A/N; OK, my story hiatus is over:3 this is my first attempt at angst and is completely un-beta'd, but anyway, enjoy! :)
" 'Leprechaun' starring a young Jen Aniston is my favourite movie, learned me two things. Number 1: Leprechauns like fixing shoe buckles because they are gay-.."
To think; that one syllable word at the end, so harmless, so simple on its own, could make Rory flinch, and make his heartbeat quicken quite considerably. Santana was standing quite close to him, her raven black hair almost sweeping his chest as she spoke, what if she could hear it? What if she had caught on? Santana could smell fear. In other words; he was screwed.
You see, when he'd travelled five thousand miles across the Atlantic ocean, he'd brought a secret with him. Something nobody else knew, and he was getting sick and tired of hiding it. Rory Flanagan was gay. He was sure, he tried denying it; that didn't work. He tried forcing himself to be straight, but that ended up just as he'd thought; in tears, his, and his ex-girlfriend's. He was ready for a new life in America, a break from the heartache he put himself through at home. Alas, no. Once he'd seen how the jocks and bullies dealt with their 'victims' here at McKinley, there was no way in hell he'd make HIMSELF a victim. So here he was, back where he started, lying to keep a secret.
Once Santana was quite finished with her verbal lynching, he had to go to class. All through History class, he just couldn't direct any of his attention towards the dull, monotone voice Mr Adgey, all he could think about was that one word, and all the heart-wrenching pain that it took to cover it up. He knew he couldn't keep it up, he wasn't strong enough for that, but he knew that it was best to hide it away for now, to enjoy just being 'Rory, the Irish guy who had a thing for Brittany', (although he knew she was a cover-up for the time being), before he automatically became 'Rory, the gay Irish guy who likes dick'.
He knew the one way that helped with this sort of ache, he wasn't proud of it and it made a bloody awful mess, but ANYTHING was better than living with this god-awful pain deep down in his chest.
As soon as he was home, he ran for the bathroom. He made sure to double-check he locked the door, even though he knew nobody was home yet. The young boy filed through the bathroom cabinet until he found the gleam of a silver razor. He closed his eyes and sat down on the ground, thinking back to happy, simple times. Times when he was able to run around, chipper and excitable, back before he even knew there were such thing as 'being gay'. He remembered back to the times when he thought he was normal, when he thought he was the same as all his other mates.
His eyes filled up quickly, tears over-spilling onto his pale cheeks. His heart was rapidly filling up with emotion, rising up through his chest and he sobbed harder and harder.
He couldn't hold on any longer.
He took the razor, closed his eyes and swiped it heavily down his forearm, relishing in the pain. He opened his eyes and saw the blood quietly dripping onto the ground. It felt so good, he couldn't help but do it again, only more heavy down his wrist this time. He looked down to see the torn, bloodied skin and he finally felt good about himself. He continued doing this for around 15 more minutes then stopped, washed the razor, wiped away the excess blood, and pulled his sleeves down over his wrists. He wiped away a couple of stray tears on his cheeks then got up, unlocked the door and carried on as if nothing ever happened.
