Kurt was so ashamed of himself for his cowardice. He couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t break out of his folded up, protective shell. “Get the hell of a grip…” he whispered to himself, his voice reminding him scarily of Karofsky. He ground his fist into his forehead, and suddenly he was standing up, back pressed painfully against the shield of the lockers. He hastily wiped his face and streaming eyes with the back of his sleeve. God, he must look disgusting. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt told himself to shut up, for one second, to stop caring about himself. He had to go get help.

With his eyes closed the choking fear seemed to loosen a little. In the darkness Kurt forced himself to picture the school, all the ways in and out. He couldn’t make the main doors, they were right down…that…that corridor. But then next set of doors were all the way down at the auditorium, on the wrong side of school for the main road. He’d have to run for a good five minutes before he found anyone. He didn’t think his tight chinos could take it, or his racketing heart. A shuddering sigh forced its way out of his lungs, rattling the combinations on the lockers.

Think, Kurt.

He made a slit of light between his eyelashes and nudged his head back over his shoulder to glance down towards the corner. There was nothing there, only the peeling junior artwork and club posters. But then he saw it. The sign pointed over the broken glass, glowing slightly in the silvering light. Gym. Locker Room. Kurt’s mind flashed back again. That one time when he’d been on the football team. They’d gone out onto the pitch through the back of the locker room; there was a fire door there or something. And if he got round the side of the building, then he could get straight to the nearest houses and find help.

Ok. That’s what he had to do. Go through the door with the broken glass.

Kurt turned back into his hiding place, closing his eyes again. He ran a hand over his sweating forehead and through his thick hair. Dust and flecks of plaster peppered down onto the floor. He didn’t dare look up at the three gouged holes in the wall above his head. Ok. He breathed deeply, once, twice…three times.

With his eyes still screwed almost shut, as low and as fast as he could manage, Kurt broke from behind the lockers. The twenty metres, which had passed so quickly first time, now felt like at eternity. But then he was there, skidding on the biggest shards of glass as he came to a staggering halt. He grabbed the handle, painfully straining his neck so that he wouldn’t look at anything that might be behind him. He couldn’t look. He mustn’t look. He had to run. He had to get help. The handle clicked mercifully underneath him. The door was open. More glass grated as he pushed it inwards, inch by inch. And then with a step Kurt was through. The cold smell of showers and towels and sweat hit him in the face. Head down, he ducked into the darkness, shying away from the dagger of light carving through the broken pane. His breath came in gasps, rasping through his nose, his back found the familiarity of a wall and his legs gave way again. The tiles beneath him were freezing; even the air was different, stiller, in here. Kurt flinched as a dull, muffled thudddd beat through the shattered door, followed by a heavier sound. But he couldn’t afford to stop.

Reaching out both hands he stumbled blindly for the benches he saw in his mental picture, leading from one end of the room to the other, right down the centre. The sting of hard painted metal bit into the cut on his right hand, followed by blunt wood. Kurt crawled along, hands pressed to the bench, until it ran out under his fingers. He straightened up. Right; he wanted to turn right. Arms outstretched, he found lockers on both sides of him, walked forward until he passed a row on his right. A strange white shape loomed at hip height in front of him. A laundry cart. And behind it quietly glowed that awkward green man and door, the emergency exit. Kurt allowed himself a tiny gulp of success; he’d got this far.

Sliding to the side, he edged around the big cart, rolling it with a firm push back the way he’d come. If anyone wanted to follow him, they’d have to get round that too. He turned back to the door and took hold of the metal bar. But before he could push down to open it, a low moan came from just to his left, right by where the cart had come to a rest. Kurt froze. He wasn’t alone.

There was silence for a few seconds.

Kurt felt the cool metal under his fingers. He pressed gently down for a few millimetres, but the door gave a horrible groan, followed by another sound from the floor feet away behind the basket. Kurt paused, willing the noise to be in his own head. But then a voice that was not his own murmured in the darkness.

“Wh...who’s there?”

It sounded weak and scared. And it definitely was not the voice of the man with the gun. Kurt backed slowly away from the door, gradually releasing the bar. Taking hold of the pale sides of the basket, he drew it carefully backwards, towards the door. The spear of light falling from the window reared up onto the dark lockers a metre away, but between Kurt and it, blinking and slumped against the metal doors, cradling the torn and bloodstained arm of his precious team jacket in a huge hand, sat Dave Karofsky. Kurt blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the almost darkness, not knowing what to say. A small fist of hate worked its way into the stream of fear flooding his body. The boy on the floor blinked again too, and unsteadily, stiffly, almost painfully, lifted his head to see the face that stood above him. Their eyes took in each other for a few seconds; Kurt absolutely speechless. Then the bigger boy’s head fell again, eyes closing wearily, chest rising, but with hand deliberately keeping his arm still.

“Ladyboy, why’d you have…have to be the one person…?” He grimaced in pain, obvious now. “What’s…? Who was…? I was only…”

Each statement faded quickly to silence. He groaned again. His voice was too loud; he was making too much noise.

With a glance around the room, pushing the confusion to one side of his brain, Kurt squatted down next to the bully. His hands itched on his knees, prickling with tension. Kurt took a deep breath; the smells of damp and bodies mingling and greasing his throat. Reaching out one hand to the boy’s injured elbow, which he watched but did not flinch away from, Kurt whispered.

“Wha…what happened?”