Hey readers! This is the beginning of a story I had an idea for, and I wanted the first chapter to show Kurt's past and what his life was like, so this chapter is him as a child. I will probably do a similar but maybe a bit shorter look at Blaine's life around this time at the beginning of the next chapter, then go straight into the teenage years when they meet. Klaine AU in which Kurt and Blaine were switched at birth.
PS- Their first names are magically the same. Please review at the end!
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.
Many years ago in Westerville:
As Kurt's frail body hit the cold, harsh tile of the kitchen floor, he knew he wouldn't last much longer if his real secret got out. Harold's Anderson's muttered curses and threats faded away slowly with his clunky step, each stride an obvious reflection of his mood. Only hesitating until the room was completely silent, Kurt pulled himself off the ground and pulled his knees to his chest. It was his way of protecting himself, while still being in a position comfortable enough not to be pressing on any of his existing bruises. He didn't want to endure any more pain than had already been induced.
His father, however, didn't feel the same way.
At the age of seven, what should've so far been the happiest year of his life, Kurt Daniel Anderson had experienced a number of beatings higher than what most children his age could count to.
If only his mother wasn't so oblivious to Harold's perpetual rage, maybe that way she would stay home often enough to notice his growing quantity of bruises. He was pretty sure she didn't know. How would she? For the seldom times that she was within proximity of he and his father, Harold would paint on his 'everything is okay' smile and feed her blatant lies from his hand. And that was all she had time for before she would strut back out the door, her dark curls practically flying behind her. Unless the so-called 'hug' she would grant Kurt before leaving counted. Which was usually more the kind of hug you would see between two celebrities who don't actually like each other than a mother and her seven year old son. They were empty and insincere, devoid of any emotion. Her embrace left much to be desired, but it was all Kurt had left.
Finally snapping back to the present, Kurt collected the remains of his strength and tugged himself upward, tightly gripping the countertop in hopes of getting more leverage. Despite the fact that his knees were still shaking like jelly, he managed to edge his way out of the kitchen, maintaining his grip on the marble counter along the way. He was just about to purloin his coat from its brightly coloured hook and sneak out through the back door when a sound from the living room told him otherwise. Frozen in place he stood, waiting for his cue to stay or to go.
"... And the score in our seventh inning here is..." An announcer's voice boomed. The pale boy allowed a sigh of relief to escape. False alarm. While his father vegetated on the couch, becoming more and more engrossed in the television by the second, a window of opportunity was opened for Kurt. Or in this case, a door, which he promptly pushed open into the cool fall breeze. The old hinges squeaked in complaint, but thanks to his slim body and the agility that comes with childhood, he squeezed through the tiny opening with no trouble. Making sure to close it behind him, Kurt hopped down the cement stairs, not daring to touch the splintering wooden handrail.
You would think that growing up in a rather high-end neighbourhood and a rich family, they could at least afford a better back way out of the house (especially considering how grand the rest of the building was.). But no. Mr. Anderson was a stingy man, a modern day Scrooge in many aspects: he believed not spending his money on others was the best way to hold on to it, and showed affection sparingly as if it were a non-renewable resource. Everything he had and was could be described as two words: harsh and businesslike, and that included his abode. It was a roof and walls, a fancy shelter, but not a home.
Not to Kurt.
With a last backward glance at the foreign, hostile place, he whipped his head around to face the wind and strode in the only direction he knew. Past houses and happy families he walked, dry leaves crunching under him with every one of his footsteps. He rounded corner after corner, gradually escaping the winding and familiar maze. And at last he saw it, the light at the end of the tunnel. Just beyond the metal gates that barricaded the neighbourhood from outsiders sat a modest-sized playground, Kurt's ideal hiding place on the dark days so often occurring in his world. Hesitation was not an option. He needed to get to that place, he craved the sense of security it provided him with. No time could be wasted. Adjusting his coat to give his neck better coverage, he sprinted directly to the side of the gates and slipped between the post and a nearby tree.
Now he was free! Ignoring the wind gnashing at his cheeks, , his legs broke back into a run, all the way to the swing set. Limbs as thin and wiry as his had no issue lifting him onto the first seat. Having made contact with it, he wiggled his bottom into a comfortable position and fumbled for the chains it was hanging from. He began swinging, sticking out his legs and curling them back again to gain height. This was a technique he had learned unwillingly. After all, he never had anyone there to push him.
Across the playground, he could see other children and parents, exchanging hugs, laughing and generally carrying on like families should. Kurt didn't even realize he had sighed until he felt the warm air rushing from between his lips. Throughout his childhood, he had always wished for more. More forgiveness, more love, more of a family than his abusive father and ghost of a mother who was more like a distant relative to him. Although he supposed she was better than his father, not the father he once had, but the constantly angry beast he had come to recognize over that course of the past two years. Kurt was still confused as to what he did to unleash this monster.
He had always been a good boy; he never talked out of turn or picked fights, he was an excellent student at school, and he smiled a lot, despite the fact that inside he was crying out in agony. All he knew was that one day his daddy came home with a stony expression and an empty bottle in hand, grumbling nonsensical generalities to no one in particular. It was still blur in his mid, nothing more than a fuzzy image of himself curled up in a foetal position sobbing and clutching his wrist. And now that was his life. You know, tear filled nights, hasty escapes to the park and waking up each morning to do it all over again as if everything was okay. His situation at school was a marginal improvement- he always had his guard up, which made it difficult for anyone to know who he truly was. But that was fine with him. He was used to being alone.
He took a quick glance at a few other kids on the playground, now seemingly miles beneath him. A shy little boy was sitting near the tire swing, watching a pigtailed blonde swing on it, pushing with her legs between giggles. His mother seemed to think he wanted to go on the tire swing, but Kurt's uncanny ability to read people taught him better. It wasn't the tire swing he was interested in but the person using it, although Kurt couldn't claim he understood why. His mother and father had always told him that girls like boys and boys liked girls, and that was the way it should be. But he just... didn't. He thought that girls were nice, and he didn't have any problems with them. They just didn't have the same appeal to him as boys. Of course, he wouldn't dare tell anyone. His dad would probably call it abnormal or freakish or one of those other words Kurt wasn't allowed to say, and it would end badly for the both of them.
Kurt watched in envy as the little boy wobbled over to his mother, begging to be brought home. Take me with you, Kurt wanted to cry out, even though he knew perfectly well it was no use. The sky above was already beginning to darken, and he couldn't be late for dinner if he valued his safety. One... two.. THREE! he counted in his head, leaping off of the swing set and gliding into the sand below. He stood up, dusted himself off and put on a brave face as he started his journey back to his own personal nightmare.
Review and let me know what you thought! Till next time!
