It is so very easy to say I would die for you. But, would I live for you?
Chapter One: Life is Very Long
The days started just as any other. Kurt woke up to the shrill sounds of Lady Gaga ringing in his ears, mechanically dressed himself, checking briefly that he was not wearing the same outfit as prior that week. If he was not, then off to the vanity he would go; to coif his hair, carefully, before grabbing his messenger bag and heading out the door. His keys in hand, he walked towards his car, carefully watching the ice beneath his feet. Once he arrived, he slipped inside, placed the bag on the seat, and once again reminded himself why he continued. After an attempt at an enthusiastic talk, he gave it up, just as he had every other morning, turned the key in the ignition and began the short, monotonous drive into the hell that less knowledgeable people liked to call William McKinley High School.
I slowly turned into the parking lot, and carefully parked my car into the far corner. My beautiful car, brand new when my dad had bought it for me, just over two years ago, which had long since been dented from the attempts of the jocks to ensure that I knew my place. It had since been refurbished, and I hoped that that would discourage them from trying again. I sincerely doubted it. I swiftly left my car, heading with single minded determination towards the front doors of the school, hoping that the early hour I had arrived would deter the Neanderthals. It was not to be. No further than five steps from the front doors, Azimio stepped in front of me, a menacing smile upon his face. I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, there was Karofsky, his face covered in a secure mask, as he loomed over me.
So he wasn't out of the closet. I could not out him… that would be disastrous. I doubt that I would live very long if I did, if I could even live with myself if I did. So, I took it all, silently, stoically… well, until I was able to bitch back at them, then. Well, that did not always help. If I couldn't, if it made it worse, then I retreated, emotionally distant, behind my façade. It was almost perfect now, a seamless blend between myself and it. Sometimes I wondered at the difference myself. People say that you should talk about your problems. What do they know? The 'guidance counsellor' was otherwise preoccupied… they do say that psychologists chose that field because they desperately want to be psycho-analysed. Well, in some cases it is not want, it is desperately need.
One might as well ask where the Glee Club is in all this harassment. The wonderful New Directions, with their feelings of unity, and how they cherish each of us as members of a family. Well, there is always the child who is overlooked, left standing in the corner while the more exuberant ones or the more dependent ones snatch up the attention, and are only remain begging, desperately for more. They are unwilling to look past their own petty problems, to see the greater picture. Not that I would blame them, after all, who would want to associate themselves with the fag of McKinley? Who would wish to tar themselves with such a brush, and leave themselves even lower on the social ladder then they already are.
I wait for five minutes, a customary habit, as I hear the heavy treads of the jocks feet leave the near vicinity. Cautiously, with practised movements, I remove myself from the dumpster. It had been empty, so there was only the vague putrid smell that clung to my clothes. I shook my head in disgust, with easy motions I ensured that there was no worse damage than bruising, before making my way, once more, inside.
They say it gets better. Well, it cannot get better than this, the high life. Friends, who will swear that they are here for you, and the next instant, they are off, concerned with their own problems, unable to see what is before their eyes, clearly displayed to the continued observer. All facades have weaknesses, both when they are very new, and also when they are very old. When they are new, it is because they are unsure, of how they act normally. This is one of the easiest times to observe that something is wrong, if you would care to. But of course, if you don't… well that is a different matter. When they are very old, they carry exhaustion, it becomes apparent that there is something wrong, but there is nothing you can do about it, because they are so used to holding this secret within them, that they cannot do anything else, to tell would be to lose an integral part of themselves. So, what should you do when the secret has been held for so very long, almost your whole life? When you have said nothing since you were just a tiny child of three years old, and now you stand, or rather cower silently internally, as a young, homosexual male, of seventeen years? There is nothing that can be done, so once must move on. Soon, so very soon, you will be able to go, to leave this infernal damnation, and try anew, to craft a new life. Soon. Soon. But will it be soon enough?
I glanced down at my timetable, the beginning of senior year meant Calculus, another ferocious thing to struggle with. I calmed my face, held my breath, and covertly checked my reflection. The make-up had held. Good, though I doubt that it would have made any difference if it had not. It was simply easier this way, easier to pretend that they did not know, that they did not see, not that it had been there, painted upon my face in layers of black, purple, and yellow with a tint of green, and they had simply let it slide by.
The bell rang, a call to the prison, summoning all of us into the containment, for another year. I slipped, silently, through the crowds, subconsciously weaving between the busy streams as people moved towards their classes. I stood before the door, swallowed quickly, there could be no doubt now, only one year. Only ten little months, and I would be free. I stepped over the threshold, and headed towards the seat directly before the teacher. That would provide me with at least the veneer of protection, and those Neanderthals would not act quite so readily if it was under his nose, well that of any other teacher. This one, however, Mr. Hinton, was firmly conservative, and myself, being a fashionable gay, simply did not fit into his idealistic world of white, Christian, heterosexual people. I managed to offend him, just be breathing. The thought of calculus now weighted my mind down even further. Just prior to the final bell, he strode into the room. His face, contorted with a heavy scowl, searching through the room, before focusing on myself. I looked towards my books, attempting to seem completely enthralled in such a subject. He glanced away, selected a seat and sat, but not before jeering at me, the word fairy slipping off his tongue with great easy, a hypocritical statement. Though, Karofsky was rather far into the closet… Hmm, I wonder how he would react to a Narnia joke. The thought made me shiver, though I am not certain whether it was due to fear, or perhaps, just a slight section, a slim part of me, hoped that it would cause him to be violent; to hurt me, as I so rightly deserved. Resolutely, I squashed that part of myself down, far away from my conscious mind, and focused, determinedly upon the work; that had appeared on the board before me during my mental absence.
It was not long before I felt the eyes on me, digging into the back of my skull. Tempting me to squirm, like an animal, pinned and wriggling upon the wall. I could not, to do so would be to admit that anything was occurring, and nothing was, I would not let the memories sweep over me. I stubbornly ignored the feeling. There was nothing wrong. There would never be anything wrong. I was fine, I was safe. I directed my mind once again to the tedious math in from of me, forcing it to stay on such a topic, instead of heading, as it threatened, into more dangerous, murky waters.
