"Imagine all the people living life in peace."

-Imagine, Hairography

Will Shuester gave Kurt that song for a reason.

Yes, it was well within his vocal range (hell, anything was) and yes, pushing aside all his educator sensitivity courses, it was very, very gay. But it was also one of the saddest songs he had ever heard, beneath the high notes and whimsical beats. It was pure melancholy.

And that's kind of what Kurt was. Melancholy wrapped in high notes.

He was grading papers and when he reached Kurt's, he took special notice. The usually straight and precise handwriting was replaced with chicken scratch, in three different pen colors and the most atrocious Spanish he'd ever read. The paper was wrinkled and had coffee stains at the corners.

Will had a thought-what would Mika be if he had suddenly missed a note, if the music died down but the words didn't and all anyone heard was the melancholy, if only for a minute?

It would be like Kurt's Spanish paper.

Kurt went around the building until he reached the back parking lot because despite all the self-righteousness he had put into his argument, he really didn't feel like being in school.

So he hung back, crossed his arms, and thought.

Kick a Fag Day. How original.

Kurt couldn't be sure if the entire affair was created specifically out of Azimio's resentment or just an inevitable advance in the Ohio bullying phenomenon. He hadn't seen any actual kicking involved that day, just a lot of jeers and shoves, none directed towards Kurt. Which he found odd, considering he was no doubt the most effeminate boy in McKinley.

He glanced at his watch. Gym was over and he should be going towards English, where he still hadn't read the assigned novel and sat beside a rather boxed-shape oaf with buck teeth and a dirty letterman. Once upon a time he would have thought Cheerios membership would grant him a free pass in the eyes of McKinley's sports department. Evidently fag overwhelmed any scraps of popularity he could muster (even though Santana and Brittany had spared that rumor that he was related to David Beckham…being married to a Spice Girl with a flat chest eliminated any and all street credibility…at least in Ohio…)

Where was the harm in skipping another period?

Kurt leaned back heavily against the wall and slid down, for once in his entire existence not caring that he was probably getting all kind of grime on his (white!) pants. And though he was a good four feet away from the dumpster, his fingers still itched with anxiety at the sheer volume of trash it contained.

Four feet away. He heard a groan.

Kurt jumped and sprang back to his feet so quickly Sue Sylvester would have allowed him ten extra calories for lunch. His eyes darted back and forth, horrible, terrible images flashing through his mind. Irrationally, albeit, but the strangest things tended to lurk in the back parking lots of Ohio schools. Make of this what you will.

Holding his breath, Kurt inched slowly away from the wall and craned his neck to look over the dumpster, the apparent source of the groaning.

And he saw feet.

Of course, his untamable imagination immediately took them for decapitated. But then he saw thighs, and a stomach and as he stepped out further, he saw…

No, that wasn't a face.

That couldn't be a face.

"Oh, my god," Kurt muttered, his feet frozen.

The kid-was it a kid?-groaned again, his skinny leg twitching. Kurt had never been under pressure before (unless a late night cram session the nineteen hours before finals counted), so he therefore had no idea what type of person he was under pressure. Maybe this was a learning experience.

Okay, okay.

Oh, my god.

He finally flung his foot forward, dropping his bag and running to the…thing (it couldn't be a person, not a human). He fell to his knees, right beside the boy's chest, looking intently at this circular mound of gore. He could see a nose, two little holes that were making this horrible whistling noise. A dark slit, pink-white broken lumps hanging in between. Wheezes burst from it like wind, and the kid's chest rose and fell like his entire body was wrapped in a blood-pressure band. Two swollen masses were where a set of human eyes usually were.

"Okay," Kurt whispered. "Okay, okay. I'll…I'm going to help you. I'll get help." It sounded like such a lie, coming from Kurt. His voice was cracking so much he didn't even know if he was audible. Like a child at gunpoint.

He looked around feverishly, searching for any signs of life among the school lunches of yesteryear. All he could see was the passing cars on the road across the football field, hardly within his (expertly trained) voice's range. Looked back down, all he could see was red and just a little pale white as his eyes blurred with furious, frustrated tears.

God, he thought. I'm such a fag.

"Mr. Hummel."

Kurt looked up from his intertwined hands, unlacing his fingers and wiping them against his (ruined) khakis. A doctor stood before him, flanked by a man and a woman. They all looked…not grave. Or serious. The best he could describe it was a repair man at the doorstep of someone with the same question about their toilet that the last person had with their toiler; routine, and maybe a little annoyed.

"Yes?" Kurt asked, his voice hoarse from lack of use and, okay, he'll admit it, just a bit of uncontrollable sobbing.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Kurt nodded, clearing his throat and crossing his legs in a last bit effort to save some face.

The woman stepped forward with a clipboard and a tightly wound bun, the dark side of sensible heals squeezing her blue-veined feet. She could have been pretty had she quit school when she was sixteen and go off to follow her favorite band. No she was just…miserable.

"What's your relation to Mr. Patrick," she asked briskly.

He blinked. "I didn't even know his name."

"And tell me again how and where you found him?"

"I was in the back parking lot and saw him behind a dumpster."

"Why weren't you in class?"

Kurt cleared his throat again, opening his mouth for a response he didn't have and closing it. The women sniffed haughtily and dropped it.

"Do you have any clue as to the motive of Jared's assault?"

Kurt squirmed looking down at his clenched fists, tightly wound together. "There was…" he started, "is, this….thing going on."

The man stepped beside the woman, leaning in so close Kurt could count his warts (not really-there were a lot). "What thing?"

"Kick a…" Kurt struggled with the word, sounding so alien on his tongue, "Fag day. The football players started it."

There was a momentary silence, where the woman scribbled on her clipboard and the man glared at Kurt with a well-rehearsed Law and Order square-of-the-shoulders. He asked, "Fag as in, homosexual, am I correct?"

Kurt nodded.

"Was Jared a homosexual?"

Kurt blinked. "I…I don't know," he said dumbly. "Why does that matter?"

The man frowned. "It plays a part in this investigation."

The doctor returned from wherever he had fell into, pulled aside the man. The woman stayed with her clipboard.

Kurt's eyes darted back and forth, from the woman to the men. The woman nodded to herself and said without looking at him, "Thank you for your cooperation."

"Wait," he called to her, "a kid just got beat up. Why does it matter?"

He was on his feet, half a foot away from the chair he started at. He looked to his side to find the man gone and the doctor watching him steadily, something like pity and something like sadness in his eye, before turning away.

Kurt walked into the kid-Jared Patrick's-room after numbly walking the hospital wing for half an hour. He had the kid's blood all over his polo. He owed him a visit.

He was surprised when he didn't see any family members next to Jared's. It had been an hour since they had settled him into the room. Kurt's own phone had been buzzing the entire time, and he knew someone had called his father when they took his name and Burt was no doubt speeding down the highway towards the hospital.

It was a sad sight, though. A little, skinny kid swallowed by white sheets, hooked up to machines, bandages obscuring most of his face. All alone.

That was one thing Kurt was irrevocably grateful for; he'd never be alone in a hospital bed. He'd have Mercedes bitching about how the only solos she gets are in the Funk numbers, or Tina making him listen to whatever metal band she was obsessed with that week, or Artie quizzing himself in calculus, or his dad quietly discussing the shop, more to himself then to Kurt. Even Finn, with an awkward silence following him like a shadow, would be with him. The thought of no one was incomprehensible to Kurt.

The doctors had mentioned briefly that they would have to perform reconstructive surgery on Jared as soon as his parents showed up with proof of insurance (because evidently a collapsed nose was not considered immediately necessary).

Kurt sat down.

"Thank you," came a soft, wispy voice. Kurt looked down.

"Anytime," he replied softly, smiling even though the other boy couldn't see him.

There was a long stretch of silence before the rasping rose again. "I'm not even gay."

Kurt nodded, even though the other boy couldn't see him.

"You're the only gay kid in Lima."

His stomach lurched, twisted. Well, that's an isolating thought.

"They just want…an…excuse," he paused to breath in heavily, "to…fuck with…everybody…if they meant it, you'd…be…dead."

Wincing, Kurt chuckled bitterly. "Oh, I'm sure there planning something extra special for me."

"I'm…sorry…" Jared wheezed. "Your…I…ugh." He made a hacking noise and his spine arched slightly. The heart monitor jumped before easing back into rhythm.

"I should get a nurse," Kurt said.

"I'm not even gay," the boy snapped as though Kurt had, well, asked him.

"You said that," he replied quietly. Despair made his face fall.

Would that be him? Would Kurt one day be hooked up to monitor's, his face broken, furiously claiming his innocence for a crime that wasn't even a crime? Was this how it was going to be? Was every fucking day going to be a Kick a Fag one?

Kurt placed a docile hand on Jared's shoulder before sliding out of the heavy room.

Kurt?

Hm?

Jesus fucking Christ, why haven't you been answering your phone?

I was at the hospital.

I know you were at the hospital. I just got a call at work about you being at the hospital.

Sorry.

No, no…don't be sorry. God, Kurt. You just had me worried.

Sorry.

Fuck…okay, fine. Why were you at the hospital? Are you okay? Are you hurt?

No, it was another kid.

Another…does this have anything to do with the Kick a…you know, day the schools been calling everybody about?

Yes.

Do you…is the other kid okay?

He has to get reconstructive surgery on his entire face.

Oh, my god. Shit.

Yeah.

…Kurt? Are you okay? You sound off.

I'm fine.

Are you still at the hospital?

Parking lot.

Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you.

…

Kurt?

Yeah.

Just…stay safe. Until I get there.

Right.