A/N: Sorry for such a long delay on this chapter. Especially since it was (mostly) written already. I was never happy with it, so I decided I was going to try to re-work it before posting. And then a series of events prevented me from actually having TIME to do the updating I wanted to do to fix the things I didn't like. But I've left this sitting long enough and am just going to post as-is even though I didn't get all the changes I wanted to do. It is choppy and disjointed (and grammatically a disaster) but that was by design so…erm…yeah. The warnings from previous chapters definitely still apply. Especially the Non-con.

Timeline: Because it's been so long since I wrote this (started I believe around the time of Theatricality), I should mention that the timeline is a bit screwy. I started writing before Blaine or Sam were in the picture. But my ideas for later in the fic (things I hadn't written yet) include both of those characters, so the time frame is going to change. I may have to go back and make some small tweaks to previous chapters, but really, while the attack is going on, I imagine that Mercedes wouldn't really be thinking a whole lot about Kurt's boyfriend, and I'll just have to go with this being pre-Samcedes-and no Shane-so she wouldn't be thinking about either of them, either…

So, timeline is likely sometime S2 (though Karofsky's bullying complicates matters a bit), or more likely a somewhat AU S3 (Once I figure it out, if it matters, I'll clarify…) Now I'll stop babbling and get on with Chapter 6…

Mercedes lost track of what was happening to her body. She could no longer feel anything, but she remembered pain. Excruciating and unrelenting.

She'd screamed at first. Each time she screamed, her rapist hit her. And laughed. But she couldn't stop. Not when she could feel him tearing into her.

"Shhh…" Kurt murmured, his face inches away from her ear. She felt his hand clutching hers. Felt his thumb run over the back of her hand, as though trying to soothe her. How could someone be soothed when they were being torn apart? Still Kurt continued to try. "Cedes, look at me," he urged. His raw and desperate tone contradicted his intent to calm her. "Shhh." Even though her sight was hazy she could see the tears dampening his cheeks. The silvery drops glistened in the dim moonlight that leaked in through the tiny windows. "Fuh-focus on me," he pleaded.

She tried, but it wasn't working. She knew she had to stop screaming, but she felt like she was being torn apart. The more it hurt, the more she screamed. The more she screamed, the more she was hurt.

And then she heard Kurt.

Singing softly.

She didn't recognize the song more than to enough to know that it was a lullaby, telling her that everything was going to be all right.

At first she wanted to scream at him. How could he sing at a time like this? How could he say that it'd be all right? She was being torn apart and he was singing…but then she realized that she was no longer screaming.

So she continued to focus on Kurt's voice. Tried to look at him, but her vision was getting hazier. Had to look away as Boss's form loomed over Kurt's and all she could see was his agonizing sneer. She closed her eye as she saw Boss grabbing a fistful of Kurt's hair and jerking his head back.

After a short time she realized that either Kurt had stopped singing or she'd stopped being able to hear him. He must have stopped singing because she could still hear her rapist's ragged breath. Or maybe she only felt it. But past that she could hear pained whimpers she thought seemed to be coming from too far away to be her own cries, even though they did echo her pain. And there were hushed whispers that she couldn't decipher aside from an occasional word or phrase-most of which she wished she couldn't. Some were directed at her. Slut. Whore. Some she knew couldn't be. Pretty little thing. There was an obscene grunting and an odd mewling coming from somewhere off to her side. Sometimes she could hear the violent slapping of skin against skin. The growled words, "So tight," were the thing that made her shut down.

She didn't want to hear any more, so she tuned it all out and reduced her whole world to just the feel of Kurt's hand still tightly clutching hers. Sometimes it felt as though his hand was being ripped away from her, but then he'd only squeeze tighter. So tight that it almost hurt. Except to her it felt like a lifeline. Whether it was a lifeline for herself or for Kurt she wasn't sure. Maybe it was for both.

But then suddenly she couldn't feel it anymore. The lifeline was gone. So she let everything else just drift away. If she couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't feel, just maybe she'd survive.

Time began passing in slow bursts of consciousness when she couldn't completely block her senses:

Steel cutting into her flesh.

Kurt's shadow bobbing in and out of her obscured vision.

Sounds she didn't even want to try to identify.

Minion was there.

And then he wasn't.

But he wasn't gone gone; she could hear him and Boss laughing.

She knew they were doing something to Kurt because he wasn't there beside her anymore. Not even his shadow remained.

She wasn't sure, but it sounded like maybe they were all in Kurt's closet. Sick laughter mingled with pained cries and some odd sounds she couldn't identify. Didn't want to identify.

She wanted to move. She wanted to help Kurt like he'd helped her. Make his cries stop. Maybe they would stop hurting him if he stopped screaming. She wanted to move.

But she didn't. Possibly couldn't. She wasn't sure.

After a time she realized the monsters were back in the room but paying her no mind. They were too busy ripping it apart. Much like they'd done to her.

Kurt wasn't there. Why wasn't Kurt there?

She felt a cool wetness and smelled a strong scent of…she wasn't sure, but it reminded her of Kurt. Musky with a hint of sweet. One of his colognes, she realized, noticing the broken glass fragments on the floor by her head and vaguely remembered hearing it shatter moments before.

She felt the sting of another liquid (this one warm and quite foul; she was certain she didn't want to know what it was) as it drizzled down on her, stinging as it splashed into one of the cuts on her still exposed chest. She closed her eyes against the tiny red light that shone through the fog. If she couldn't see it, the camcorder couldn't be filming her, she tried to tell herself. She wasn't fooled, of course, but it was a good thought. She knew she should at least try to cover herself but couldn't find the strength to even lift her arms. It wasn't happening anyway. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't. It was just a nightmare. And soon she would wake up. It wasn't happening.

There were footsteps on the stairs; blessedly going up, not down.

The fiends were leaving.

Except they weren't.

She could still hear them.

Laughter floated down from upstairs.

New sounds broke through her consciousness.

Glass breaking.

Material ripping.

Wood splintering.

Amidst it all, raucous laughter.

It went on and on. She knew she was drifting in and out of awareness so she had no clear concept of time, but it seemed like hours.

And then at last she thought maybe they were really gone because all she could hear was soft singing interspersed with faint sobs. It was coming from the closet.


It took a while before she could make herself move.

An eternity passed before she managed to crawl to the closet and carefully open the door.

She found him.

His wrists tied to his clothes racks-by a couple of his own precious designer scarves-were the only things keeping him upright. One of his arms was twisted in an unnatural position.

She was almost grateful for the fact that the vision in her "good eye" was blurry and she couldn't get a very good look at him. What she could see was bad enough. His back was smeary with blood and…

She didn't look lower. Couldn't look lower.

She was scared to touch him. Not just because she's afraid of hurting him further. She was afraid for herself.

And she thought, but that's dumb.

Still she didn't touch him.

She had trouble rising to her feet, but knew she needed to get him loose.

Then they could clean up.

Get dressed.


Kurt let out an agonized cry as Mercedes released his good arm first.

Realizing her dim error, she forgot about her fear and wrapped her arms around him, taking the pressure off his wounded arm. The skin of his back felt wrong. Bumpy where it shouldn't be. Hot. Sticky. Damp.

She could feel him trembling against her. "I've got you, baby," she murmured, holding him tighter.

Once her arms were around him, she didn't want to let go. She felt his arm wind around her and they curled together. His head rested warily against her shoulder. He continued softly singing that lullaby. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Either way, it had a soothing effect. On her, for sure, but she figured it must be helping him, too, even if he wasn't aware he was doing it.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, huddled together, but after a while she realized that she hadn't released Kurt's other bound wrist. She needed to do that. They had to get out of the closet. And she was certain that Kurt needed medical attention. As did she, but…she chose to focus on him.

Still supporting most of Kurt's weight, Mercedes reached up to untie the second scarf. He sagged against her as she carefully lowered his injured arm.

Mercedes wasn't sure exactly who was leaning on who as they made their way out of the closet and over to the bed, where they both rested for a couple minutes and surveyed the damage. Her vision was still foggy, but it didn't prevent her from noticing that the beasts had left nothing untouched. Everything that could be was broken. Even the mattress on Kurt's bed had been slashed. The worst, she decided, were the multiple dark stains on what used to be a pristine white carpet. It used to be so pretty and perfect. Now…

She realized there was something worse than the carpet after all. She watched as Kurt picked up the damaged frame that had set his nightstand. Glass had cut into the image of the happy little family. Father. Son…Mother. The glass had gouged into her smiling face. At Kurt's tiny broken sob, Mercedes reached up to gently sweep the hair away from his face, distracting him as she eased the frame from his grasp.

Kurt wobbled when he finally got up. Mercedes wanted to cry as she watched him move away from her, his movements stiff and labored. But then was coming back, her nightgown gathered in his hand.

Very carefully he helped her put it back on, his hand gently grazing her skin as he pulled it down to cover her. She noticed his eyes tearing up again as he smoothed the silky fabric into place, but didn't stop him, even though she felt that the wrinkles in the garment were the least of their worries.

Once she was dressed, he moved away again. His pajamas lay in ruined tatters, so he ignored them and began a slow shuffle toward where his bath robe hung on the bathroom door. When he swayed on his feet, Mercedes was on her feet and at his side, ready to steady him. When he faltered, a small whimper ripping from his throat as he tried to reach up, she pulled the robe down from its hook. For a few moments he stared past her into the bathroom. At the shower.

She shook her head. Sorry, Baby, but no. As much as she wanted that, too, they couldn't.

They were evidence.

After a few moments, she saw a small spark in his eyes and she thought he was going to argue, but instead he gave her a tiny hint of a smile and nodded his agreement.

She helped him ease his arm through the sleeve before wrapping the fluffy coat around him and tied it closed for him.

The trek upstairs was a lot harder than it should have been. It was only 18 steps from the bottom to the top. Still, to Mercedes it felt as though it were a ten mile hike, uphill the entire way. Kurt didn't look much like he was faring any better and more than once, she was fairly sure that she kept him from falling back down the steps.

Mercedes felt completely numb as she took in the damage to the main floor of the house.

If it weren't for the smell of the spray paint she might have been able to pretend it was a tornado that had blown through, ripping the pictures off walls, destroying all the furniture and décor in its path. Her vision was still too blurred to actually read the words, but Mercedes was fairly certain that she knew the gist of what it all said anyway.

There was one spot in particular that seemed to draw Kurt's attention. She felt him freeze, heard him suck in his breath. She could make out the letter F, and then stopped trying to read the rest. She drew him closer. For a moment he rested his forehead against hers and they stared mutely at each other. Then she felt his lips graze her temple. After another moment, he was back on the move.

She saw him stoop to pick up a cordless phone from the floor next to the broken end table in the hall, but he didn't stop walking until they were outside.

Once there, Kurt carefully sat down on the stoop, pulling Mercedes down beside him, locking his arm around her waist.

For a few moments they sat in the still silence of the early morning. Just breathing in the fresh air and letting the gentle breeze soothe them.

Kurt's fingers trembled as he pressed the "Talk" button on the phone and dialed the three essential digits.

Mercedes leaned her head against his shoulder as she listened to the answering operator asking him his emergency.

She closed her eye as in a raspy voice not much louder than a whisper, he said, "I need to report…a break-in."

Thanks for reading! Comments are highly appreciated and are great motivators for me to get my writing butt (oh the imagery) working again…