There are no spoilers in this story. We know how its going to end. The same way every story ends, death. It's an inevitable process that occurs with a happy ever after, or not so happy after all. When a happy story ends happy, who are we to assume those characters will stay happy? And how narrow-minded can we be to not think of how their story will come to an end. Everyone dies, whether its in the aftermath of the story you've been told or in the future for characters every dedicated reader would create a bond with.
But this story, my story; I suppose you could say. Starts in death and ends in it. Spoiler alert, I Kurt Hummel Died. Wow. It's almost reliving to admit that to someone, in a sick twisted way. I didn't die of old age, or dramatically in a horrendous accident, or slow and painfully with a sickness. I took my own life, I guess in sorts it was slow and painful, but no one wasn't expecting it. Some say those who cause harm to themselves are cowards, I agree. When I first caused harm to myself I felt disappointed in who my parents raised me to be. for not being strong enough to deal with people, my arms were a battlefield of me and my personal demons. But the sickly pale lines that plagued my arms soon moved. To my hips and thighs, thick purple angry scars and thin faint lines that both glared at me against my pasty skin.
But in the end it wasn't the harm that took me away. I took the cowards way out as well as in, one night I was just so done. So tired of having to deal with the way people looked at me and the way I was talked to, and my echoing house were so many other ghosts haunted me for years. I took a bottle of pills and topped myself. It's ironic really, dyeing from pills, when I got to see both my parents that little while longer because of pills.
My mother died when I was 8, she had been sick and frail for so long, I was naïve to not notice how she was slowly fading. I didn't deal well with her leaving me. I felt betrayed, as one should when the only person who ever understood them, leaves. Without a goodbye, off I went to school one morning and I came back with my dad hunched over the sofa, body racking with tears.
That was the first time I felt like I had done something wrong, but the older I got the more apparent it became that I was always doing something wrong. And when my dad had his first heart attack, that should have been the first sign that I couldn't hold those close to me for much longer. The whispered hopes by not-so-friendly-people that my father would get better, was what hurt the most, the fact that people believed filling me with feelings of a future where my dad was happy and well would help. Stung like a bitch that day my teacher walked in looking pallid and mumbling "Kurt, something's happened"
The school dealt well with it I believe, I mean I'm – I was 17 and I managed to convince the social workers I could make my own way with what my dad left me and working at the shop. But walking into school and hearing the gushes of the little gay orphan boy, and how his mummy and daddy had left him all alone and now he had no one, wasn't what set me on my down spiral to final taking my life.I mean sure, it started the dark voices in my head telling me breathing wasn't worth it, but in the end it was the obnoxious Neanderthals that shouted at me in corridors and shoved me into lockers hard enough to bruise and slice open cheeks, and the harshly gritted "That's what you get for being a fag"s said to me in public places just made it occur to me. It was my fault there was always something I could've done, I could've prevented all these things happening I just didn't have the guts.
I cut myself off from everyone, leaving glee club and throwing away my cell were the first steps to a new me. Without the feelings. I changed the way I dress, I recall once being told I looked like I was constantly in "funeral-Phase" with my new found love for black attire. But the rumours slowly moulded into me being a 'Bad-boy'. That's laughable, apparently I'm the only one intelligent enough to just realise it's just so much easier not being me.
Thinking about it now, when everyone stopped their attempts at trying to talk to me might have actually helped. Because now I didn't have to endure the endless "there was nothing you could have done" . People at school noticed my arms, which rooted some of my old friends to just staring at how I didn't care about showing them, if in the summer I wanted to wear short sleeves I think I was entitled to wear whatever I wanted. Others reacted differently, it spurred them to think of new things to say in attempt to speed up my suicidal train wreck.
Some nights I would laugh about how I could easily go and change my first name to freak, because that's all I was ever called lately. My therapist didn't help, more whispers of hope lacking meaning. No one could've helped, no one in the world would have been able to stop me from finally making that choice to stop feeling. i knew no one would blame themselves, because no one was there with me to even begin to fathom how i was feeling. no one was able to get close enough to see how tired i was with having to breathe.
My body wasn't found until after a week, when someone finally noticed my absence and sent the social workers to my house. I watched it all you see, I'm tethered to this world. Well that's what the others say. I'm a ghost. As in no one can see or hear me. almost relaxing being able to walk around and scream, let out my feelings without the disappointing eyes and snarky words. Some would say its the same as when I was alive, always there but never seen. That's where they were wrong you see, I was always seen, always judged.
And it's ironic really that I'm stuck in the godforsaken town that I spent a year attempting to free myself from. I watched my funeral, watched people mourn, and now I watch people forget.
Now I'm dead, I watch all the people that caused my death, live.