A/N: I think that Dave has to be one of the most interesting and complex characters on the show, and I just couldn't not get inside his head. I do not hope that this happens in the show; but, from what we've seen, I believe it would be a possible route for his character to go if he doesn't get help. I also wrote this in the light of all of the recent suicides due to bullies like Karofsky. Remember: it gets better. The Trevor Project is a wonderful organization; and the first thing I'd do if I was in Gleeverse, before becoming Kurt's best friend, would be giving Karofsky the number. I'm sorry that this A/N has gotten so PSA-esque, but it is a message that should always be spread.
WARNINGS: In case you didn't notice them in the summary, this story includes explicit self-harm in the form of cutting, suicide, one naughty word, and references to sexual fantasies.
Also, I'd like to thank Stephanie for being a great help in regards to ratings and proof-reading.
Each drop of the thick, red fluid is an abomination.
In the nucleus of each individual cell resides a disease.
And diseases have to be cured.
Diseases such as himself.
That is his reasoning at least.
That is his explanation for sitting on the lip of the white, imitation-porcelain bathtub, letterman jacket messily discarded on the white, linoleum floor behind him, hunched over the evidence.
His reasoning seemed simple enough for a toddler to understand: remove everything infected, remove the disease in its entirety.
The problem is that there isn't a part of him that isn't infected.
So he tries to remove as many of the diseased cells as possible.
He watches intently, studying exactly how the silver of the knife's sharp, polished blade reflects a sliver of light from the bare bulb overhead as it slices through the dry, pale skin of his forearm; the lavender of the winding veins just below said skin untouched
But looking oh, so inviting.
He studies how the dry, rough, pale skin of his bare, overturned wrist goes stark-white for a second before being flooded by the red.
He relishes in the liberation, the freedom, the twisted relief that this gives him, throwing his head back and pulling his front teeth over his bottom lip, inhaling a ragged breath.
He swears that it must be the cure, although no amount of lost blood seems to push the sinful dreams from his mind.
The dreams of him committing forbidden acts with a forbidden parter.
And enjoying it.
The dreams, the vivid, erotic scenes that his subconscious concocts that leave his tangled, cotton sheets and the fabric of his sleepclothes ruined and his mind in denial of what the dreams are telling him.
He tries to ignore the details that probe his mind throughout the duration of the day.
He fails.
He blames it on the disease, the one that the fucking fairy Hummel has obviously infected him with via his penetrating glares.
This is a lie.
He knows that.
Yet he still believes it.
And the cycle repeats.
And when the lightheadedness overpowers the lust of the dreams as the blood drains, he's sure he's almost found the cure.
Perhaps just a bit more.
He can spare it for that feeling.
That almost-blissful feeling of only being able to concentrate on staying conscious and nothing else.
So he lets more flow.
And more.
Its an addiction.
He can not stop.
He needs the feeling.
The current slices are not draining fast enough.
He can still think.
He needs the cure.
Each drop of the thick, red fluid is an abomination.
In the nucleus of each individual cell resides a disease.
The thick, crimson, diseased fluid floods from a fresh opening.
Just below his Adam's apple.
It's a flood.
It carries the disease away.
That is what he thinks.
At least, in the dwindling time he can think.
He believes that it's working.
The numb sensation is blissful.
He can't feel.
He can't feel the tingling, toe-curling, erotic sensation that the sinful dreams gave him.
The nameles, faceless, flat-chested, forbidden body.
He can't feel the partner's strong, calloused hands gripping his triceps with a force that no female could ever exert.
He can't feel anything.
Anything at all.
He can't taste.
He can't taste the thick, warm, white, bitter fluid that left his mouth salivated and longing when he woke up morning after morning..
He can't smell.
He can't smell the phermones that shouldn't give him that heady feeling.
He can't smell the odor from the beads of sweat that form at the nape of the faceless partner's neck as they shudder in the midst of orgasm.
He can't hear anything.
He can't hear the deep, throaty grunts and panting breath that would drive him over the edge.
He can't hear.
Only a piercing ring that crescendos with each ounce of blood lost.
He can't see.
He can't see the evidence that he'd find every morning.
The evidence of the forbidden dreams.
The evidence that he couldn't hide.
He can't see.
Only black.
Everything is gone.
It must be the cure.