Mothers Day
Summary: Kurt reminisces about a moment in his childhood that changed everything.
AN/ I've decided that Kurt's mother was German. Just 'cause he has a German name.
WARNINGS: Possible OOC, but he is younger in the story, first Glee fic, so I warn you, it isn't very good
Con-crit very welcome.
Kurt remembers his mother quite well, even though he was fairly small when she died.
She was very beautiful, and he remembers singing famous songs with her and dancing around and taping themselves, and feeling completely free.
He remembers singing 99 Luftballoons to her on her hospital bed, when she was too sick with cancer to move. Even though he hates that song now, considering the fact that no kid wants to sing a depressing ditty about nuclear war to their dying mother.
He also remembers her funeral clearly.
Everybody who came cried and gave beautiful eulogies. Well, almost everybody.
He didn't cry a single tear, and everybody wondered why. They looked at the immaculately dressed eight-year-old and wondered why he wasn't sobbing his heart out for his lost mother. It would only be right to do so, after all.
But he didn't, and he knew his father was ashamed (he ashamed his father a lot, and would continue shaming the man, and he knew that, and vowed that someday it would change, bu it probably wouldn't, he would forever be a disappointment, who was he kidding?). Crying was considered a sign of weakness by the man, but not when it was right to cry, not when it was the accepted thing to do. He didn't cry during the wake, either, just sat there, staring straight ahead, shaking hands and accepting hugs, hearing the same old spiel over and over again...I'm so sorry...Your mother's with God and the angels now...
He remembers being bitter about that. So the angels needed her more than me?
He remembers hearing people talking to each other.
Look at her little boy, it's such a shame he doesn't have a mother now.
Poor thing.
Poor dear.
I wonder if he understands what's going on, he's so quiet.
I'm sure he does...
It's so sad.
Petra was so nice.
That night, the night of the funeral, the night of the wake (which he thought was ridiculous, like some kind of morose reception, and he was so much better than all of those weeping people anyway because he stayed strong. Back then he still didn't realize the difference between strong and cold), he watched a movie. It was called Chicago.
He watched it seven times the next three days.
It was after that seventh time that he saw it that he thought he should ask his mother about it, and maybe she would watch it with him.
Then he realized she wouldn't.
He cried a few tears, and then began to full out sob.
And he just sat there, a little eight-year-old, in front of the blue screen of the television and cried, and the sounds he made echoed through the big, empty house.