Watching him struggle was nothing new. I had given as much time as I could to help him, but it was always in vain. Nothing I did or said seemed to help him from the abyss he fell into. Everyday was a waiting game, waiting to see if he would suddenly blossom and become himself again.
Another night of endless agony, feeling him flail around the bed as nightmares racked his body. I held him close, whispering in his ear, telling him everything will be alright. He stilled, relief flowing over my body.
Therapy was out of the question. The first time I even thought of bringing it up, he broke a vase and tried to cut his neck. That was the scariest moment of my life. I never thought he would ever do something that extreme.
As the years went by, there would be periods of him being happier than he ever was and more depressed than ever before.
A single visit from a friend changed a bad day to a good one. I left them to talk and went upstairs where I let out the sobs that I had held in all day. The bruise on my thigh was much worse than I told him it was.
On one of his worst days, I lashed out on him on accident. He repaid me by fracturing my wrist and running out after realizing what he had done.
Those next few hours were the longest I had ever felt.
Finding him, hiding under a park bench tore my heart out. He finally agreed to go to a hospital, as long as it met never hurting me again.
A year later, he was doing as good as he could be for being in the hospital. The psychiatric ward was very kind to him and helped him the best they could. His severe depression and slight schizophrenia were handled well. The medication had been hard to make him take, but when he finally gave in, he was much happier.
I had done weekly visits for the past year. Whenever I couldn't make one, they said he refused to take his meds and refused to eat. I tried to make as many as I possibly could.
Three years later, they deemed him well enough to leave the hospital. There was going to be a nurse around at all times, along with me there. The depression was nearly gone, making his life easier, along with mine.
Years passed, with a few instances, but none severe enough to send him back to the hospital. As we aged more and more, we joked about who would die first.
When that day came, it was him who died first. We held onto each others hands tightly, never wanting to forget.
"I love you so much, Kurt."
"I love you too, Blaine. So very much."
No, I'm not going to tell you which one is which. Yes, I am that evil. It's met for the readers to decide who was who. Hope you enjoyed, even though I have no idea where this came from.