Hmm... the more I write, the more mean I am to Kurt...and the more violent...

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did...well, if i did...you might never see poor innocent Kurt again...give thanks I do not own Glee.

"You little shit." Kurt stopped short, books falling from his arms and scattering down the hallway. "Thought you could get rid of me, just like that?" Kurt felt himself start to tremble as the jock's hot, Doritos-smelling breath wafted across his shoulder. "You know how much trouble I got into because of you? Do you know how hard it is to find a new school?"

Karofsky grabbed the smaller boy by the arm, and yanked him down the hall, shoving him harshly through the doors and into the locker room. Kurt gasped as his face scraped against the concrete floor. He pushed himself up, starting to lift a hand to his cheek to asses the scrapes, but Karofsky bored down on him again, yanking his head backwards so it was eerily reminiscent of an executioner preparing to slit a condemned man's throat.

In the corners of his eyes, Kurt could see Azimio leaning against the wall, smirking. "Honestly? You need two of you to take on me?" Karofksy gave his head a slight tug as Azimio glared. "Or are you two secretly dating and incredibly codependent? Because, you know, you two are always in the same place…"

His breath was stolen from him as Karofsky yanked his head back swiftly, and black began to swarm at the edge of his vision. "I warned you, Hummel," Karofsky breathed in his ear, too quiet for the other jock to hear. "I made you a promise of what would happen if you said anything. And I always make good on my promises."

Kurt struggled as Karofsky hauled him to his feet, head still tipped back painfully. He let out an involuntary yelp as Azimio wrapped a piece of cloth around his eyes, effectively blinding him. "Shut up," one of them hissed. A strange sense of relief coursed through Kurt as his head was released, though the sudden rush of blood left him dizzy and lightheaded. But the relief quickly turned to dread as he felt his back slam up against the tiled corner of a shower partition. He braced himself for a punch, but it never came. Instead, his Versace sweater was ripped off, and he couldn't help but feel a touch of sorrow as he heard the fabric rip. Kurt shivered slightly as the cold, damp air of the locker room hit his exposed arms and chest. Even though it was December, the janitors had yet to turn on heat in the locker room. And he suddenly despised them for it.

A low, dark laugh tumbled out of one of the two jock's mouths, and fear once again rose, more powerful than before. He braced himself for the impact of a fist, but it never came. Instead, a tugging sensation on his skin, followed by a slicing, sent stabs of searing pain across his chest and stomach. Before he could scream, a sweaty palm was slapped over his mouth, muffling the noise. He trembled as the cuts on his front became more numerous, feeling the hot blood running down and beginning to soak his Balmain jeans, not daring to move for fear of imbedding the blades deeper into his body. There seemed to be long pauses between each slice, as though the two were master artists debating where to place the next piece of their gruesome masterpiece.

Kurt could hear Azimio mumble a question to Karofsky, to which Karofsky replied in an even lower tone, a note of satisfaction in his voice. The hand over his mouth was released, and he was shoved backwards into what he assumed was the shower. His back collided with the cold medal of a shower faucet, and his feet slid on something wet underneath. Bile rose in his throat as he realized the liquid substance that coated the floor was his own blood. He dropped to his knees and retched onto the cold tile.

"Gross," he heard Karofsky mumble, before the screech of the metal faucet reached his ears and cold water poured down on him, making him shiver. "Wait. Take off the blindfold so he can see."

Kurt didn't have the strength to move or even flinch as the cloth was brutally torn off of his head. The lighting was dim, and his eyesight blurry as his head grew lighter, but he see the design of cuts on his front, spelling out a word. He looked down, catching sight of the scarlet blood swirling into beautiful designs with the cold water from the shower. Strange, wasn't it, he mused, that it could seem so beautiful. The scarlet design was the last thing he saw before his vision blacked out entirely and he collapsed forward.

He could sense what was happening to him in a dreamlike state. He could sense the cloth blindfold once again covering his eyes. He could sense the vicious hiss of a can of spray paint, the cold tickling feeling of it coating his skin. He could sense the intense pain that shot up his body as he was dragged outside. He could feel the cold air on his wet, bare chest, feel the icy snowflakes falling down and sticking to him, the drifts of snow underfoot. He could feel the rough bark of a tree pressing up against his back. He could sense them stretching out his arms into a t formation and taping them to branches with duct tape. He could feel tape wrapped around his neck, his hips. He could hear the squealing of their car wheels as they sped away, leaving him alone on the grounds of McKinley High School, soft snow falling all around.

"I'm going to kill you," Karofsky's voice purred in his mind. It suddenly struck Kurt in his dazed sight that he was going to die here. He would be on the news, in the papers, on the Yahoo homepage. He was going to die here. People everywhere would talk of it with saddened voices. He was going to die here. It would spark protests, cause confrontations. He was going to die here. His name would be known, but because of what he was, not who he was. Gay. He was going to die here. But he wouldn't die as Kurt Hummel, the fashionable singer and dancer, with the witty comebacks and wide vocal range. He would die as just another statistic. He was going to die. But Kurt Hummel wasn't. A publicity figure was going to. Just another statistic.

It was Puck that found him. It was Puck that found him tied to a tree, skin pale blue from the cold, icicles forming in his wet hair. It was Puck that started screaming for help, his voice shaking. It was the Glee Club that came when Puck called. It was Rachel that called the ambulance. Rachel that called the police. It was Mr. Schue and Mike who cut him down, Brittany and Santana who wrapped their Cheerios jackets around his cold shoulders. It was Finn that untied the blindfold. It was Quinn who tried to wake up the prone form. It was all of them who were forced to stand in long-suffering silence as the pictures were taken, as the news vans arrived, as their teammate, their friend, was pronounced dead. It was all of them who stumbled through interviews by falsely-sad reporters. It was all of them who where left alone in the parking lot on a snowy night, crying. Because it was all of them who had seen the word carved into Kurt's chest. Fag.

The next day, it was on the Yahoo homepage. It was on the television, with the interviews of the Glee Club. It was on multiple websites and newspapers. Until it became just another statistic.