a few minutes, the officer nodded her head and wrote something down before turning back to the doctor.
"Okay, the phone number is Kurt's; Burt Hummel had never been contacted with any of the treatments."
"I just told you I didn't! What's – Why are you checking?"
"Mr Hummel, as I said before, Kurt has received multiple injuries over a sustained period of time. We are merely following the hospital procedure in this sort of event."
"Y-You think! You think I was the one hurting him? HE'S MY SON! I could never do that! Why would you think that?"
"It's standard procedure Mr Hummel. Children who are often abused at home will go to great lengths to avoid confrontation between medical staff and their abuser. While it's clear that you were not aware of the medical attention as far as the hospital knows, we can't rule you out as a potential suspect just yet. I'm sorry," the doctor admitted. "But I can't allow you to see your son unsupervised at the moment. Not until you've been cleared by the police of any involvement."
"Mr Hummel," the officer interjected, "I am going to be working as fast as I can to clear you. I need to speak to anyone who can comment on your relationship with your son, neighbours, relatives, co-workers and the school administrators. But given the lateness of the hour, it's unlikely that we can clear you before morning."
"In the meantime, why don't you go get some rest? Your son won't be awake before morning, at the earliest; you can gather some belongings for him and get yourself cleaned up."
Burt shook his head frantically, "No, I can't – I can't leave him. Not again. What – what happened to him? Can you tell me?"
Doctor Pearse nodded her head and explained in a soft voice.
"Kurt's right shoulder was dislocated fairly recently, sometime within the last five days I would guess. He has a sprained ankle that will need to be looked at as I believe there may be ligament damage. His entire back is covered in dark bruises, and it appears that some may have been causing damage to his kidneys and liver. They will heal in time, but it was probably a significant factor in the internal bleeding.
"Your son is also severely malnourished. His BMI is dangerously low. He's dehydrated and his glucose levels are nearly non-existent. We have him on drip to try and get the much needed nutrients into him. But, we need to know, when did your son's eating habits change? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"
Burt slumped into his chair in defeat. He officially felt like the world's worst father. Thinking back, he tried to remember, but it was with shock that he realised he had not shared a meal with his son in nearly six months! Every night, after he got home, he would peek into his son's room to see him already asleep, satisfied in thinking that his boy was safe, he never pushed further. It was with heavy remorse that he realised he could not remember actually speaking to his son, or seeing him around the house apart from those nightly peeks.
"It's all my fault," he whispered dejectedly. "I, I never was around. I can't remember the last time I spoke to my son. But I swear, I saw him asleep in his bed every night!" he added frantically. "I thought – I thought he was safe!"
The doctor looked on in sympathy; it was not unusual to see teenagers hiding things from their parents, especially teens that were victims of assault.
"Mr Hummel, it's very common that teens who are self-harming don't confide in their parents or anyone."
"Wh-what do you mean self-harming? Oh God! He wasn't cutting himself was he?"
"No, I merely meant his eating habits. Until we can speak to him, we won't know the full situation, if he has an eating disorder or if it's something else. But quite often, there is an underlying factor as to why it starts. Can you think of anything that may have caused it, or any other reason that your son may have gotten those injuries?"
Burt thought long and hard about his estranged son. He tried to piece together how he went from the happy child he once knew to this and tried to see where he had failed him. He realised, with a wrench in his gut, that his son started withdrawing not long after his wife's death. Burt assumed it was natural; the boy had lost his mother after all. But at the time, he was too busy trying to cope with his own grief that he failed to notice that his son was suffering.
He couldn't remember Kurt bringing friends over after that, he had started talking to Burt less and less, preferring to spend his time in his room alone. Thinking of the image of his broken son, Burt remembered the first and only other time he had seen Kurt with bruises like that.
"He – he's gay" he said, "H-he came out to us only a few weeks before his mother was killed in a car crash, when he was just 13. I remember he came home a couple of weeks after the new school year had started; he had bruises and a split lip. He said that a couple of bullies had been tormenting him about it and had punched him."
Looking to both the doctor and officer with fresh tears in his eyes, he tried to get them to understand. "That was the only time he told me about it. I guess - I guess I just thought that it never h-h-happened again" he added with broken sobs.
"I really am a horrible father, how could I let this happen to him? It's all my fault, it's all my fault" he kept repeating, hugging his arms around himself with tears rolling down his face.
The doctor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as she stood up. "I'll get a nurse to take you to get cleaned up. Hopefully, we will be able to move your son to his room soon. Officer Jenkins will stay with you for a while so you can visit your son, after that, I'm afraid you can't stay in the room un-supervised.
Nodding again, the doctor left to find an available nurse to help the man, resolving to make a note to request a psych consultation for both father and son. Officer Jenkins accompanied Burt and the nurse to a private room where Kurt would be taken. After he had washed his face and hands, scrubbing to remove the stains of his son's blood, Burt sat down and waited for his son to be brought in.
During the hour wait, he gave the names and address of his employees and neighbours who the officers would talk to. He couldn't give any names from the school or any of his friends. He'd really been absent from his son's life for far too long he admitted to himself. There were no other family. Burt and his wife Katherine were only children. After her death, her parents had moved to England, his parents were in Boston. He hadn't spoken or seen them in three years, not since his wife's death when he cut himself out of society.
Once Kurt had been brought to the room, Burt had let out a gasp as he watched the orderlies settle his broken, bruised and bandaged son. As soon as they left, he had pulled a chair up to the right side of the bed and taken his place holding the un-broken hand, being mindful of the bandage covered cut, begging his son to wake up so he could have the chance to say how sorry he was. Cruelly, only an hour later, Officer Jenkins had interrupted his pleas.
"Mr Hummel, I have to go inform my partner of the doctor's report. In the morning, we will start to gather the statements so we can try and clear you of involvement. I'll come back to update you on the investigation and then both you and the doctor can sign your statements."
Burt gave a resigned sigh. As much as he couldn't bear to part with his son, he knew he had to. If he kicked up a fuss, they would remove him from the hospital. At least he can camp outside his door, being close at hand if there was any change. Standing up and give his son a gentle kiss to his forehead, Burt turned away and nodded.
"Is there anything else that I can do for you before I go?"
"Just catch the bastards that did this." He said with ferocity.
"I plan on it," she said seriously. "You said that your neighbour thinks she saw some people walking off down the street? We will take her statement and hopefully she saw them enough to give a description."
"Thank you, she lives on the north side of our place, her name is Andrea Graham."
Nodding the officer handed over her card with her contact details. "We will be in touch, but if there is any new information, you can call me or my partner Officer Nichols."
Burt was accompanied out of the room and sat himself down on a chair someone had provided opposite the door. He watched as security guard stood, blocking the entry to his son's room. Burt felt like a criminal, and maybe he was, he hadn't physically assaulted his son, but he'd neglected him.
Burt watched the door all night. He watched as various nurses came and went, doing God only knows what, and still he sat there. Some of the nurses took pity on him and upon leaving the room would spare a glance at him and tell him that there was no change. No change was both a good and bad sign. His son wasn't getting any worse, but he wasn't getting any better.
Approximately 11 a.m. the next morning, both Officers Jenkins and Nichols returned and took him aside to the empty room down the hall. Apparently, the school was shocked at the events and were unable to provide comment, either on the relationship between father and son, or if the boy had faced any torment during the school hours.
Most of his worker's had never even met Kurt, having been hired on after his wife's death. It was only the testimony of his most senior employee, Andrew Bennett and his neighbour Andrea who had been able to emphatically say that Burt had never been known to strike any child, let alone his own.
Being his closest neighbour, Andrea had been able to testify that she'd never seen nor heard anything to suggest that Burt was abusing his son. In fact, she hadn't even heard general talking or even the teen angst arguments one would expect. She'd also been able to testify that she had seen at least four largish boys walking away from the house, all wearing Letterman Jackets from McKinley High that she'd never seen in the neighbourhood previously.
The officers informed Burt that they would be looking deeper into the school, assuring that if the attacks had been happening on school grounds then there would be someone who knew something. But as of now, he was cleared of his involvement. They stressed that they would still have investigations going on regarding their relationship, but that he was cleared enough to be with his son.
The first ray of hope entered Burt's eyes since he'd gotten the phone call the previous evening. Jumping up and shaking both their hands he looked over to the security guard who was talking quietly into his radio, confirming that his presence was no longer needed. With a smile, the man stepped to the side and Burt hurried into the room to resume the same position from the previous night.
Two days later and Burt was still in the same position, weariness overwhelming him. He barely slept and only left his son's side to use the bathroom very briefly. He hadn't showered since the morning of the attack before he went to work. He'd refused all offers to go home to shower and sleep. The hospital allowed him to stay; the nurses would bring him food and even arranged to have another cot brought in so he could get some sleep. He never used it. Instead he would doze off in the chair, only to waken a short time later with a start, fearfully looking to his son to see if there was any change. There never was. The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the machines keeping his son alive.
Burt very gently clasped his son's hand in both of his own, stroking his thumb over the back of his son's hand, and he begged his son softly to wake up. He told him how much he loved him, how much he swore that everything would be different, that he needed to wake up so that he could identify his attackers for what they did.
Burt kept waiting and hoping and praying; praying that he would get the chance to prove to his son how much he loved him. Hoping it wasn't too late to fix their broken relationship, and waiting for his son to open his eyes, eyes that were exactly like his mothers.
I'm hoping that this chapter has not frightened any of you off, though I completely understand if it has.
Just so you know - the worst is over for Kurt in that sense.
I am craving your feedback on this story, so -
Love it? Hate it? Review and let me know why.
Mischievous Gleek