A/N This one shot has been teasing the back of my mind for a while now. Trigger warnings apply for Homophobic slurs and mild violence. Other trigger warnings apply as well. Read with caution.
Reviews always welcome.
…
Shell
September, 2009
"Hey Faggot! Where do you think you are going?"
"Leave me alone." He replied, head down, and walking faster.
"You don't belong here! We don't want your faggy disease infecting our school!"
Rough hands grabbed his arms, more hands grabbed his feet. He screamed as he was lifted in the air. "Put me down! Stop! Why can't you just leave me alone?"
He felt ill as they carried him to the dumpster, laughing and jeering at him, calling him the worst kinds of names. He struggled, but there were too many of them. He thought he might throw up as they began swinging him before tossing him carelessly into the square receptacle. He screamed, but the sound cut off on a choking cry of pain...
…
He wandered down the hallway, as unheeding of anyone else around him as they were of him. He stopped at his locker out of habit more than by any conscious thought. The pretty dark skinned girl who always smiled kindly at him was there by her own locker, but she didn't seem to notice him today, in a rush to get to class as the tardy bell rang.
He didn't rush, just spun the combination on the lock, frowning when the locker wouldn't open. What ever. He didn't really need anything inside. It wasn't like he needed to use the hairspray to hold his hair in place. It was already a mess from the dumpster toss earlier.
He turned and walked to class. The teacher didn't even say a word when he slipped into his seat late, simply continued droning on about the war of 1812. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the ditsy blonde cheerleader looking at him. When he turned to look at her, she smiled sadly at him.
The rest of the morning continued in the same manner, no one even looking in his direction other than the strange blonde girl. He didn't speak at all, not even in French class, where he usually was the most chatty student, being nearly fluent in the language. The teacher didn't even seem to notice that he didn't speak up, though she did frown in his general direction a couple of times.
Lunch time came, but he wasn't hungry. He just sat in a secluded corner of the courtyard. That blonde girl, who he thought might be named Brittany, smiled at him again, that same sad smile.
He shrank back into the shadows, not really wanting anyone looking at him. Not that anyone really ever saw him anyway. He closed his eyes and listened to the conversations going on around him as he almost dozed.
"What is up with you?" a girl with a mild Latin accent demanded. "That's like the fifth time this week you've thrown up. What are you, bulimic?"
"I'm fine!" another girl snapped. "I told you, it's just a mild stomach bug."
They moved out of his hearing range. A moment later he could hear another female voice, this one more shrill and nasally. "Yes, dad, the auditions are this afternoon! I already signed up. I know, I love you too. And kiss daddy for me!"
He frowned. He'd forgotten the Glee club auditions were today. He'd put his name on the sign up sheet, but didn't feel like going anymore. What was the point? Just another excuse for the jocks to torment and abuse him.
Speaking of jocks, he could now hear the quarterback talking frantically to someone else.
"And we just left him there! That isn't cool, dude! What about his parents?"
"What did you want us to do, bro?" Another voice answered. He recognized it as belonging to one of his other tormentors, the one with the Mohawk, he thought. "There was nothing we could do. Do you want to end up in jail?"
Their voices faded off as they moved away.
There was still twenty minutes of lunch left when the sounds around him changed. The usual sound of chatter changed to hurried whispers, as some new gossip swept through the courtyard population. It sounded like static in his ears, and he could only hear broken pieces of it.
"..found in the dumpster..."
"...blood..."
"...been in there for hours..."
He really didn't want to hear about the dumpsters. He stood from his hiding spot, and began to make his way to the library. In the distance he could hear a siren approaching. As he passed the office, he heard coach Sylvester yelling at Figgins.
"I warned you this could happen! This is why we need to have a clearly worded rule on bullying! That poor kid..."
He didn't hear the rest as he continued walking down the hall. As he passed the teachers lounge, he saw his French teacher sobbing, and heard the Spanish teacher, Mr. Schuester, talking.
"What are they going to tell his father? That poor man has already lost so much!"
He kept walking, none of the students in the hallway even glancing his way as he passed, too engrossed in their news to notice.
"I heard it was that strange kid who always dresses weird..."
"That's what Kyle said! They say he's been there since this morning at the very least..."
His heart seemed to be beating erratically for some reason, and suddenly he felt a pain in his chest. He forgot about going to the library, staggering to his locker instead. He tried again to open the lock, but it wouldn't open. The pain in his chest amplified.
He wanted to go home. He needed to see his dad.
"The police are saying it was deliberate, but I think he did it to himself," he heard someone saying. "I think he just had enough and killed himself."
Who were they talking about?
"But he was found in the dumpster! What, did he just throw himself in there?"
Who was found in the dumpster? Why did he suddenly have a terrible feeling? And why was there so much pain in his chest all of a sudden? Was he having a heart attack?
He staggered out of the school, trying to make it to his car. He saw the flashing lights of police cars and an ambulance near the dumpsters. A crowd of students was gathering, growing larger by the minute.
A pick up truck pulled into the parking lot and squealed to a stop near by. The crowd concealed the driver as he jumped out of the still running vehicle and pushed his way through the crowd.
Terror filled him as he drew nearer to the crowd. He had to see. He had to know. But he didn't want to look. A sense of dread overwhelmed him as the crowd seemed to part for him, just as a scream tore through the air.
"My son! Oh god! They killed my son! My Kurt! They killed him!" The man fell to his knees beside the body, scooping him up, holding him close as he sobbed.
No. It couldn't be! He wasn't dead. He was standing right here! He wanted to shout at his dad that he was right here, that he wasn't dead, that that boy he was holding wasn't him.
But the boy was wearing his jacket, the Marc Jacobs one he'd just bought last week. And that was his second favorite hat laying there.
But that was impossible. He was right here!
He looked down at himself as the man continued to wail in despair. He was wearing the exact same outfit as the dead boy. A large hole gaped in his white shirt, that wasn't white anymore. A large crimson stain marred the fabric, a large piece of glass protruding from his chest.
"I'm sorry," a voice whispered softly beside him. He looked at the blonde girl standing there. She smiled sadly at him. "You died this morning. It's just taken you this long to notice. You were probably in shock. It happens sometimes when death comes suddenly like this."
He looked at the crowd around them. "They can't see you, none of them can."
"I'm not dead!" He said, softly to the girl. She looked at him with pity. That mad him angry. "I'm not dead!" He shouted, and ran forward, needing his dad to look at him.
"I'M NOT DEAD!" He screamed. He stumbled and fell beside the larger man holding the boy to his chest. Sitting up, he found himself staring into sightless glasz eyes.
He screamed in denial.
…
April, 2014
He woke up screaming, thrashing, tangled in his blankets. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not dead!" He sobbed over and over.
A hand reached out and caught him before he fell off the bed. "Babe, calm down. It's just a nightmare!"
The familiar voice relaxed him some, but it still took him several minutes to calm down enough to look at the other man, those beautiful hazel eyes looking him over with concern.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I think the stress is just getting to me."
"Hey, it's okay. I understand. It's only been a week since the attack. After everything you've been through, you're bound to have nightmares. Do you want to talk about it?"
Still trying to stifle his crying, Kurt lay back in bed with his fiance. "It was just a stupid dream..."