AN: This is very different from my other fics; it is much, much darker. Please be warned that there are some very graphic images ahead, and that they are disconcerting. Please do not read this if you think it might not be for you. You have been warned. Please, read and review.

Disclaimer: I don't own the glee.


It begins the way it always does, she supposes. It is high school in suburbia, after all. There are only so many ways that things can go. There are only so many different options, dramas, loves, crises, and happy moments a town can bear. So it begins the way it always has to begin for a girl. With a boy.

This boy is different. Sure, he lures her in with intelligent answers and kind eyes, but he snares her with a different kind of trap. What could be sweet and innocent becomes intense, violent, insane. She wishes that she had never asked the questions she did, that she had learned to stop speaking so much. She wishes that she hadn't had to ride the bus that day, and that she had gotten there early enough to grab a seat in the front, not the back.

Not the only seat left. Not the seat next to him.

But she did; her dads couldn't pick her up, she was late to the bus, she sat next to him; she can't undo it now. She can't change what happened, what's happening, she thinks, as time moves forward.

The bus began to roll forward and she had cringed in her seat, waiting for someone to take advantage of the fact that she was sitting next to the aisle; an open target for any high school social sniper. She waited for the slushy, the egg, books, paper, gum, anything to land on her or her school bag, but nothing came. Instead, there was a voice next to her murmuring, "They won't do anything to you while you sit here. They're too afraid of pissing me off…"

She had jolted and turned towards the voice, the boy she recognizes from two doors down, but has never spoken to before. He has never taunted her, he has never thrown eggs at her house or chucked a slushy in her face. He has never called her "RuPaul" or "Man-Hands" that she's aware of. He has never before acknowledged her existence.

"I'm sorry?" she had asked him before she could stop herself.

"You don't have to worry," the boy had said calmly, teasingly. "They won't do anything to you while you sit next to me. They fear my wrath," he told her, as if he had been letting her in on a secret.

She had felt a shiver run up her spine at his words despite his joking manner. When he had smiled at her next, she had pushed the shiver away, blocking the fear. She shouldn't have done that. Too late now.

Instead, she had smiled back at him. Risky move, considering what her smiles had garnered her in the past. She had been pleasantly surprised to discover that he continued to smile at her, and had begun to carry on a conversation with her. As the bus had rolled through town towards their houses, she and the boy had gone from a spirited conversation about movies to the heavier topic of religion.

She had been raised Jewish, even though one of her fathers' families was Lutheran. Her fathers hadn't denied her access to her Lutheran family's traditions and faith, but they hadn't discussed any other religions or faiths either. Since reaching high school, she had been introduced to a multitude of experiences she had never encountered, but what she found most intriguing were different religions.

If she was being honest, she would admit that she had first been drawn into her fascination with religion by trying to determine what type of Christian would preach kindness and forgiveness, but would make her life hell throughout the week. She didn't understand, and she wanted to understand.

She should have known that it didn't matter what religion a person was, high school was high school, and cruelty was cruelty. Social hierarchies existed despite of (and with no attention paid to) religious differences. She should have known that it wasn't that she was Jewish, and not Baptist or Catholic, that made it okay for people to pick on her. But she was fourteen and naïve and looking for something to blame, and at the time, it had seemed feasible.

She knew now, months later, that it wasn't at all feasible, and she had been incorrect in her thinking. However, her fascination had begun, and now that she had started exploring theology, she found herself eager to continue.

So when the boy next to her on the bus had started explaining something about how a scene in a movie had reminded him of something from Mass, well, she just hadn't been able to help herself. She had explained her quest for knowledge, and when they had gotten off the bus to walk down the street to their houses, he had still been explaining the concept of Catholic guilt to her. In fact, he was so in depth with his description that he suggested that they take a walk to continue their discussion.

She had agreed. She shouldn't have.

They had walked around the neighborhood talking, until they ended up full circle at the bus stop at the clubhouse at the top of their street. He showed no indication of slowing, so she followed him obediently as he began walking back around to the tennis courts.

She had followed close behind him, listening, as he led the way towards the back of the tennis courts. The trees and bushes grew thicker together here, as if they weren't cared for nearly as often. The chill in the air was growing colder; the sun was setting and it was late fall in Ohio. When he stopped abruptly at the back corner of the tennis courts, she almost ran into him.

She should have kept moving.

Instead, she had stopped almost as suddenly and ceased movement almost an inch away from his chest.

"Sorry," she had giggled, and looked up at his face, smiling her apology for almost running into him.

"Don't be," he had said, and though he had been smiling, had seen that the smile was different now, though she couldn't tell how.

"I had a really great time talking with you today, Rachel," he said, and she had beamed up at him, believing him.

"I had a great time, too," she had replied, and when he had leaned down to kiss her, her heart had started thrumming as if a thousand hummingbirds were taking flights inside of her.

His face had come closer and closer to hers, and she had closed her eyes and pulled in a tiny gasp of air before his lips had landed softly on hers. The pressure was light but present, and his mouth was warm on hers.

It had been her first kiss. It shouldn't have been.

She should have opened her eyes and seen the change on his face. She didn't, but she should have.

Instead, she had kept her eyes closed and when his mouth came back to hers the pressure was more than present, it was persistent, and when he used his teeth to pull down her lower lip, she should have told him to slow down, tiger, but she didn't.

Instead his mouth attacked her and he backed her against the fencing of the tennis courts and pushed her up against it. She could feel the metal dig into her skin, and she tried to shift away from it, but he had held her in place.

"Hey, hold on, the fence is hurting my back," she tried to tell him, but he didn't stop, he didn't listen. She tried to squirm away from him, but he held her forcibly to the fencing, his left hand on her right arm, his body crushing hers against the fence.

He had continued to use his teeth to open her mouth; she could taste the blood mixing with her saliva. She could feel the metal pulling at her sweater, and she could feel his right hand touching her, pulling at her, and she couldn't stop him.

She felt him shove his hand down her pants and as he pushed past her panties she began to fight back, trying to push him off of her. Her attempts were futile. She had started to cry, and he had stopped biting her mouth long enough to whisper in her ear, "I'll stop if you want me to; I'll stop."

She had begged him, please, please, she wanted him to stop, please, but even though he kept repeating his words over and over and she kept telling him to stop, he never stopped.

Later, when he zipped up his jeans and walked away, she lay on the hardening ground behind the tennis courts and stared silently at the dead leaves beside her until there was barely any light left in the sky.

She had gotten to her feet and pulled up her pants, zipping and buttoning them securely. She had straightened her sweater and brushed the leaves out of her hair and the dirt off of her body. She had picked up her backpack and begun to walk home in the twilight.

She had steeled herself as she walked by his house, forcing herself to concentrate on the road. At the last second, she had turned her head, unable to keep from looking. He stood illuminated in the window of his dining room, staring at her and smirking as she walked past his house.

She shouldn't have been late to the bus that day. She shouldn't have sat next to Michael Karofsky. Too late now.