Blaine reached out to pick up his phone from his bedside table as he did every morning, but his hand felt nothing but empty space. He looked around, his confusion growing as he came to the conclusion that he was definitely not in his bedroom.

'Wha…?' he groaned under his breath, still groggy and half-asleep. His eyes settled on the figure sleeping a few feet from him. 'Is that…is that Burt Hummel?'

'What's…aaargh.' Blaine moved to push himself up from his make-shift bed, but dropped back down as an intense, searing pain shot down his spine and the room began to spin violently around him.

Out of nowhere he was bombarded with images, sensations and emotions that he didn't understand, didn't want to understand. Hands clawed at his body, the pungent smell of whiskey burnt his nose and terror and helplessness engulfed him. He gave a strangled cry and tried to block out the slideshow playing in his head, clamping his hands to his ears and curling himself into a ball, but his back spasmed in pain and suddenly he was falling backwards.
He hit the floor with a loud thud and could only gasp as waves of sheer agony coursed through his body. He tried to breathe through the pain, but it was as if a dead weight was crushing his chest and he could only manage small, choked moans as his memories finally opened up in front of him like a book.

Burt was awake the instant Blaine hit the floor. His eyes snapped open and at the sight of the trembling boy lying flat on his back with wide, terrified eyes, he was out of his chair and kneeling beside him as fast as his body would allow. He reached out a hand towards him, but paused, unsure if his touch would be welcome.

'Blaine.' His voice was low a rough and Blaine gave no indication that he had heard. Burt hesitated for a second before slowly lowering his hand onto Blaine's shoulder.

'It hurts. Please, it hurts so much. I can't…' Blaine's voice trailed off as he dissolved into tears.

'I'm calling an ambulance.' Burt turned to see Carole at the doorway, phone already in her hand. He gave a small nod, before turning back to Blaine.

---

Burt sat on the hard plastic chair, watching Blaine lie in silence with a blank stare and tried desperately to think of something to say to break the tension that filled the room. They both knew what was coming, what Blaine would have to face in a few minutes. With a deep sigh, he decided to broach the subject he had been avoiding since they had arrived at the hospital.

'Blaine, we need to call your parents.' Blaine's eyes were suddenly wide and alert and he stared hard at Burt, looking like a cornered animal.

'No, you're not calling them.'

'Blai…'

'No,' he shouted, but it came out cracked and hoarse, and to Burt he seemed even younger and more vulnerable, if that was even possible.

'Blaine, I'm sorry but they need to know. Besides the fact that you should have your parents with you right now, the hospital needs to speak to them, legally.'

'I won't give you their number.'

Burt sighed, and ran a hand over his head, before moving to pick up Blaine's mobile phone from the bedside counter.

'I'll get the number from here. I'm sorry Blaine.' The look of betrayal on Blaine's face tore at his heart.

'Why won't you listen to me? Why does no-one ever listen when I say no?'

And Burt couldn't even begin to find the words to respond to everything that whispered question entailed. He stood awkwardly by Blaine's bed, not wanting to leave him alone, but unsure if his presence was doing anything but harm the boy more.

A knock sounded at the door and a young female doctor entered the room. Blaine didn't look towards her but Burt didn't miss the way his body tensed. He knew what was coming now.

The doctor looked down at the file in her hands.

'Blaine Anderson?' He nodded stiffly. 'My name is Dr Simmons. I need to examine you now Blaine, is that ok?'

Her voice was soft and gentle and Blaine knew, just knew what was written on that paper. He'd heard them when the ambulance arrived, whispering in hushed voices about assault and….he couldn't even think the word without his stomach turning.

He didn't want to be here. Didn't want this woman to see him and touch him. He just wanted to forget it had ever happened. But the pain in his ribs was getting worse so that it hurt every time he took a breath, and even the slightest shift in position sent a jolt of electricity shooting down his leg. He nodded again.

'Thank-you, Blaine. And your dad can stay with you the whole time.'

'No,' he said, without bothering to correct her. 'I don't want him here.' Burt looked to Blaine questioningly, but he stared resolutely ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.

'Blaine, it migh…'

'Get out, get out, GET OUT!' Blaine voice rose to a scream, eye clenched tightly shut, hands in fists at his side. Burt looked towards Dr Simmons, who gave a soft shrug of her shoulders as if to say, 'What can I do?'. Burt gave one last regretful look towards Blaine, before leaving the room.

---

Blaine lay back and tried to let his mind drift away from his body. He wasn't in a hospital, he wasn't exposed and on display, there wasn't a stranger looking at him, taking photographs, noting things down.

He was on stage, singing to a packed audience. He felt his heart soar as it did every time he sang, buoyed by the applause and adoration of the crowd. And his eyes focused on one face in particular, pale and angular, head tilted ever so slightly up. Kurt. Strong, courageous, beautiful Kurt. Blaine felt a sense of peace draw over him as he stared at Kurt, as if the past 18 hours were drifting away behind him.

'Blaine? Blaine?' He was dragged out of his daydream by a voice calling his name. He opened his eyes, and with a sickening lurch he was dragged back to reality. 'You're going to feel me touching you now, Blaine.' He tried to swallow past the lump that was wedged in his throat. 'You can ask me to stop at any point, ok?' He didn't bother nodding this time, just closed his eyes.

He tried to reconjure the image of Kurt's face, the feeling of tranquility and safety that it brought to him, but he couldn't. His mind focused with pinpoint precision on every touch. His hands fisted in the sheets beside him, desperate for some other sensation to fixate on. Oh god, why did he send Mr Hummel out? He would have given anything to feel that hand on his shoulder again, but he wasn't here and it was all his own fault. He'd just been so angry, so betrayed and had lashed out.

'Just ask her to stop,' he told himself, 'tell her to stop and get Mr Hummel.' But he couldn't find the words and couldn't have unclenched his jaw enough to form them even if he did. Besides, this was all his own doing. He deserved this. He deserved everything that had happened. So he lay in silence and endured.