bury me in flowers
Once, seven years ago in a dusty small town, Kurt allieviated the usual boredom of a friendless night by downloading the recently released Veronika Decides to Die. He had sat through the whole thing stiff-backed and blank-faced, but his favourite part was when Veronika neatly placed the pill bottles in a line, click-clack-click. At the end, Kurt pulled out a very private journal and went to the most well-worn page and wrote in a careful script, noticeably at contrast with his twelve-year old scrawl, p.s. take pills? Maybe, just maybe, he had missed the point of the movie, but he didn't really care.
Kurt Hummel was determined to die and no sunrise, however uplifting, would change that.
ooo
"Breaking news! For those just joining us, we're here at Broadway sensation Kurt Hummel's apartment building. An ambulance took a body away not that long ago, and most sources are confirming that it is Kurt himself. Police have declined comment, but the general consensus today is a murder, a terrible crime that would take away so bright a star -"
"It's so sad." His wife sniffled. "Remember when we saw him sing? He had a beautiful voice, beautiful. Who could take that from the world?"
Her husband patted her knee, nodding in agreement. "It's awful."
"-we're talking to Kurt's neighbour, the one who found the body, he says Kurt had been acting normally all day-"
ooo
The detective, caught somewhere between fielding anxious calls from the Hummel family and searching the star's apartment, desperately wished for a cigarette and a coffee. This whole case was just tiring. He had been here all night, and the first rays of sunlight were breaching a wide picture window. The apartment was nice, one of those places that cost more than he was making in a year to keep and had a gorgeous view. At several points that night, needing a break from the pressure to find proof that Hummel had been killed despite all other signs, he would look out the window and wonder why off yourself when you had a view like this to come home too?
Overall, the kid struck him as a really sorry case - and that's what he was, a kid. Only twenty-three, from some hick town in Ohio, voice of an angel, talented in multiple areas, Broadway's darling, rich, successful, happy. Sure, the detective had worked more than a few cases like this, where you peeled the veneer back and found rot, but so far nothing. Depression or some other thing then. Shame. This kid went and pulled a Marilyn and nobody would believe it, just like nobody believed it with her.
At least Hummel hadn't been naked. That woulda broke the city. No, he was just dressed in an outfit that belonged on a catwalk somewhere, poised at his kitchen table with a cup of (cold) half-drunk tea, slumped down beside it with a series of neatly labeled prescription bottles in a line. One of those pale slim arms had been flung out, like a pointer, leading him down somewhere he had apparently really wanted to go.
Like that, the detective was struck by inspiration. He abandoned the view and moved back to the kitchen. The tech guys were gone, and the corpse was currently being toxed, but he hadn't forgotten the slump of that body. Hummel reminded him a little of his nephew, which was funny, because his nephew happened to idolize Hummel. Poor guy was definitely going to feel this one, so the detective resolved to find an iron-clad answer. Which was why he was so delighted to open the drawer Hummel's hand had been pointing towards, rifle through some neatly pressed dishcloths, and find an old worn diary.
Seems the kid had a flair for dramatics that wasn't just confined to the stage.
ooo
As each of the old Glee members heard the news, they would each individually recall with a kind of startling clarity a song they associated with Kurt. Hands wanted to be held, and nobody had asked f or this fame, and could this never end? As a sobbing Mercedes would tell her mother on the phone after seeing Kurt's face on her TV in an entirely unusual context, "It's not just that, that he was so t-talented, God mama, he just, he was my best friend, and he was talented at that t-too, I just - aren't there supposed to be signs? Don't they ... don't they try and say goodbye? Isn't that w-what best friends do? Why hasn't he said goodbye?"
ooo
What stuck out to the detective as he read the diary backwards was how easy it was to trace Kurt's growing happiness, to imagine that he knew him. Kurt loved fame, Kurt worked for it. Kurt loved fashion, Kurt designed clothes. Kurt loved to bake, Kurt wrote out recipes. Kurt was gay, Kurt had boyfriends he fawned over. Kurt could sing, so Kurt auditioned succesfully. Kurt hated Lima, Kurt escaped Lima. Kurt hated McKinley, Kurt escaped McKinley. Kurt hated life, Kurt escaped life - it just took a few years.
There was something endearing about that twelve-year old scrawl, trying so hard to be elegant but instead being childishly sweet. It was in direct contrast with the words, which left the detective taking a smoke break so he could soldier on. Depressed famous people killing themselves? He could handle that. Little kids planning to kill themselves? That shit wasn't right. The detective wanted to find that kid and give him a hug, tell him it would be okay. Because now, the only thing hugging Kurt Hummel was the tight hold of death and broken dreams.
I am 12.
My life isn't very good.
ooo
The neighbour would tell people the story for the rest of his life. Kurt Hummel. Famous guy, beautiful voice. He would sing all the time, and he was never stuck-up. Looked after my mail when I was out of town on business, helped me carry my groceries up stairs. Nice guy. You never would have guessed that not long after winning this huge award, he would down a bunch of bottles of meds. He told me he was going to be out of town, wanted me to water his ficus. Found him right over the kitchen table ... and I just knew, you know?
Funny, since you never would've guessed. Never in a million years. And in his will - he left me that ficus. Stupid thing, really. I think they're pretty ugly plants, and well, it just didn't seem right to keep it alive when the only one who loved it was dead. I let it die, just brown up and shrivel and then I left it outside with the big flower memorial outside the theater he was performing at at the time. I don't think his fans appreciated it very much. But hey, they didn't know the guy like I did. I lived next to him! And really, you never would have guessed.
ooo
"Burt?" Carole said quietly, joining her husband by the window. He was staring outside with that look she associated with him mulling over a problem that needed fixing. Her heart broke just that bit more, because this wasn't a problem that could ever be fixed. "Honey, we need to go now if we want to catch our flight."
They were going to identify and claim the body.
"Does it make me a bad dad?" Burt asked, not moving. Carole opened her mouth to assure him no, no, there were no signs, no reason but Burt continued. "That I always assumed that if I ever had to see his body, if that day ever came, it would happen in the Lima morgue?"
"No ... no, honey." Carole murmured, blinking quickly. Kurt always did encourage waterproof mascara, but Carole had never really gotten into the habit and god help her if Kurt knew she had went out in public with smeared mascara. "We thought he had gotten away from all that. We thought he was happy. We thought he would outlive us."
"Parents shouldn't bury their kids." Burt said simply, then abruptly turned to head toward the front door. Carole lingered for a moment by the window, guilt grabbing her feet because she wouldn't be burying her kid, knock on wood ... but that would be denying that she had loved Kurt like a son. And she had, she really had. And maybe he was dead because he didn't hear it enough. Was there any other reason?
ooo
I am 12.
My life isn't very good.
I get teased a lot, even though I know (and have been told!) that I am pretty awesome. Nobody can pair up fabrics like me, or perform, and I think I sound good when I sing. Still, life sucks. Really, really sucks. My mom is dead, and my dad doesn't know what to do with me, and I'm kinda friendless. There are a lot of mean words. So I've got this plan.
A really, really cool plan. Going to sign it in blood and everything.
When I become famous - and I will be famous, you can bet on that, I'm going to die. By killing myself. When I've fulfilled all my dreams, everyone will remember me, and realize how awesome I am. There won't be much of a reason to go on after that ... I know this sounds melodramatic, but hello, I'm meant to live and die in the limelight. All eyes on me, and never have to worry about being ignored ... or teased ... or bullied ... or hated ... ever again.
So this is my promise. No matter what, I'm going to do this, and I won't back out.
Promise.
- Kurt Hummel
p.s. take pills?
the end