Fuck him.
He caused it and he ended it.
Arthur fucking Anderson. The great lawyer. The perfect father. The man whom the community respected. No one knew the man behind the facade.
But Blaine knew. Blaine knew all too well. Arthur fucking Anderson was a homophobe. Arthur fucking Anderson hit his kids. Arthur fucking Anderson pushed his son to the edge.
And then Arthur fucking Anderson couldn't even let his son do the one thing he most wanted; to die.
So Blaine was there. In a hospital. His arms restrained. His room stripped of everything but the TV mounted to the wall. The walls were clean and white. His hospital gown blue and loose. A glass of water next to his bed, tempting his thirst.
Blaine Anderson felt his stomach lurch again, still vulnerable from having been pumped. He recalled the pale blue pills he had forced down, and his stomach leaped again. He wouldn't do that again. He couldn't do that again.
As much as Blaine wanted to die, to escape all of the troubles of being an Anderson, there was no way that he would be able to try again. He couldn't stand pain or the sight of his own blood; it had been shed too many times. He couldn't bear to be found hanging from the ceiling and hearing the crunch of the neck snapping before he died. And now the pills failed; not leaving a single trace of what he had done. He strained his neck to examine his arms and legs and found nothing. No mark left from his attempted grand finale.
With no clock in the room, Blaine wondered what time it was. The room he was had no windows, for fear of someone jumping. He tried to return to sleep, but the pain, both mental and physical, was too much. He lay there crying.
Crying on and off for what seemed like days, Blaine could find no other solution to the emptiness he felt. The pit in his stomach grew larger. The sorrow stronger. He had heard people say that they were "all cried out," but that was not true in his case. Even though dehydrated, he could not stop.
"Crying again I see."
Blaine's head shot up. It was his father.
"That's exactly what's wrong with you. You're too soft." Blaine couldn't even muster an answer for his father's ignorance. He simply looked at the man through his tears.
"Grow up and act like a fucking man. You think real men try this shit?" Blaine stared at him blankly.
"Look, I have this covered. I told your headmaster that you fell and broke your leg. Just clean yourself up and no one will ever know about the crap you pulled. You'll come home, I'll hire an agency and we'll get this gay shit out of you. Even if I have to do it myself."
Blaine wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. His tongue was dry and the knot in his throat was growing larger. All of the hate and anger would not unfurl itself. His hands balled into fists. The restraints grew tighter.
But his father did not notice any of this. Why would he? Arthur fucking
Anderson was too busy trying to buy a perfect son. Blaine bit back the tears that were approaching, not wanting to cement his father's idea that he was weak because he was gay. He watched as his father sighed at the teen's silence. Arthur fucking Anderson shook his head, mumbled something about the trouble Blaine was causing, and left in search of the nurse to get discharge papers.
A couple of hours later Blaine rubbed the red striations left by the restraints. His wrists were raw from tight bounds that had grown tighter from his movement.
The pain and fear that had been there when Blaine had decided to take the entire bottle of aspirin was still present. His heart pounding just as hard as before. The pain radiated from his chest into every conceivable part of his body. The fatigue was in every joint. The sorrow was felt in his toes. He couldn't go home. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't go back to the way he was living.
All he wanted to do was end this misery. It was too much to bear. This feeling affected every aspect of his life. His shoulders drooped when he walked. He kept his head down when he talked. He avoided phone calls and let his school work pile up on his desk. From the time Blaine was a small child, he had always been told that he would go to Harvard. Now it looked like he wouldn't be able to get into the local community college.
"So, Mr. Blaine Anderson, how are you feeling today?" The teen looked up at the doctor who had appeared while he was deep in thought. He paused for a moment, the lies at the tip of his tongue.
But then he did the thing that would cement his fate for the next three months.
He grabbed the knife off of the hospital tray that had been left there a little while ago. He held it to his wrist and shuddered.
"If you send me home, I will kill myself. "
