My name is Kurt Hummel, and this is my statement. On the night of November 14th, I was attacked. My attacker was a man named Dave Karovfsky. That was six months ago.
It was an unprovoked attack, and the result of a hatred Karovfsky possessed towards me. I didn't report it, I don't really know why; the fear of him coming back, probably. Only, he did. On that night he followed me home. I was alone, it was dark, and he had a knife. I tried to fight back but. . . well. I tried. He was driven, and sought to kill me. I have an idea why.
The police have asked how I even survived the first time. I told them: I was saved. I was saved by a boy whom back then, I'd never even met before. Twice he's saved me from Karofvsky now.
His name is Blaine Anderson, and he's been saving me ever since.
Six months ago
"Mr Hummel? Mr Hummel, can you hear me?"
A noise, groggy and wet, was the reply. Kurt heard the voice calling his name and that sound, but they sounded like they were coming from down a long tunnel. He tried to answer back, but he found he couldn't find his mouth.
Where was he? Why couldn't he see anything? Why couldn't he feel anything?
There was that noise again, like a croaking, gargling sound. Where was it coming from? The voice above him kept calling his name, and behind his eyelids he saw smatterings of reds and brilliant whites, but he still couldn't see, or answer whoever was calling him. He started to hear more clearly now, more voices joining the one calling his name. There were beeps and buzzes around him. The voices sounded scared. Were they talking about him?
He tried to open his mouth to say something but he couldn't feel his mouth. Terror ran through him, and through the dull pain coursing through him he felt his blood pump suddenly frantic through his ears: he couldn't see, he couldn't move, and around him voices were calling his name, talking about him. What had happened to him? He tried to remember, tried to slow the panic making itself known in his mind.
Flashes of broken images presented themselves behind his eyelids, unclear and seen like he were looking at shattered glass: a glint of harsh, biting silver against flesh, the bulk of a figure looming towards him, a boy, being thrown against a wall. That same boy, darting in and out of each image careening through his mind—and then suddenly there was a brilliant white light pressing against his closed eyes, and pain and consciousness and feeling all came back like a truck had hit him. He could see again—and unfortunately, he could feel too, really feel. Searing pain replaced the dull ache, and it shot through his now-there body; his lungs were on fire and every limb felt heavy and so, so sore. His face ached, and he realised the strange croaking sound was him. His mouth was moving and the ragged, aching sound was the only thing coming out. Kurt shut his mouth and tried to focus his vision, eyes swimming and the white light above him almost unbearable.
A face suddenly loomed over him and Kurt's eyes shot to it—a woman, from what he could make of the blur. Her eyes, a sharp, vivid green were the only things he could focus on. Behind her the white light shined around her head, giving the impression of an angel. Her mouth moved, and Kurt stared at it, the words she was saying out of sync with when her mouth moved.
"Kurt? Mr Hummel, do you know where you are?"
He tried to reply but nothing came out, just the frustrating croak again.
"He's awake!" she yelled, going out of his line of vision again. He heard her voice though, over the din of his own heart and the beeps and whirrs around him, "He's awake! Someone tell his family, and get him . . ." her voice trailed off, leaving once more the sound of blood rushing through his head, and the constant beeps from beside him.
Kurt's eyes travelled around above his head and to the sides, as far as he could. From what he could see he was in a hospital room, now almost empty, machines and tables hovering close by. He felt the heaviness of himself weigh down onto the bed underneath him.
He remembered, if only slightly, what had happened. The shattered images of glass in his head that reflected what had gone on, they only told half the story.
What had happened to him that was so bad that he was in a hospital bed, riddled with pain? What had happened to him?
A door banged from the other side of the room, and Kurt heard a voice that sent even the pain in his bones out of his mind. Relief and safety washed over him at the sound of his father's voice.
"Kurt? Kid? Can you hear me?"
His Dad, his poor Dad, leaned over him, all of Kurt's vision now filled with his father's worried face, lines drawn tight around his Dad's eyes, the creases of his mouth and foreheard pulled down into concerned despair. His pale eyes sought Kurt's and when he finally found them, Kurt watched as his Dad—his strong, brave Dad, who never let anything get to him—started to cry.
Kurt opened his mouth and tried to speak, but this time nothing came out at all.
"Shush, it's OK, son." Burt reassured, hand coming up to push the hair from Kurt's forehead, tears rolling down his grizzled cheeks. His voice was soft and breathless, broken only slightly by his crying. "It's OK. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. . ."
Kurt tried to shake his head and ask him what he had anything to be sorry for, but his head wouldn't move. He couldn't find the strength to lift it or to even reach out and take his Dad's hand. The familiar feeling of his own tears crept up his throat and prickled at the back of his eyes. He closed them, trying to hide away from the sight of his father crying but it was seared onto his eyelids. He felt a tear matt into his eyelashes and then slip down his cheek.
"Kurt?" Burt whispered. Kurt's eyes fluttered open at the pleading tone in his Dad's voice, and another tear fell. Burt watched the tear roll down Kurt's cheek and looked to his eyes again.
Kurt opened his mouth and tried again. "Da. . ." The harsh, broken breath fell from Kurt's mouth, but his Dad heard it. He heard it.
Burt's face shifted into hope at the sound, and something twisted inside Kurt at the sight of that glimmer of hope in Burt's eyes. He closed his own again in relief. His Dad had heard him. His Dad was here. He felt the warm press of his father's hand upon his head, and he knew he'd be alright.
He opened his eyes and looked around the room again, trying to see if they were alone.
Nearly out of his line of sight stood a figure, shrouded in the shadows of the back of the room, but Kurt could see him. He watched the boy, trying to make out his face. Then the boy stepped hesitantly, almost fearfully, into the light around Kurt's bed.
Kurt's eyes roved over the boys face, and the boy watched him in turn. Their eyes met and Kurt realised—he knew him.
The foggy image of a wall, a burly figure pressing Kurt against it and the glimmer of silver came to his mind, and he realised that whatever had happened to him to get him in hospital, this image he remembered was how it had happened. And in the back of that image was the same boy who now stood feet away.
He remembered the boy running, hauling the figure away from Kurt, this figure who was trying to attack Kurt. He remembered the boy pick him up and try to get him to run, but Kurt couldn't, he was too hurt and too weak.
Now, Kurt searched the boy's eyes for some clue as to what had happened after, but as Kurt stared the boy looked away.
Burt saw who Kurt was looking at and turned. The boy looked to Burt in surprise but Burt shrugged one shoulder, immediately turning back to Kurt. Kur tried to make sense of it.
"Son? Do you know who that is?" Burt asked softly. "Don't talk, I don't want you in anymore pain. Just blink twice for yes, once for no."
Kurt didn't understand why he was asking and looked to the boy again. The boy looked at him in mild concern, but Kurt saw in his eyes the raging curiosity and fear there. He looked back to his Dad, who looked so tired. He had no idea how bad he looked but from what he could feel, he was in pretty bad shape. His Dad must be thinking the worse, thinking that Kurt couldn't hear or understand them, or that he was in so much pain.
Kurt blinked once.
Burt looked relieved that Kurt understood, and then placed his hand on top of Kurt's. "That's the boy who stopped the attack and brought you here."
Kurt looked at the boy once more, surprised. The boy was walking forward cautiously, concern now etched across his young face. He had saved me . . .? Kurt thought incredulously.
Burt looked at Blaine and then back at Kurt before saying, "His name is Blaine Anderson. He's the boy that saved your life."