This just sorta came to me earlier today. Originally I was working on a prompt, but I got some writers block, and… this happened. Not sure if I'll continue it. We'll see what happens. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it (:

A Life I'll Never Have

The gentle hums and vibrations of the tumbling machine behind his back nearly lulled Kurt Hummel to sleep, right there, on the floor, in the middle of the Laundromat.

They probably would have, in fact, had it not been for the three low beeps emitted from his watch when the clock read 7:00 pm.

Right on cue, Kurt reached into his old-fashioned, beige backpack and retrieved a small, bright orange canister. He unscrewed the white lid (scratching up the palm of his hand a little as he did, as the cap was a little faulty), poured two tiny, white tablets into his hand, then closed it back up and dropped it back into his bag. Ruefully he stared down at the tablets in his hand, hating himself for being like this. "It's not your fault… You didn't ask for this… Everyone has obstacles to overcome, and this just happens to be yours…" from his father, his step-mom, his doctor, his brother, over and over again, every day… but it never made things any easier. If anything, it made him more indignant. And he couldn't help but hate himself just a little more every time he asked himself, Why me?

Why me?

He sighed, heavily, and decided, Not tonight. No pity parties tonight. He brought his hand to his mouth and tossed back the tablets, then snatched up the water bottle by his side and washed them down.

They were supposed to make him feel better. But every time he felt those two little white disks tumble over his tongue and down his throat, he felt worse. Sure, they lessened the anxiety attacks. True, they almost completely washed away the tendency he had of contemplating his reasons to live. But, at the moment when he swallowed them, for the time being, they just made everything worse.

Kurt slumped against the dryer, and pulled his book back into his lap. The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Why he had chosen this one, of all the books he had strewn around his tiny apartment, he did not know. Nor did he really care. But when he thought about it, he felt that perhaps he just wanted something to take him back to when things weren't so complicated. With these, he was an 8-year-old lying in bed in his old house, curled up next to his father, who would read to him until he fell asleep, blissfully ignorant of all the torment the future had in store…

He quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. No pity parties tonight, he reminded himself.

He opened the book.

"Snow White." He knew this one well. Though, now that he was older (but still, only at the ripe age of twenty-one), he couldn't understand how he had once been so happy that the dwarves found Snow White before she died at the hands of the Queen and her poisoned lace bodices that he had not stopped to think, "Stupid girl… why would you open the door? The dwarves told you not to…"

And he could not understand how he had once been so overcame with the romance of the young Prince wanting to take Snow White's glass casket so that he could gaze upon her beauty even in death that he had not stopped to consider, "So basically, the Prince is… a necrophiliac…"

And he could not understand how he had once been so happy that the Evil Queen was dead and gone in the end that he had not stopped to imagine, "What a way to die… being forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes until you literally no longer have the will to live… if Snow White is so merciful and good, why would she torture the Queen so much? Why not just behead her and get it over with…?"

It was often shocking, even to Kurt, just how much his perspective on everything he saw, heard, and read had changed over the past few years of his life. He tried blaming it on his inactive frontal lobe, his lack of norepinephrine, his shortage of serotonin… but in the end, he could only blame himself. Even though, according to everyone around him, it wasn't his fault.

Hardly processing a word of what he read, Kurt realized he was already two pages into "Snow White." He made a mental mark of where he had left off and let his head rest against the trembling machine behind him, just taking a moment to himself.

The Laundromat was relatively quiet. A few customers here and there, the low rumble of the machines, the static of the radio that seemed on a constant loop of hits from the 1990s, and the little bell that sounded whenever a customer would enter being the only ambience.

He sat, legs folded into a pretzel, on the sea-green linoleum floor in the center of a long row of washers and dryers. He was the only one on his side, but there were two or three people on his opposite. A couple yards down on his left, there was a young girl – couldn't have been older than seventeen – lying flat on her back on the floor, a folded-up hoodie for a pillow, reading a book Kurt did not recognize. Subconsciously, she bobbed her head back and forth in time with whatever song was streaming through her large, sound-cancelling headphones.

A few yards from her there was a man, probably in his late twenties, who popped into the aisle every once in a while to check on his load, then went back to the front of the store and hoisted himself onto the cashier's desk, where the two of them spoke in low, casual, conversational tones. They were probably friends.

Kurt's eyes wandered back to the girl, then several paces down the aisle to his right. Sitting in a pose similar to his own was another young man, this one, Kurt guessed, a little older than himself. He had dark, unruly curls, a hard, defined kind of face, and big, expressive eyes that were scanning across a message of some sort on his iPhone. He smiled slightly at whatever he was reading, then turned his phone sideways to type up a response, slouching down just a little bit against the dryer behind his back, tumbling his load.

Kurt just watched him, sitting there, typing on his phone, completely relaxed, face looking so serenely expressionless… and he wished he were him. He just wanted to be one of those people he passed every day on his way to work, or one of those people in line in front of him at the grocery store, or one of these people, right here, in the Laundromat, like that boy to his right typing on his iPhone, who were just regular people. People who didn't have so much to worry about, so much to regret, so much to fear for the future…

Why me?

He'd never know. All he knew was that he wanted to be that boy, over there, with the dark hair, and the big eyes, waiting, without a care in the world, for his clothes to dry. He wanted his life. The normal, normal life that Kurt would never have.

Blaine felt himself beginning to smile when he read the text from his brother, and it was the most unusual feeling.

Because he hadn't smiled in days. Days. And it was so unexpected, and his mind and body had become so unaccustomed to the feeling, that it had actually become foreign.

I love you, bud. I'll always love you, even if they don't. I know it feels like you don't have anything right now, or anyone, but that's not true. I'm here, okay?

He wanted to cry. He could feel his stomach tightening and tears threatening to fall, but he refused to let them. He had cried far too much in the past few days, weeks… he had to stop. So he focused hard on the smile that had somehow formed on his lips, despite everything that had happened to him, despite feeling so lost and useless and completely alone. He felt it, felt the way his muscles tightened and wouldn't let it fade, and he just kept smiling until he felt his face fall back, not into sadness, but into a relaxed kind of state, with no expression at all.

He flipped his phone sideways and replied.

Coop… you have no idea what that means to me. I love you, too. I'll call you tonight.

He sighed heavily, then slid his phone into his old, worn messenger bag, and pulled out his book and a thermos of hot chicken broth (to help with the searing sore throat he'd had for the past week and a half, partially due to illness, partially due to yelling).

He stretched his legs out in front of him and laid his book (Girl, Interrupted, which he'd already read twice) open on his lap, reading leisurely past his bookmark as he unscrewed his thermos, brought the brim to his lips, and took a few sips, allowing the steaming liquid to soothe his aching throat. It also, however, made him aware once again of how torn and shredded and overexerted his voice and throat were at the moment, which brought back painful memories of the night before, as well as each preceding night, for at least the past week and a half.

Why his parents cared so much about what he did with his own life, he would never know. No matter what career path he chose, they would remain virtually unaffected by his decision. Unless, of course, it was about pride, about bragging rights, which he wouldn't put past them. He knew them better than they gave him credit for, and he knew that they were the kind of people who wanted to be able to say that the next Anderson was pursuing a career as a surgeon, a legislator, an attorney, or better yet, following his brother into the family business.

He really never thought it would be so hard to just say, "No." Deep down, he knew the day would come when he had to, and he knew his parents wouldn't have found it ideal, but he always figured they would just accept it and move along.

But no. Of course, there had to be ramifications. There had to be consequences, speeches, lectures, admonishments, there had to be drama, there had to be shame, there had to be that fucking lack of basic logic that his parents had been pulling on him since the day he could talk, that "because we said so" routine that was just so unbelievably immature and used that Blaine wanted to pull out all of his hair in frustration.

Every time the soup seared his throat, he felt as though he were screaming once again, as if heightening the volume would get the message through the brick wall that there had always been and would always be between himself and his father.

He set the thermos next to his bag and sighed, still, refusing to cry. He glanced down at the pages of his book, and tried to move forward, but found eventually that he just couldn't. Not tonight.

So, he set it aside as well. And he sat, staring down at his hands in his lap, just thinking about how badly he wanted all of this, everything, to just go away. He wanted to be one of those people whose parents actually cared about their happiness. He knew people like that. He had friends like that. Friends whose parents didn't disown them for following their own paths, pursuing their own ambitions. Parents that weren't his.

He wanted to be one of those people who just sailed through life because everything was simple. He wanted to be in someone else's body, in someone else's head, and feel their emotions. Not his. He was tired of his. He was exhausted and didn't want to have to deal with it anymore, but it just hurt so much knowing that no matter how badly he wanted it or how hard he wished for it, he would never get someone else's life. Anyone else's life. Anyone but himself.

While there had been chaos in his head, Blaine realized he had hardly moved an inch. He was just staring, staring straight ahead at the empty washer and dryer in front of him, face probably expressionless, eyes a little tired, if anything.

And when all the drama in his mind finally faded away, he let his eyes wander, almost in slow motion, down the aisle, until…

Him, he thought. Why can't I just be him?

Him, the pale-skinned boy with light brown, wispy hair who was sitting a little way away from Blaine, on the opposite side of the aisle, his face as peaceful as Blaine had ever seen anyone's as he read…

The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, Blaine could just make out in small, silver lettering on the back of the aged copy.

Him. Who was probably reading old fairytales, just for the nostalgia. Because he enjoyed them. He who was free to do what made him happy because his parents let him, because that's what his parents wanted for him. He who probably didn't have a worry in the world, who was calm, and collected, and without that sickening feeling in his stomach that bubbled higher and higher every time a new obstacle threw itself in his way.

But that will never be me. That's his life. That's a life I'll never have.

Again, not sure if I'll continue this as a two or three part piece, but we'll see what happens. Let me know if you have an opinion either way (: