Takes place around episode 1x4
Warnings: Mentions of suicide, cutting, violence and harsh language
"You're disgusting."
Slam.
Blaine Anderson is thrown into the bed of lockers, handle crashing and burning into his too-delicate skin from malnutrition and stress. He pools himself on the floor, a heap of flesh and bones with a broken soul. A waste. They all take turns kicking, snickering and laughing.
He bites down a sob, curling in on himself like he has dozens of times. It's become custom now. He'll just wait for the bell to ring and gather his stuff up, go through class like an emotionless robot, only to go home and cry for hours on end. Maybe I'll do it today, he thinks.
—
I can do this. I'm okay. They like me here. Kurt breathes as he steps into the choir room. It's seemingly empty of contenders, that much is true, but it is filled to the brim with showtunes and friends, and it's everything Kurt wants right now. A friend.
Being on the football team was great. It boosted his self-esteem, shaped his thighs, gave him praise and helped him get some quality time with Finn. Quitting wasn't going to be easy, but he missed this. The ease and courage he carried here, like it's a whole different world. Out there, Kurt thinks, is filled with guns and spiteful words that cause his shoulders to shrink and his bravado to disintegrate.
In here, he can be himself without any worries. Sure, Santana and Quinn pick at his (closeted) sexuality at times, but Kurt knows they care. Knows that they won't really hurt him. Not like Karofsky or Azimio has.
His mind is then flood with memories of smelly dumpsters and meaty hands, pushing him and grabbing him. Memories of piss-stained lawn furniture taped to his house. Memories of rude words, of shoves and locker handles and the ground.
He shakes himself of the memory, staring at the empty choir room. If he wanted to be cheesy, he would compare it to an empty canvas. With every song, a new stroke. Every member, a new artist. It's great and he loves it.
This is it, Kurt thinks. I'm ready. I need to be myself. Kurt hikes his football bag further on his shoulders and heads to meet his dad back on the field where he's shmoozing up to Kurt's (soon-to-be-former) coach.
Tonight. I'll tell him tonight about who I really am.
—
Another loud sob elicits from the small, broken boy. He's curled up on his bed, stale with tears and sweat. His trembling fingers are wrapped around a pen, a tear soaked piece of looseleaf in his hand. Next to his bed are nearly hundreds of balled up wads of paper. He's writing it again, his note. Tonight, he thinks. Tonight I'll end it all.
He scrawls another sentence, before sighing and crumpling it up again, discarding it on the floor.
He gets up and opens is laptop, clicking on the 'facebook' icon. Maybe it's a bit masochistic, but I don't enjoy this, Blaine says under his breath. He just needs inspiration. Needs that push, a lewd comment that will convince him of his unworthiness so he can finally just end it. For the better.
He clicks on his profile. 'Blaine Anderson'. He internally blanches at the name. Why me? Why do I have to be me, stupid queer. I'm useless, disgusting, a-
"Fag." Barks someone from outside his window. An egg is splattered against his window, followed by nearly a dozen more. He hears chuckles and the sound of glass breaking. They're probably drunk, after all it is a Friday night and that's what normal high school kids do. And I'm not normal. I'm…vermin.
He takes that as his push, unballing yesterday's letter and in big, thick letters, writing "I'M GAY." on the back and straightens it out. When he's satisfied, he ghosts his fingers over the cuts on his wrist, closes his eyes, breathes in deeply before rifling through his desk drawer for that razor-the one that calls like a siren in a storm every second of everyday. It glints, teases him before he holds it on his wrist. He applies just enough pressure to break the skin.
—
He takes a deep breath. "And what I am is- Dad, I'm gay."
"I know." He smiles.
And all that pent up fear and nerves comes out in that shuddering sigh because his dad doesn't hate him. Doesn't kick him out, doesn't think of him any differently. He still loves him, is still his little boy. He's still just little Kurt, and he's still just his dad. If anything, this brings them closer together.
—
No. Blaine chants in his head, removing he blade from his skin and wiping away the faint trail of blood it left. A small mark to match nearly the hundred others. Some faded, some fresh. Symbolic of every day he managed to stay strong, fight off the demons on his shoulders and continue on. Maybe it's a sign,he thinks. Suddenly, his mind flashes to an image of an angel-blue eyes and beautiful brown locks. Plump, pink lips whispering, You're okay, Blaine. You're so brave, so strong. Stronger than all of them. You're meant to be here, you beautiful thing you. You'll know that soon, though. It'll hurt, but I know you'll make it through. You have to, after all you will save my life. Tomorrow's a new day, Blaine. You're better than them. Stay strong, gorgeous. It'll be okay. And just like that, the image is gone, his worries and self-deprecating thoughts washed from his mind for a moment's time.
Suddenly, "Blaine, honey I- Blaine?"
Light pools throughout the room, casting a dull spotlight on Blaine's pale, sunken face. Heavy bags beneath his eyes, pale lips and dull eyes. Unfortunately, casting light upon that note. That note that states who he is, and it's all his mom seems to notice.
"James, get over here." She says icily. "This…thing that we used to call our son is going straight to hell."
Blaine's heart stutters and stops in his chest, everything in his body washed with sadness and hate. Until he remembers, Tomorrow's a new day, Blaine. You're better than them. Stay strong, gorgeous. It'll be okay.
He has to stay strong. And he will.