AN: Dedicated to Johna, Aradiea, IcyScorpio, LightLifeHardly, and Miranda for being the first five reviewers on the first chapter and asking for its continuation.

Warnings: Language (I forgot to mention that last chap...), slash, non-con/dub-con, ELI SHOWER SCENE (for the fangirls out there)

Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi or this might actually be a plotline...

Chapter Two

Inspire the Worst In Me

Eli slides into his seat and prays to every god ever worshipped by man that he can just sit here and be ignored.

"All right, Eli, why don't you go first today."

This is why he doesn't believe in god. "Yeah. All right."

The class looks at him disinterestedly, because no one actually cares about what anyone else has written.

"Wound soul

Festering, putrid, sick

Hollow and cold

Buried beneath the skin

You come, you take

Make me feel stupid and weak

I tremble, I shake

Unable to scream, to speak"

The word sound muffled to his own ears and he hates that his voice has lost it's normal mocking-cool edge and has taken on the warble he used to make fun of.

"Thank you, Eli." The teacher says giving him that there's something going on, isn't there look. Eli hates that look because this woman has no idea what's going on in his life. "It's some of your best work..."

"Whatever." He says glaring at her because he can see she wants to ask about his inspiration and how he felt when writing and he doesn't want to tell her these things, doesn't want to explain that his "best work" is a product of powerlessness and violation.

"What happened? That's not what you showed me yesterday." Clare whispers against his neck and Eli wishes that he could just enjoy the sensation without being reminded of everything he's trying to forget.

"I got struck by a sudden bout of inspiration." Eli snaps off, not entirely a lie, and leans forward to avoid any more questions and/or feelings the beautiful girl behind him might invoke.

Eli wanders over to Morty after waving goodbye to his friends and wanting nothing more than to go home and shower for the next several hours. And who, of all people, happens to have parked his ass on his car? Fitz.

"Hey, freak." His greeting is met with moronic laughter from a gaggle of his flunkies.

"Get off my car." Eli just sighs. He doesn't want to play Fitz's stupid little game. He wants to go home.

"Make me." he scoffs and Eli's not in the mood to indulge him with a verbal spar because he feels dirty just standing in his general vicinity. Losing his temper, he pushes the larger boy roughly to the ground. Bad idea.

Worst idea.

Fitz wraps a hand around his leg and jerks until Eli's on the ground beside him. He rolls on top of the goth, legs on either side of his hips, and lands a series of heavy punches. "You had enough, Emo?"

"You still punch like my grandma." Eli snarks out and, really, he should know better by now.

But he's saved by the words every bully hates to hear: "Yo, teacher!" Fitz and his friends magically disappear, leaving Eli with a heavy feeling in his gut, a dull throbbing in his head, and the beginnings of a fun new black eye.

"Damn it." Eli groans out, climbing to his feet. The world spins a little and Eli squeezes his eyes and wills it steady again. No longer teetering on the edge of the universe, he sets himself in the hearse and drives to his house with blatant disregard to public speeding laws.

"Hey, sweetie," his mom tries, but Eli is far from in the mood to play house. He ignores her completely and all but runs to the shower he's been dreaming of since Fitz pushed him out the side door on the way to lunch.

He turns the nozzle as hot as it will go and starts removing the rings that always adorn his fingers. Next to go is the guitar pick chain necklace. Nimble fingers scurry over his skeletal buckle and shuck the black belt from his waist. Steam starts to seep from the shower and Eli throws his vest to the ground and tugs the Dead Hand shirt over his head. His black skinny jeans fall in the same stroke that claims his gray boxers.

The water stings and burns the moment he steps under the steaming spray. It runs like molten lava down the toned muscles of his chest and abs, but it cannot burn Fitz's touch from his skin. He turns his face to the spray and lets the tears he won't admit to having become lost. He chokes back the sob trying to force its way from his throat because, damn it, he is not going to cry.

He runs the washcloth over his body again and again. Hard enough to hurt, to rub layer after layer of skin away until everything is red and sore and he still feels dirty.

"Fuck!" He shouts, slamming his fist into the tile in a moment of blind disgust...With himself.

"Elijah! Are you okay?" His mom calls outside the door. And he wants to shout and scream and tell her that no, he's not o-fucking-kay! He's scared and he hurts and he hates himself for letting this happen. And he can't make this stop.

"Slipped on the soap." he lies. He wonders if she can hear the numbness of his soul in his voice. He can. And it sickens him.

"All right, dear."

Eli's hand closes around the facet and shuts the water off. He stands, dripping wet and powerless, and wonders how the hell he got to this place. And how he's supposed to get out.