Pride, Privilege, and Predators
Title: Pride, Privilege, and Predators
Warnings: NonCon, Language, Violence
Fill for Glee Angst Meme
Chapter 3
The Mercedes heads west on the Jack Nicklaus Freeway. Sebastian floors the gas pedal, cruising through Dublin at ninety-two miles an hour. Signs guide him south. He takes a slight turn onto Interstate 270. The car glides past semi trucks. A Corvette honks at him. Katy Perry belts out Teenage Dream on the soft rock station.
As he passes the Northwest Industrial Complex, flashing lights appear in his rear view mirror. His heart races. He turns the radio dial to the left and pulls the visor down. Sunlight warms his shaking fingers. Blood stains the polyester cloth. His lips quiver with fear. Blood covers his hands.
“I should have washed them,” he says, “he’ll see. If I stop the car, he’ll see.”
The engine churns out horsepower with a V8 engine. Blood pounds through his aching skull. His foot presses down on the gas pedal until it touches the floor. The speedometer rolls past ninety-five, ninety-eight, and one hundred. He keeps a steady grip on the steering wheel. The police car picks up speed. He cranks the wheel and dodges a school bus.
A Volvo veers to the right, side-swiping a Toyota Highlander. The vehicles collide. A semi truck plows into a Ford F-150. The Mercedes zips past a Subaru Outback. The speedometer hits one hundred and five. A State Trooper chases after the rogue sedan. Adrenaline pumps through his empty stomach.
An exit ramp appears on the edge of his vision. He decides to head west towards Route 29. The back roads offer hidden turns and a quiet, lesser known grid. Gregory likes to cruise out there late at night. They drink by the lake sometimes. A voice shouts at him from the back of the car.
“Let me out,” Blaine says, “let me out, Sebastian! Please, I--want to see Kurt again.”
The request surprises him. He darts around a fuel tanker and cranks the radio up. Blaine screams over Madonna. His voice seeps through the trunk. He turns the volume up, concentrating on the early morning traffic. The exit looms in the distance. Blaine demands attention.
“Slow down!” Blaine says. “I can’t breathe in here!”
“Shut up!” He replies. “I’m trying to concentrate!”
Glancing at the rear view mirror, he jerks the wheel to the right when he sees a pair of blue eyes glaring at him from the back seat. Kurt Hummel places his hands in his lap and snarls.
“Slow down, Sebastian!” He says as he takes a sip out of his coffee mug. “You have zero reaction time at this speed. Your braking distance is non-existent.”
White foam appears on Kurt’s upper lip. His purple jacket sparkles in the sunlight. Sebastian rolls his eyes at him.
“You dress like a moron,” he replies, “what the fuck do you know about cars?”
Pink blares from the speakers. He flies around a sharp curb. Yellow signs warn him about speed. He flips the wheel to the right and leans into the tight turn, grinning with confidence as the sedan soars down the exit ramp. A gold Saturn careens into a median. The Mercedes dashes onto Route 29. Trees whip past the tinted windows.
Looking at the rear view mirror, he smirks at Kurt.
“I learned how to drive in Paris,” he says, “I drove on the AutoBahn. I drove in London. These podunk cops can’t catch me.”
Kurt folds his arms across his green shirt.
“Your high won’t last forever,” he replies, “you’ll crash in a few hours.”
“I’ll be across the state line by then.” He says.
Blaine beats his fists against the trunk.
“Let me out,” he says, “let me out. Let me out.”
His voice becomes a monotonous string of pleas. He drives west, pushing the sedan to its limits. Troopers trail after the car. Kurt distracts him from the road again. His high, grating voice interrupts his concentration. Kurt brushes a piece of flint off of his black jacket. Blaine screams in the trunk.
“Shut up!” He commands. “You’re distracting me!”
Laughing in delight, Kurt takes a bite out of his scone and points a finger at the windshield.
“I told you so,” he croons, “no stopping time.”
Flicking his eyes back to the road, Sebastian jumps in surprise as a black Impala blows past a stop sign. The Mercedes swerves. Tires fly over tall grass. The engine smashes into a tree trunk. Metal crunches in his ears. His head rings.
Bones snap in his legs. Glass jettisons into his chest. Glancing down, he shrieks in terror as his eyes land on a long and jagged piece of glass lodged in his stomach. Smoke billows out of the engine. The crushed speakers belt out Blackbird. Lights surround the car. Pain radiates through his chest, leaving him breathless and gasping for air.
A man wearing a wide brimmed hat stoops down and pokes his head into the driver’s side window.
“This one’s injured,” the man says, “what’s the ETA on the ambulance?”
A woman answers the question.
“Ten minutes. You’re going to love this tidbit of information. Sebastian Smythe’s father is Steven Smythe.”
“The State Attorney?” The Trooper asks.
“Yeah,” the woman answers, “he’s already hired a lawyer for his son.”
The Trooper sighs.
“Fuck,” he says, “this is gonna be a messy day.”
Her voice hovers above his aching head. He struggles to breathe. Blaine screams. The noise makes him cringe in annoyance. Smacking his lips together, he draws in air and stares at the man in the uniform.
“Make him stop,” he says as blood drips out of his mouth, “make him stop screaming. It’s all his fault.”
The Trooper frowns at him.
“I don’t hear anything,” he replies, “and I don’t see anyone else in the car.”
Blaine screams in the trunk.
“Let me out!” He says. “Let me out!”
Sebastian closes his eyes. Breathing hurts. They must hear the noise coming from the trunk. He hears the sound of fists beating against the car. Blaine screams at the top of his lungs. He coughs, gasping in fright as he sees drops of blood falling onto his hands.
“Make him stop!” He says. “Make him stop screaming! Just--get him out of my car!”
The words tumble out of his mouth in a hoarse cry. The Trooper blinks at him.
“Midge,” he says, “check the trunk! I’ll keep an eye on Smythe until the ambulance gets here.”
Blood courses through his chest, swirling around his ribs and restricting his airflow. He looks at the Trooper standing by the window.
“H--help me,” he says, “please.”
The man places his large hands on his shoulders.
“Son,” he says, “you’re legs are crushed. You’re probably too high and in too much pain to notice this right now, but your engine is basically in your lap. You’re lucky to be alive. The paramedics should be here any minute. They’ll help you out.”
His head pounds in fury. The horizon blurs into the clouds, obscuring his vision. Darkness falls around the car. The dome light shines in his eyes. A lock clicks. He hears muffled voices as he breathes. Someone placed a straw in his throat.
“Caleb,” a woman says, “come take a look at Smythe’s passenger.”
Blaine. The name whirls around his head. Smoke fills his nostrils. The Trooper leaves the window. Tears cloud his vision. Something heavy pins his legs down. He tries to wiggles his toes.
Nothing happens. He sees water and smoke in front of his face. His lungs burn with discomfort. Attempting to wipe the tears out of his eyes, he yelps in frustration as his fingers remain in his lap. The Trooper sticks his fat head back into the window. A frown taints his chubby face. Worry permeates the air.
“What’s his name, Smythe?” The Trooper asks. “The kid in the trunk. What’s his name?”
Coughing, he spits up blood and closes his eyes.
“Blaine,” he replies, “he finally stopped screaming.”
The Trooper glares.
“He’s been unconscious for a while,” the man says, “he’s got some broke ribs--possibly a concussion from the impact. The paramedics are taking a look at him now. Can you give me a last name, son?”
He returns the Trooper’s icy stare.
“Y--” he hacks, “you said they would help me. Please, get me out of here.”
The Trooper touches his shoulder. He feels nothing except the hot pain in his legs and the tightness in his chest.
“It’s called Triage,” the Trooper replies, “Blaine’s being seen first. They’ll help you once they put him in the ambulance. Give me his last name so I can contact his family.”
He flinches at the hard, disapproving tone. Blaine moaned for hours last night. He liked it. Darkness surrounds him like a shroud now, beckoning him into the warm night. His mind reaches for it. The Trooper gives his shoulder a rough shake. His head flops to the side.
“Give me his last name,” he says, “he’s Hemorraghing.”
The term means nothing to him; he gasps for air.
“Come on, Smythe,” the Trooper says, “give me a last name!”
His vision fades to a dull grey. His lips part for a breath of air. A name escapes from his mouth.
“Anderson,” he replies, “Blaine Anderson. Blaine likes to drink.”
The dome light clicks off and the world explodes into a black canvas.
Warnings: NonCon, Language, Violence
Fill for Glee Angst Meme
Chapter 3
The Mercedes heads west on the Jack Nicklaus Freeway. Sebastian floors the gas pedal, cruising through Dublin at ninety-two miles an hour. Signs guide him south. He takes a slight turn onto Interstate 270. The car glides past semi trucks. A Corvette honks at him. Katy Perry belts out Teenage Dream on the soft rock station.
As he passes the Northwest Industrial Complex, flashing lights appear in his rear view mirror. His heart races. He turns the radio dial to the left and pulls the visor down. Sunlight warms his shaking fingers. Blood stains the polyester cloth. His lips quiver with fear. Blood covers his hands.
“I should have washed them,” he says, “he’ll see. If I stop the car, he’ll see.”
The engine churns out horsepower with a V8 engine. Blood pounds through his aching skull. His foot presses down on the gas pedal until it touches the floor. The speedometer rolls past ninety-five, ninety-eight, and one hundred. He keeps a steady grip on the steering wheel. The police car picks up speed. He cranks the wheel and dodges a school bus.
A Volvo veers to the right, side-swiping a Toyota Highlander. The vehicles collide. A semi truck plows into a Ford F-150. The Mercedes zips past a Subaru Outback. The speedometer hits one hundred and five. A State Trooper chases after the rogue sedan. Adrenaline pumps through his empty stomach.
An exit ramp appears on the edge of his vision. He decides to head west towards Route 29. The back roads offer hidden turns and a quiet, lesser known grid. Gregory likes to cruise out there late at night. They drink by the lake sometimes. A voice shouts at him from the back of the car.
“Let me out,” Blaine says, “let me out, Sebastian! Please, I--want to see Kurt again.”
The request surprises him. He darts around a fuel tanker and cranks the radio up. Blaine screams over Madonna. His voice seeps through the trunk. He turns the volume up, concentrating on the early morning traffic. The exit looms in the distance. Blaine demands attention.
“Slow down!” Blaine says. “I can’t breathe in here!”
“Shut up!” He replies. “I’m trying to concentrate!”
Glancing at the rear view mirror, he jerks the wheel to the right when he sees a pair of blue eyes glaring at him from the back seat. Kurt Hummel places his hands in his lap and snarls.
“Slow down, Sebastian!” He says as he takes a sip out of his coffee mug. “You have zero reaction time at this speed. Your braking distance is non-existent.”
White foam appears on Kurt’s upper lip. His purple jacket sparkles in the sunlight. Sebastian rolls his eyes at him.
“You dress like a moron,” he replies, “what the fuck do you know about cars?”
Pink blares from the speakers. He flies around a sharp curb. Yellow signs warn him about speed. He flips the wheel to the right and leans into the tight turn, grinning with confidence as the sedan soars down the exit ramp. A gold Saturn careens into a median. The Mercedes dashes onto Route 29. Trees whip past the tinted windows.
Looking at the rear view mirror, he smirks at Kurt.
“I learned how to drive in Paris,” he says, “I drove on the AutoBahn. I drove in London. These podunk cops can’t catch me.”
Kurt folds his arms across his green shirt.
“Your high won’t last forever,” he replies, “you’ll crash in a few hours.”
“I’ll be across the state line by then.” He says.
Blaine beats his fists against the trunk.
“Let me out,” he says, “let me out. Let me out.”
His voice becomes a monotonous string of pleas. He drives west, pushing the sedan to its limits. Troopers trail after the car. Kurt distracts him from the road again. His high, grating voice interrupts his concentration. Kurt brushes a piece of flint off of his black jacket. Blaine screams in the trunk.
“Shut up!” He commands. “You’re distracting me!”
Laughing in delight, Kurt takes a bite out of his scone and points a finger at the windshield.
“I told you so,” he croons, “no stopping time.”
Flicking his eyes back to the road, Sebastian jumps in surprise as a black Impala blows past a stop sign. The Mercedes swerves. Tires fly over tall grass. The engine smashes into a tree trunk. Metal crunches in his ears. His head rings.
Bones snap in his legs. Glass jettisons into his chest. Glancing down, he shrieks in terror as his eyes land on a long and jagged piece of glass lodged in his stomach. Smoke billows out of the engine. The crushed speakers belt out Blackbird. Lights surround the car. Pain radiates through his chest, leaving him breathless and gasping for air.
A man wearing a wide brimmed hat stoops down and pokes his head into the driver’s side window.
“This one’s injured,” the man says, “what’s the ETA on the ambulance?”
A woman answers the question.
“Ten minutes. You’re going to love this tidbit of information. Sebastian Smythe’s father is Steven Smythe.”
“The State Attorney?” The Trooper asks.
“Yeah,” the woman answers, “he’s already hired a lawyer for his son.”
The Trooper sighs.
“Fuck,” he says, “this is gonna be a messy day.”
Her voice hovers above his aching head. He struggles to breathe. Blaine screams. The noise makes him cringe in annoyance. Smacking his lips together, he draws in air and stares at the man in the uniform.
“Make him stop,” he says as blood drips out of his mouth, “make him stop screaming. It’s all his fault.”
The Trooper frowns at him.
“I don’t hear anything,” he replies, “and I don’t see anyone else in the car.”
Blaine screams in the trunk.
“Let me out!” He says. “Let me out!”
Sebastian closes his eyes. Breathing hurts. They must hear the noise coming from the trunk. He hears the sound of fists beating against the car. Blaine screams at the top of his lungs. He coughs, gasping in fright as he sees drops of blood falling onto his hands.
“Make him stop!” He says. “Make him stop screaming! Just--get him out of my car!”
The words tumble out of his mouth in a hoarse cry. The Trooper blinks at him.
“Midge,” he says, “check the trunk! I’ll keep an eye on Smythe until the ambulance gets here.”
Blood courses through his chest, swirling around his ribs and restricting his airflow. He looks at the Trooper standing by the window.
“H--help me,” he says, “please.”
The man places his large hands on his shoulders.
“Son,” he says, “you’re legs are crushed. You’re probably too high and in too much pain to notice this right now, but your engine is basically in your lap. You’re lucky to be alive. The paramedics should be here any minute. They’ll help you out.”
His head pounds in fury. The horizon blurs into the clouds, obscuring his vision. Darkness falls around the car. The dome light shines in his eyes. A lock clicks. He hears muffled voices as he breathes. Someone placed a straw in his throat.
“Caleb,” a woman says, “come take a look at Smythe’s passenger.”
Blaine. The name whirls around his head. Smoke fills his nostrils. The Trooper leaves the window. Tears cloud his vision. Something heavy pins his legs down. He tries to wiggles his toes.
Nothing happens. He sees water and smoke in front of his face. His lungs burn with discomfort. Attempting to wipe the tears out of his eyes, he yelps in frustration as his fingers remain in his lap. The Trooper sticks his fat head back into the window. A frown taints his chubby face. Worry permeates the air.
“What’s his name, Smythe?” The Trooper asks. “The kid in the trunk. What’s his name?”
Coughing, he spits up blood and closes his eyes.
“Blaine,” he replies, “he finally stopped screaming.”
The Trooper glares.
“He’s been unconscious for a while,” the man says, “he’s got some broke ribs--possibly a concussion from the impact. The paramedics are taking a look at him now. Can you give me a last name, son?”
He returns the Trooper’s icy stare.
“Y--” he hacks, “you said they would help me. Please, get me out of here.”
The Trooper touches his shoulder. He feels nothing except the hot pain in his legs and the tightness in his chest.
“It’s called Triage,” the Trooper replies, “Blaine’s being seen first. They’ll help you once they put him in the ambulance. Give me his last name so I can contact his family.”
He flinches at the hard, disapproving tone. Blaine moaned for hours last night. He liked it. Darkness surrounds him like a shroud now, beckoning him into the warm night. His mind reaches for it. The Trooper gives his shoulder a rough shake. His head flops to the side.
“Give me his last name,” he says, “he’s Hemorraghing.”
The term means nothing to him; he gasps for air.
“Come on, Smythe,” the Trooper says, “give me a last name!”
His vision fades to a dull grey. His lips part for a breath of air. A name escapes from his mouth.
“Anderson,” he replies, “Blaine Anderson. Blaine likes to drink.”
The dome light clicks off and the world explodes into a black canvas.