A/N: This is a fic I started a long, long time ago. Rachel (endofadream) has inspired me to continue it. I'm not an expert in the field of mental illness, however the following story is based off of true events. The subject matter could make a reader uncomfortable, so if any of the warnings make you think twice, I would suggest not reading. Most of the heavier emotional moments occur in the first few parts. If you choose to continue on and read the story, thank you and enjoy. I would love any feedback (as long as it is not complaining about thing I have warned about).
Warnings (some for future parts): Depression, talk of suicide and attempt, self harm, mental illness.
This is a Kurt/Blaine story.
Rated M for Mature content.
Kurt slung his bag over his shoulder, rolling his eyes and pushing open the office door.
It was the third week he had been called to Ms. Pillsbury's office during his Wednesday study hall to "check in" as she called it. Kurt preferred to call it a "Weekly waste of time with an unhelpful counselor".
If he had to hear her delicate voice talk about his teachers concerns again or the slip in his GPA, he would probably tear his hair out of his scalp and begin rocking the bald look. Kurt quite frankly found there was nothing wrong with a few sad words strung through a piece of writing, and thought an essay with such a quality should be praised in comparison to the dry, emotionless pieces his peers produced.
But what the hell did Kurt know anymore?
He walked blindly to his locker. He let his forehead hit the cool metal and looked at his shoes.
After a moment of calming himself, he opened his locker, pulling from it two books he didn't ever open for god knows which class. He took a hand to his hair, sweeping it back slightly in the mirror before shutting the locker door again and turning to join the crowds of people moving down the hallway to their next class.
Kurt found himself early for 6th period French, a class he was good at but tended to no longer enjoy.
Come to think of it, what classes did Kurt enjoy these days? Gym sucked, as it had since he was little, and history was just as boring, but math and english had never been unenjoyable in the past. Kurt shrugged it off as the teachers not doing a very good job at the subject.
But music - music was always in Kurt's soul. How had glee club come to bore him? Singing always made him feel incredible. Why was it now blending into the grey background of his life?
Kurt shook it off and sat in his seat, preparing for the french lesson of the day, likely to be full of verb conjugations and tenses.
The day didn't get much better. A prompt locker slam chased by a blue raspberry slushie left his head spinning. He hid in a bathroom stall until the bell rang and everyone cleared out for class.
He shucked out of his vest and undershirt, running them under the water and watching the blue dye wash down the drain. He scrubbed at the stains with his nails half-heartedly, wringing the clothes out and sighing at the blue that remained.
He caught his own eye in the mirror, the dullness in them now a familiarity. His skin looked pale and washed out, but perhaps it was just the cold blue ice that had just been thrown at him. There was a moment when he didn't recognize himself in the mirror, but he just looked away and turned off the sink. He wrung the vest and shirt out again before pressing the button on the hand dryer.
He threw them back on despite their dampness and shrugged to himself.
The idea of suffering through the rest of his classes made him feel sick, so Kurt opted to skip. After ensuring the halls were clear, he collected his things from his locker and walked out the side door of the building, directly to his car.
He kept the music off the entire ride, staring blankly at the road. Reaching his driveway was practically like releasing a breath.
His head was still throbbing, so he popped some Tylenol after entering the house. They did little but numb the pain, but numbness was something he was used to.
He drowned his night in the nest of blankets in his bed, laying still, staring at the wallpaper, and willing himself out of this funk.
Because that's all this was, right?
The days began to blur together in an endless blob. Nights passed with tossing and turning. School resulted in being pushed around or having words spit on him like acid.
It's strange how words can break the skin so much easier than a knife. They fester worse than any nasty infection, and even the best medication can't erase them. The mind is a dangerous place, containing the most dangerous weapon: thoughts. If it isn't handled with care, it can put many people in danger.
Thoughts plagued Kurt.
He could make any sunny day out to be rainy. He could turn any happy song into a sad one. His mind was a jail made of glass. He could scream all he liked but no one would hear him He could see out, see hope, but the walls would always block him.
The glass of Kurt's mind was crumbling in upon itself, waiting to shatter.
He remembers being alone when everything falls apart. The house was quiet, which was strange for a Sunday.
Instead of finding the bottle of Tylenol for his perpetual headache, Kurt's eyes wander to the other bottles in the cabinet. Left over medications from his father's heart attack. Pain medication for Carole's bad shoulder. Strong things, only to be taken in moderation.
And he snaps.
A letter, a letter, you need a letter, his mind cries.
He moves quickly, finding a spare piece of his personally stationary in his room. He folds himself up in his desk chair, gripping the pen as tightly as possible before writing.
Kurt wrote steadily, taking in deep breaths. He poured a bit of his soul on the page, letting some tears hit the paper and losing himself in the moment.
He didn't hear Burt come home.
Burt climbed the stairs, planning to simply check on Kurt and head downstairs to settle into the couch for the game.
He didn't expect to find Kurt leaning over his desk, concentrating on writing something and choking back sobs.
Kurt snapped around, his eyes rimmed with red and tear tracks staining his cheeks. His face was flushed from crying, and his mouth felll open slightly.
"What's wrong, Kurt?"
Burt rarely called Kurt by his name, more often referring to him as 'Kiddo' or 'Buddy' out of habit and endearment. The single syllable surprised himself greatly, but he pushed it back to study the scene in front of him.
"Kurt, what's going on?"
Kurt was visibly shaking, handing his head as he released the sobs he had been holding back.
So he did the only thing he could do.
He embraced his son
"Shh, it's going to be okay." Burt whispered.