Carole played absent-mindedly with her wedding ring as she stood in front of the sink. She looked down at the dishes with a confused frown, as if she had almost forgotten where she was, and realised with a jolt that she had been standing there for over 15 minutes without lifting a finger. With a sigh, she turned off the tap and walked back towards the living room.

She felt tears fill her eyes as she looked at the two men sleeping before her. After his breakdown yesterday, she had sat on the stairs with Burt as he filled her in on everything that had happened that night. Seeing him slumped awkwardly in the armchair, grimacing in pain even as he slept, she felt a fresh wave of guilt as she remembered her rebuke, 'You should have taken him straight to hospital, Burt. What were you thinking?' and the crestfallen look that has crossed his face at the thought that he might have done the wrong thing.

He had refused to go to bed, even though she had offered to watch over Blaine, had insisted on sitting there throughout the night in case he were to wake, finally succumbing to sleep as the sun began to rise around 7:00am.

Blaine had barely stirred all night. He lay on his front, with his head turned to the side, giving her a perfect view of the dark, purple bruise across his cheek and the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. She pushed down the wave of anger that filled her, hands clenching into tight fists by her side, and tried not to contemplate what she would do if she ever laid her hands on whoever was responsible for this.

She had only met Blaine once, but he had been all smiles and charm, with such a relaxed, easy confidence and an obvious joy for life. She wondered how long it would be before she saw that boy again, or if she ever would.

---

Blaine sat straight up and looked around him, struggling to get his bearings. He recognised his surroundings; the furniture, the wallpaper, it was all very familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. With a small shrug, he stood, ready to explore further, but was stopped in his tracks by a tiny sound from behind him. He paused, listening again, and, yes, there it was, a tiny whispering coming from somewhere down the corridor.

He moved towards the door. The narrow hallway stretched impossibly long into the distance, steep walls looming over him. He stepped through the door and it slammed shut behind him. With an unsure look over his shoulder, Blaine started to walk.

The sound got louder as he progressed down the corridor, but somehow never seemed any closer. He picked up his pace, breaking into a slow jog, and then a run as the noise began to solidify and take from, 'It's not real, it's not real, it's not real'. He was sprinting now, panting with the effort, desperate to find the source of the voice.

He ran, and he ran, until he felt his legs start to give way beneath him, and slumped against the wall, dejected. Once again he was filled with that strange sense that he should know where he was, that the carpet beneath his feet and the heavy, patterned door handles should be familiar to him, but the answer lay just beyond his reach.

He was about to turn back when he noticed that the door opposite him was, unlike all the others he had passed, ever so slightly ajar, and he could hear those quiet whispers emanating from inside. He stepped forwards, as if drawn towards it, and eased the door open.

The room was dark, but he could just make out a small form huddled beneath a desk in the corner. He raised his hand to turn on the light switch, but was stopped as…

'No. Don't.' Blaine paused, his hand still raised in midair.

'You don't want me to turn on the light?' The small form moved, in what he took to be a shake of the head.

'If you can't see it, it doesn't exist.' Blaine felt an odd, sick feeling settle in his stomach and those words, but quickly shook it off. He crouched down to the floor and slowly approached the figure.

As he drew closer and his eyes adjusted, he could make out a mop of unruly curls and large hazel eyes peering out at him. He looked no more than 5 or 6 years old. Blaine reached out towards the boy, but he flinched back towards the wall.

'Hey, hey, it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you.' But the boy remained where he was, shaking his head.

'Don't turn on the lights. It's not real if you can't see it. Please don't turn on the lights.'

Blaine stood and took a few steps into the centre of the room.

'Look, there's nothing here. There's nothing to be scared of.' But even as he said it, that feeling in his stomach returned, stronger than before, as if he didn't believe his own words. He felt a strange tug, as if he was being pulled backwards, and spun around, confused and disorientated.

'No, fight it, fight it.' The boy was shouting now, his small body shaking, tears streaming down his face. 'Don't turn on the light, don't, don't open your eyes. '

'What, my eyes? My eyes are open, I don't understand.' But the boy was passed acknowledging him now, just repeating over and over again

'Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes.'

Blaine was starting to feel dizzy, blood rushing to his head, a loud angry buzzing filling his ears and he thought he was going to throw up. He stumbled towards the wall, leaning heavily against it, taking deep ragged breaths to try and clear his head. As he looked back to the corner of the room, he recoiled in horror.

The boy had crawled out from under the desk and was now standing in front of it. One side of his face was swollen and bruised, with blood running down from the corner of his mouth. His clothes were torn and dirty and his hands were pulling at his hair as he screamed at the top of his voice.

'NO, NO, NO. DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES. DON'T TURN ON THE LIGHT. IT'S NOT REAL. IT'S NOT REAL. PLEASE DON'T TURN ON THE LIGHT.'

Blaine was desperate to run to the boy, hold him, comfort him, but he felt that odd tugging sensation, and before he knew what he was doing he span around and slammed his hand against the light switch.

And on the couch in Hummel-Hudson house, Blaine opened his eyes.