A/N: Triggering warning for mild thoughts of suicide in this chapter
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I met Kellin Quinn at the now-infamous and notorious party on Hollywood Boulevard. I know you've all been waiting for me, specifically, to put my two cents into this situation, seeing as how I'm the most read Koli journalist on MuttPop, and there's a reason that it's taken me a couple of days to comment on what happened.
First of all, I was there, and saw it in person. It was jarring and horrifying, and, frankly, mildly traumatizing. Second of all, I had spoken face to face with Kellin only an hour or so before everything happened (more on that later), and he was f**king nice. Like, a decent person who doesn't deserve to be decked across the face by someone who's supposed to love him. Not that anyone does, but you get my point.
Taking the soulmate s**t out of the equation and just looking at the facts as if Oliver and Kellin were two normal people, what happened that night was just straight up disturbing domestic abuse. Watching a man twice Kellin's size, backhand him across the face hard enough that he was knocked to the ground like he's done it a dozen times before was f**king disturbing, and I'm disturbed most of all that everyone is reporting on this as if it's funny, or something. There's nothing funny about what happened that night.
Honestly, I hope they do f**king put Oliver down for this. Maybe Kellin will be halved and heartbroken for the rest of his life, but at least he won't be getting beat up by that piece of s**t. (Petition to Half Kellin Quinn –Lynn Gunn, MuttPop.com)
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"Mr. Quinn? Mr. Quinn, are you listening to me? Can you hear me?"
Kellin nods his head weakly up and down, glaring down at his small, dainty hands where they're splayed out on the cold metal table in front of him.
"Can you answer my question? How do you feel?"
He raises his eyes to the ceiling, where the fluorescent lights are blinding and burning his retinas and lets out a sigh. "Terrible."
"Elaborate, please?"
"I feel like I'm going to faint. Um- like I'm going to vomit."
The man, Dr. Iero he had called himself when he first met Kellin a day ago, scribbles something down onto his clipboard and frowns. "I'm sorry to hear that."
The petite boy snorts and shakes his head, dizziness setting in immediately. "If you were sorry, you'd let me see my fucking soulmate."
He's been locked up in a place he doesn't recognize for two entire days now; the first of which he spent knocked out on sedatives in a soft bed inside a room that had no windows. It's not a nasty looking place; it's not a rusty old asylum with chipping paint and restraints tied up to every single chair, and it's also not a gross piss-stained jail, either. He doesn't know what the fuck it is. It's nice, at least, with comfortable chairs and soothing light blue walls, and nobody's tied him up and beat him, so he guesses he might've lucked out on that front.
He had been changed out of his designer attire from the party and dressed in a pair of loose fitting, light gray sweatpants and a plain, white t-shirt.
The first questions he was asked when he woke up, after being forced to eat a lunch of a cheese sandwich and an apple, were;
"Does Oliver hit you like that often, Mr. Quinn?"
"When's the last time Oliver was aggressive towards you, Mr. Quinn?"
"Would you say Oliver is angry more often than he's not?"
"How do you feel, Mr. Quinn?'
