Burt stood in the doorway of his son's room with a box in his arm. The place seemed to empty. Not only was most of Kurt's stuff now in New York with him, but what little he left behind had mostly belonged to Blaine.
Just a couple of hours ago Kurt had called his father and told him to get rid of anything that belonged to Blaine or involved Blaine in the least. Burt didn't get an explanation as to why but he didn't really need one. It was obviously a breakup.
He turned, closing the door behind him and heading down to the car. He dropped the box in the passenger seat and climbed in the driver's side. He looked at the picture of the two boys at prom sitting on top of everything else in the box with sad eyes as he started the car. Kurt had told him he could just throw everything away but he figured he would leave it up to Blaine whether this stuff was meant for the dumpster or not.
He pulled out of the driveway, following the familiar roads to his son's ex-boyfriend's house. He was still always in awe at how beautiful a neighbourhood Blaine lived in.
Burt parallel parked across the street from Blaine's house, hopping out of the car and pulling the box from the passenger side. The driveway was empty as it normally was. Blaine's parents were hardly ever home.
He slowly made his way to the door and rang the doorbell.
He waited for a couple of minutes but there was no answer.
He knocked.
Still no answer.
He tried a couple of more times but still no one appeared at the door.
He sighed, and turned the door handle, cautiously. It was open. He glanced around before fully opening the door and entering. The house was dark. Blaine must have gone somewhere.
Burt looked around for a minute, deciding he would just leave the box on Blaine's bed. He climbed the grand spiral staircase up to the second floor, finding the second door on the left. He cracked the door open. The light was off in there to. He went in.
He studied the room for a minute. It was in perfect order all except a picture frame lying in the floor. Burt approached it, leaning over to pick it up. He froze in position. A pale hand was stretched out towards the picture from the other side of the bed.
Burt dropped the box. It crashed to the floor loudly but the fingers didn't even twitch.
"Blaine?" Burt breathed.
No answer.
Burt made his way to the other side of the bed. Blaine was lying on his side, partially covered by the bed skirt. His knees were pulled close to his chest. He looked as though he'd been huddled in a ball and had fallen over as he passed out. His wrists were slit, blood pooling from them onto the carpet.
His dark hair fell in messy curls over his face in a weird contrast to how pale his skin was. Burt couldn't tell if Blaine was breathing, but then again, he was having trouble remembering how to breathe himself.
He collapsed to his knees, grabbing the boy. He watched his tear stained face as he pressed his fingers to his neck. There was pulse but it was very faint.
Burt struggled to get his phone out of his pocket and punch in 911.
"Lima police department, what is your emergency?"
"I-I... my... my son's... I don't know... he slit his wrists," Burt was trying to keep it together. If he couldn't be calm, Blaine would die, "He tried to kill himself," Burt's words were coming out too fast. He didn't know if she could understand him.
"Sir, what is your address?"
Burt stumbled over his words, almost giving the operator his house address.
"Please hurry," he cried, dropping the phone, "Blaine, Blaine, buddy, open your eyes." He lightly slapped his face, hoping for any reaction he could get. He pulled his jacket off, wrapping it tightly around Blaine's wrists, trying to stop the flow.
"Blaine, it's Mr. Hummel. Open your eyes. Now." He clutched Blaine to his chest, crying into his hair, "Don't you die on me. Don't you do this. Not to Kurt. Don't you dare."