A/N: This is a really, really dark and depressing oneshot, and honestly, I won't be offended if you decide that it's not really you're cup of tea and you don't want to read it. But to all of you out there that do, carry on, and leave a review when you're finished, for those who review get cyber-cookies and a cyber-kazoo!

Warnings: Explicit descriptions of self-harm, language.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any of the characters or places. I do own DVR, with which I watch and re-watch every episode multiple times.

Fag.

The cool blade touches his skin, and he shivers in anticipation.

Fucking Faggot.

His eyes slowly slide closed, his breath audible in the silent room.

Go to hell you fucking faggot.

He presses the blade deeper into the milky white flesh of his forearm, familiar territory now.

No one could ever fucking love you.

The sensation of tearing skin shoots up his arm, hitting every nearby nerve, and a cruel, sick smile creeps onto his lips.

Why don't you just fucking kill yourself?

/Not today.../ He tells himself, the pain in his heart lessening as the drops of blood run down his deathly pale arm and into the smooth, porcelain sink.

Soon, he promises himself.

Quickly, with practiced hands, he cleans the razor blade, allowing his fingers to linger longer than usual on the inviting sharp edge, before running his bleeding wrist under the cool water, hissing softly. It's not enough, but for now, it's just enough to keep trooping on.

"Kurt, what's that on your wrist?"

He looks over at Blaine, thinking fast.

"We're watching our neighbor's cats while she's out of town. One of them scratched me," he says with a shrug, taking a sip of his coffee.

I hate myself, and I wish I was dead, so I cut myself every night! Our neighbor's don't own a fucking cat! Don't believe a word I just said!

Blaine smiles, replying, "Yeah, cats have a tendency to do that..."

Kurt fakes a smile.

"Tell me about it."

He lies in his bed, hyper-aware that his stepbrother is lying in the bed right next to his, facing away from the taller boy. Staring almost mesmerized at the offending wrist, he traces over the scabs and scars, heart pounding at the memory of the soothing pain that afflicted those wounds.

Unconsciously, his eyes shift closed as his short fingernails dig as deeply as possible into his arm, hissing ever-so-softly at the slight feeling of release it brings. Adrenaline courses through his veins as a few ruby drops seep through the half-moon shaped cuts.

The feeling lulls him to sleep like some sick, gruesome lullaby.

Mercedes is the first to notice something is off.

"White boy, what's going on? You're paler than usual and you keep spacing out when we're trying to talk about fashion."

Kurt panics internally for a few seconds before saying, "I just- had kind of a rough night last night. Couldn't sleep."

Yes, that much is true... Now tell her about the-

Mercedes smiles, saying, "Does Finn snore or something?"

There's an alibi; snatch it up, dumbass.

Kurt smiles, gushing, although it seems hollow, "Oh, you have /no/ idea, Mercedes! He sounds like heavy machinery or something."

Dont fall for it, don't fall for it!

Mercedes grins.

Good, she fell for it. Thank God she fell for it.

She links arms with him, walking to Glee club, where Kurt anticipates question after question about his well-being.

Glee club passes; no one says a word to him about the way he's acting. His heart beats hollowly in his chest and his mind races as they're dismissed.

Nobody cares, that's why they didn't ask. They don't care about you. They don't love you. No one loves you.

He walks to his locker, feeling empty, like there's nothing left inside of him and he's just a walking zombie of a person. He fumbles a bit with his lock before the door opens and he grabs the folder he needed. He shuts it, ignoring the tears threatening to prick at the corners of his eyes, before walking briskly to his car, anxious to get home.

The second he walks in the door, after greeting his Dad, he throws out an alibi: "I have a ton of homework, tonight."

Actually, I'll be in my bathroom cutting myself, so don't disturb me, okay?

He goes straight to his bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. A few stray sobs bubble up in his chest, but he swallows them down. Just when he has the razor perched over where he wants to feel the pain, his phone buzzes in a text message. Curiosity takes over, and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, reading the message.

From Blaine:

Courage.

A sick smile creeps onto his lips.

If he only knew what that meant right now...

Without any hesitation, he digs the razor blade deep into his wrist, deeper than he's ever gone. So deep, stars explode in his vision, and he sways, leaning against the counter, moaning softly in pain and pleasure all at once. Gritting his teeth, he twists the blade ever so slightly, blood pouring down his arm and onto the counter.

Caught in the moment, he continues to make slashes across his arm, each slit hurting more than the last, though none so much as the pain that brought him to this...

Kurt and Blaine are sitting across from each other, sipping their coffee. Kurt looks curiously at his boyfriend of about a week, as the shorter boy had called Kurt here, saying he had something important he needed to say. After a long moment's hesitation, he begins.

"Kurt, I- there's something I need to tell you. I haven't been completely honest with you."

Kurt furrows his eyebrows in confusion, but nods, silently asking Blaine to continue.

Reluctantly, Blaine says, "Kurt, I have a boyfriend."

Kurt smiles at him, nudging Blaine's foot with his. "Well, yeah, we've been together for a week."

Blaine looks like he wants to cry for a split second before resuming his poker face.

He says very softly, "His name is Jeremy, and we've been going steady for almost a year."

His arm is completely stained red, but it still isn't enough. He curses as he presses even deeper, seeing through slight tunnel-vision, but not thinking so much anymore.

Just do it. You promised you'd do it soon anyway. No one loves you.

A tiny, tiny part of Kurt makes itself known.

My Dad loves me... So does New Directions, and so does Blaine...

If any of them loved you, they'd ask you what's wrong, and see through your lies. If Blaine cared about you, he would have never broken your heart. No one. Fucking. Loves. You.

"I know," he whispers softly to himself, before he digs the razor deeper, the black rushing to his vision, and he falls.