Of course, after yesterday's episode of Glee, I had to write my Dave feels. Also, trigger warning: attempted suicide!
Maybe if My Heart Stops Beating...
It won't Hurt This Much.
"Hey, Karofsky."
"Sup, Nick?" Dave replies as he shuffles his way through the room, a little surprised by Nick's civil demeanor, considering what the boy had witnessed at Breadstix just a few days ago.
Nevertheless, he shrugs and continues towards his locker, brow raising when he notices that all eyes are still focused on his every step. Dave's confused; he glances around, thinking maybe he has something stuck to him; his shoe. There has to be a reason for these relentless stares…
Then, he sees it, and his face falls; his heart drops into the deepest pits of his twisting stomach.
"FAG" is spray-painted in pink along his locker. He tries to breathe, but his lungs refuse to work, so he remains motionless, counting the drips that hang from each letter; hang like the unsaid words drifting through the air, thick with tension.
Dave finally wills his legs to move, and he turns, forced to meet the glares of Nick and his other so-called "friends". They're wearing smug grins; spewing sarcastic remarks that Dave can't hear over the blood swirling in his ears. He pushes past them, ignoring the shoulder-checks and shoves. Make it to the house. Just make it to the house.
"What are you doing back so soon, bud?" Paul Karofsky asks as his flustered son stumbles in.
"Uh, b-bad lunch. Feeling pretty sick," Dave stutters, glowering at the floor.
Before his dad has the chance to reply, he darts for his room and shuts the door, letting himself slump against it. He exhales, closed lids fluttering with tears he's determined to retain. Pull it together. Don't be so weak.
But he suddenly remembers his computer and facebook and oh, god; it takes a lot of strength to choke back the bile inching up his burning throat.
"Go back in the closet!" and "Homo!" are among the slew of comments Dave sees, and he can't stop the salty liquid from pouring out and down his trembling cheeks. He slams the laptop shut, sure he's cracked the screen, but that doesn't matter because he's broken, too; giving up, putting an end to this pain gripping his core and rippling through his veins.
He slings his school books to the ground, wishing they were the bodies of those who've hurt him; wishing their delicate spines were the ones being split and bruised and damaged beyond repair. No. Wait. I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kurt. Sorry for treating you like some insignificant object. I'm sorry to every person I've treated that way.
"I'm sorry!" he shouts, finishing his thought.
He hears his father's feet dragging on the carpet, just outside his door, and he knows he has to be quiet.
His father. Dave may not show it often, but he really loves him. The last thing he wants to do is cause that man grief, but Dave can't take it anymore. He has to escape, leave his worries and anguish behind.
He walks circles around his bed, quivering hands clenching tufts of hair atop his head. The fan buffets above, but it's not enough to cool his scorching skin. He attempts to talk himself out of it, he does, but he just can't; even when he thinks of his dad again, catching a glimpse of the planes they hung from his ceiling years ago. That only brings another wave of tears, and a reminder of how dark things have become.
And so, Dave stands.
He pads along the short path to his closet and flicks the light switch, squinting as the fog clears from his vision. He fumbles through clothes until he finds his suit, tucked away in a corner.
He grabs a belt, holds it close and tests its strength. It's tough…smooth between his rough hands; hands that have tortured innocent people; haunted him. He collapses, sobs racking his chest and the smell of leather filling his nose.
He wavers in front of a mirror, straightens his tie, buttons his vest, wipes this crumbling face he doesn't recognize.
He's back in the closet, just like everyone wanted, gazing at a chair positioned below a beam. This is it. No more pain.
He's teetering on the cold, creaking, wooden piece of furniture, looping the belt around his neck. He feels his pulse fight it, but tightens it another notch.
"I-I'm sorry", he whispers, kicking the chair out from under him.
And so, Dave falls.
For a moment, he's numb, and his surroundings begin fading to black. This is it. I'm going to escape.
But the beam breaks; his skull hits the floor, yet his heart still beats.
His father's voice bounces from wall to wall; "Help! David, buddy, c'mon! DAVID."
His father's voice. Always there.
And in that moment, Dave is irrevocably, incredibly thankful.
I hope you guys know that suicide is never the answer, and that sounds really cliche, but it's true. If you EVER need anyone to talk to, please call a hotline, or a friend. Someone will always be there.