Tension was thick in the air as the clock ticked down the seconds until three o'clock. Even the teachers seemed to be on the edge of their seats. This was it. The last day before Spring Break. And Kurt couldn't be happier to leave the halls of McKinley.
The bell signaling the end of the day sounded more like a choir to his ears than the tinny clang it was, and Kurt bolted from his seat, desperate to be the first one out the door. He needed to get to his locker and grab his things as fast as he possibly could. His dad was picking him up from the front lot this afternoon, and they were going to spend the rest of the day together, working on cars at the garage and talking about nothing in particular. Guy stuff. Kurt loved times like that, when he could just hang out with his dad. It was the only time he really felt connected to the man, like he was a Hummel and not just the queer kid with the fancy scarves.
He bounced through the halls against the flow of traffic, books clutched tight to his chest, desperate to get to his locker. He hated the grease and the coveralls he had to wear when they worked on the cars, but he loved the feel of an engine under his hands. He loved putting cars back together from their wreckage and listening to them purr.
He was so lost in his thoughts of engines and motors and grease-slicked parts that he didn't even feel his shoulder slamming into the locker until the loud smacking sound hit his ears. He crumpled to the ground in shock before the pain actually hit and his books fell all around his feet, flying open to reveal their white, fluttering pages, and crashing to the ground like birds hit by stones.
Students kept walking by, their shoes kicking up his assignments and leaving dusty footprints behind on his things. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the tearing of paper, and he closed his eyes. Those were the school's books, not his, and now he'd have to pay for repairs or god forbid, replacements. There was a roaring void in his mind that consumed him. Just distance yourself from it, Kurt. You're not really here. This isn't really happening.
The laughter really wasn't helping, though.
"Look, guys. The fairy tripped himself. I thought they were supposed to be light on their feet."
Just let it go, Kurt. Water off a duck's back. These numbskulls will work for you someday, remember that.
There was more tearing paper, but Kurt refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to see, he didn't want to know. He'd just pick up the pieces when they were done. He'd just tell his dad that his teacher kept him late for an extra credit project or something, and pay for the books from his allowance and maybe some extra hours at the garage. He'd just tell his dad that he was saving up for a new jacket or something that would only be on the shelves for a short amount of time or something along those lines; he'd come up with something believable.
Keep it cool. They won't hurt you while all these other people are around.
"Dude, what the hell is that?"
"Jesus, look at this. It's like a freakin' pride parade in here. With hearts and rainbows and everything."
That had to be his English notes. The class was far too easy, so Kurt spent most of his time doodling in the margins of his notebook in highlighter and various colored pens. They weren't anything good; he was far from an artist, but it wasn't full of hearts and flowers like some prepubescent girl either. They were just sketches. Of buildings and people from his memory. Nothing special. Just something to pass the time.
And, contrary to their constant jabs and insults, Kurt was not gay. He was just a little more in touch with his feminine side, thank you very much.
So he liked fashion and things, big deal. He also liked cars. Loved them, in fact. That was a manly thing, right? And girls were all right. They were easy to talk to, at the very least. He just hadn't found one yet that fit his ideal. She'd be tall and fit, with dark hair and little dimples in his, no, her cheeks when she smiled.
Breasts really weren't his thing, but that just meant his was a leg man or something else like that. Plus, girls didn't like short guys, right? Kurt was definitely short. And certainly not muscular like Noah Puckerman or full of boyish charm like Finn Hudson. It wasn't exactly like Kurt was the most desirable guy in school.
Sure, he'd thought about a few guys like, well, like that, but that didn't make him gay. Everybody had thoughts like that every now and again, according to all the books he could find and a few in-depth searches on the internet. It was perfectly natural to have those kinds of thoughts, and it didn't make him queer.
Besides, he couldn't be gay. It would just kill his dad. Kurt couldn't possibly do that to him, not with all the crap he already had to deal with. It was the exact same reason he hadn't told the man about the escalating torment at school. It would worry him too much, and it wasn't like there was anything anyone could do. It was just another thing to stress about, and Kurt didn't want to be a burden. He loved his dad too much for that.
The hallway was emptying out, judging from the lessening number of shadows passing in front of his eyes and the quieting of the white noise of teenage chatter and footsteps against the tiles. Laughter still echoed in his ears, and he couldn't tell if the bullies were still hanging around to taunt him or if he was imagining things. Someone was definitely shuffling paper around though, and he cautiously opened an eye, bracing himself for Puckerman or Karofsky to be standing there in front of him, shoving his colorful doodles in his face.
It wasn't.
Crouched on the ground a few feet away, picking up his discarded papers was a large black girl. He recognized her from his French class. She sat in front of him. Her name was Michigan or something similar. Something starting with an 'M,' he knew that much. He'd never spoken to her before, so he couldn't be sure what her name was without asking; she usually hung around the other black kids at school, completely out of his social circle.
He edged himself away from the wall and quickly gathered the things scattered about his feet into his bag, not really caring about order at this point. His dad was probably waiting for him outside right now, and the papers could always be rearranged later. He didn't really have time to waste. The girl hadn't stopped picking things up, though, and it made him rather uncomfortable to watch her scrabble around on the floor after his things.
"You don't have to do that, you know," he mumbled quietly to her, not bothering to look up from the now torn pages of his Biology textbook.
"I know," she replied.
That made him pause, and he fell back on his haunches, fixing her with a hard stare. "Then why are you still here? I'm sure you have better things to do."
She looked up and he retreated a bit at her glare. "Look, do you want me to help you or not?"
He averted his eyes and didn't say anything as he picked up a few pens that had rolled out of his bag when he hit the ground. He didn't need another enemy to add to his rather extensive list.
He saw her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. "No wonder you don't have any friends."
"What?"
She scooted over to him and handed him a ruffled stack of papers; notes and things that had been torn out of his binder, from the looks of it. "You're kind of a jerk, you know that? It's no wonder people don't like you." Her face was a mask of disapproval, and Kurt felt himself bristling. Who the hell was she to tell him how to act? She didn't have any idea what it was like for him, what these assholes did to him day after day.
He scowled and snatched the papers from her, a bit more violently than he'd originally intended. "And I'm sure you have tons of people falling over to be your friend," he spat.
"No, but I'm also not an ass to someone trying to do me a favor."
He closed his eyes and sighed as he grabbed the last book from the ground. She was right. He was being a jerk to her when she was helping him out. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just—it's March, and I don't think anyone's been nice to me at this school until now."
She stayed there for a moment, completely still, as though pondering something, before pushing herself to her feet. Kurt followed her example, and stood there awkwardly, silent and full of shame. He pulled his ruined books close to his body. "Thanks," he murmured softly. "For the help, I mean. I really appreciate it."
She smiled at him. She has a really nice smile, Kurt thought before her hand was suddenly looped around his arm. "Which way?"
"What?" He was still in shock over the unexpected contact.
"Which way?" she repeated. "I'm sorry to say that if you wanted the south entrance, the buses are probably gone by now."
"Oh. Um, no. My dad is picking me up today at the front."
"Awesome. My dad should be there too." She checked the colorful watch strapped to her wrist. "Well, in fifteen minutes, but still. I'll walk you there."
"Are you always this," he paused, searching for the right word, "forceful?"
She laughed lightly and he startled at the sound. "Honey, you have no idea. Oh, I'm Mercedes, by the way. Mercedes Jones. I don't think I ever introduced myself."
He smiled. Her skin felt warm and soft in his own. He'd forgotten how it felt to have someone other than his dad touch him without hesitation or revulsion. It was nice.
"Kurt," he said. "I'm Kurt Hummel."
He only saw Mercedes sporadically, but those short moments could make his whole day worthwhile. They often passed each other notes and partnered up in French class when they were allowed. Kurt had forgotten how nice it was to actually have a friend, even if she was probably more of an acquaintance than anything.
But that didn't mean that he felt safe. Far from it. Thank god he had the tendency to actually look at his food before he put it into his mouth or he'd probably end up with a mouthful of glass or something. He wouldn't put it past anyone.
It was the second week after break. He was fully caught up in all of his homework except for History, which only required some light reading. He opened up his new book and ran his fingers over the smooth pages. Might as well enjoy the crisp newness of his book; he was paying enough for it.
He been exceedingly careful with his money, and his dad hadn't yet found out about the disaster that was his textbooks (his bag had done wonders to hide the torn mass of paper and binding), though it wouldn't be long now. The bill was going to be sent home any day now, and there was no way he could afford the amount he now owed to the school on his own. Kurt sighed and cursed his bullies. His dad was sure to ground him for this.
Goodbye allowance. Goodbye freedom.
He'd had a long, embarrassing conversation with the lady in charge of the book room the day he'd come back from break; she'd taken one look at the sorry state of his books and gone incredibly pale. Kurt had been certain that she was going to vomit all over his shoes.
The novels for his English class had been mostly unharmed, so he hadn't bothered to take those down to her for inspection, and thankfully, his Math book was salvageable, but he would have to pay for new binding and some page repairs. Nothing too big. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for his History and Biology texts. Those would have to be replaced. And at over a hundred dollars apiece, Kurt was going to have to ask his dad for help. Thankfully, they let him check another set in return for the mangled remains of his old books. The bill would be sent home by the end of this week, and Kurt had been diligently watching the mailbox, praying it wouldn't come.
He ground his forehead into his palm just thinking about it. This really wasn't fair, but he couldn't prove that he hadn't done the damage himself by tripping over his own stupid feet or roughhousing with the damn books while school was out, and of course any of the boys responsible would deny it if he pointed any fingers.
He shuddered and glanced around the cafeteria to make sure they hadn't moved from their spot over near the windows. No, still there. If he accused them of anything, they'd just up the ante, and things were bad enough as it was.
He sighed again and deflated, pushing the sorry excuse for mashed potatoes around his plate. He really should start bringing his own lunches. That or eat nothing that was pre-prepared. He rarely ate anything from the lunch line, and really, he was just wasting his money here.
The clock read that there was another five minutes or so before the next bell. Kurt snapped his book shut and pushed away from the table. This was stupid. He couldn't concentrate here anymore, not with his tormentors standing not thirty feet away with no walls or glass between them. Adult supervision in the cafeteria or not, he didn't trust them to leave him alone.
He gingerly placed his book inside his bag and grabbed his tray from the table. The pile of untouched food on it was depressing. He'd pack a sandwich or something tomorrow. It wasn't worth the three dollars and change for food he wasn't going to eat.
He carefully deposited the remains of his lunch into one of the trash cans, casting not-so-discrete looks over his shoulder at the gaggle of jocks in the corner. They didn't seem to notice him, but if anything that made him feel more uneasy. Perhaps they had something big planned for later—they'd left him alone for the most part today, and he wouldn't put it past them to have something set aside for after school or tomorrow just before the weekend.
He scampered out of the cafeteria as quickly as possible. He needed to get to his locker. The sooner he got that over with, the sooner he could escape to the relative safety of a classroom.
It wasn't hard to pick out his locker from the endless line of them in his hall. The faint shadow of the word 'fag' was still there. Just like last year, the word wasn't coming out without a new paint job. The school probably wouldn't bother to pay for that until a parent complained or something when their son or daughter bitched about it at home next year or the year after. Kurt sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. The word was going to come back anyway, and his dad had enough on his plate right now as it was.
Kurt could handle this. He'd handled it for years on his own. It was just a little bullying.
The lock spun easily in his fingers as he plugged in his combination. 0-32-6. Same as always. He swung open the door and quickly checked himself over in the tiny mirror he had hanging inside. Everything looked to be in place. He'd done a good job fixing himself up after his morning dumpster toss, and really, that had only messed up his hair.
He let himself crack a tiny smile. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe things would start getting better, even if only marginally. He reached back for his blue notebook. Math was next. He could sit outside the classroom until the bell rang. His fingers caught on something unfamiliar. Like a folded sheet of paper. Odd. He didn't remember putting any loose papers in his locker, folded or otherwise. He pulled it out, curious.
It was a neat little square of regular printer paper. His heart skipped a beat. He never used printer paper unless a teacher required a paper to be typed. Oh god, that meant that someone must have slipped it into his locker. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears now as he turned it over in his hand. It was blank; no name or any indication that it was from anyone in particular. There didn't seem to be anything inside the paper either, so hopefully a razor blade or something wouldn't fall out into his hand when he opened it.
His fingers slowly picked at the edges to unfold the thing. He held it away from his body, just in case. His bullies weren't exactly the smartest bunch, but they could be creative when they wanted to.
He fell against the solid metal wall of lockers as soon he saw the crude drawings to keep himself from falling to the floor.
Instructions. The drawings and scribbled words in unfamiliar handwriting were instructions.
Detailing exactly how he should kill himself.
Do the world a favor and get rid of another fag.
He crumbled the thing into a tiny ball and shoved it as hard as he could to the bottom of his bag as he tried to keep the tears at bay. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't tell if the bile coating the back of his throat was from fear, outrage, sorrow, or what. He really didn't care anymore. He just wanted to go home.
He hastily grabbed the rest of the books he'd need for the day; he didn't want to have to come back here. He'd never been more thankful to have a late lunch in his entire life. You've only got two more class periods, Kurt; then you can go home and get out of this hellhole. You can do this. Just two more classes.
The note weighed heavily in his bag as he walked, and it felt as though everyone he passed could see it. Of course. He should have known. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before.
Why don't you just go off yourself?
Do the world a fucking favor.
No one needs another fag.
They'd just never bothered to put it in writing before.
Kurt managed to skip out early from his last class of the day with a well-timed bathroom break. There would be hell to pay for it tomorrow, but the note was burning too hot at the back of his mind. He hadn't been able to concentrate anyway. Why bother with schoolwork when his life could very well be at risk?
He was the first onto the bus, and once again, he fervently wished that he had his driver's license. Maybe with his own car he wouldn't feel so vulnerable, so exposed.
He didn't even remember the ride home; everything was a giant blur. It was too hard to concentrate wit a threat hanging over his head. He kept glancing at the kids he could see from his seat. They were talking, laughing, carrying on like nothing was wrong. How could they just sit there and be so fucking normal when he could hardly sit still without wanting to burst into tears. His stop couldn't come fast enough.
He had to try extra hard to keep from running his usual loop around the neighborhood. He took a different route than usual today, even going so far as to slip around through the apartment complexes nearby to be absolutely sure that no one was following him.
His face was cherry red and his eyes burned as he unlocked the door to his house and stepped inside. Oh god, they were getting to him. He was becoming paranoid. He couldn't keep living like this. It hurt too much.
He went through the motions, calling his dad as always, let the man know that he'd made it home safe. It didn't help that his dad had picked up on the shaky quality to his voice.
"You sure everything's okay, Kurt. You don't sound okay."
"Yeah, dad. I—actually, there's something I need to talk to you about, but I need to talk to you in person."
"Is someone picking on you again? 'Cause I can—"
"No, dad. It's fine. Nothing I can't handle. I just…there was an accident. With some of my books. And I need to talk to you about it when you get home."
Kurt swore he could hear his dad's expression darkening. "Kurt…"
"It's nothing big. I'll talk to you about it when you get home. I'll see you later, all right? Don't worry about dinner. I'll come up with something for tonight, okay? I'll talk to you later." He knew his dad wanted to continue the conversation. He had to know that Kurt was deflecting, but the immense rush of relief that came over him when his dad didn't push the matter was worth it.
"Okay. I'll see you when I get home. But don't think that we're dropping this, Kurt."
"I know, dad."
He moved mechanically to the sanctuary of the basement. His bag hung heavily on his shoulder, like it was full of lead instead of books and paper. He dropped it to the floor with a loud thud and collapsed into the chair in front of his vanity, jamming his face into his hands.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this anymore. It was too fucking hard.
He knew that crying was bad for his skin and that the sobs that were coming now were going to coat his face and hands with tears and snot and god knows what else, but he couldn't hold it back anymore. It wasn't fair. What the hell had he done wrong? What was it about him that was so fucking threatening?
He bent down and shuffled through his bag until his fingers wrapped around the crumpled wad of paper at the bottom. He unfolded it and looked at the words and pictures glaring back at him in red pen.
Do us all a favor.
Why don't you just kill yourself?
He looked up at his reflection. God, he was a mess. Note or not, he had to get himself together or his dad would suspect something. He always seemed to know when something was wrong even if Kurt wasn't sitting alone in the basement crying his eyes out.
Get it together, Kurt. You can handle this. They didn't actually hurt you. You're going to be fine. Just get yourself together. Everything's going to be fine.
He smoothed out the paper as best he could. Evidence. It was evidence in case he wound up in a ditch somewhere. They'd know that it was premeditated then and not an accident.
He sucked in a deep breath and lightly slapped his cheeks. Focus. He needed to focus. First, he needed to fix himself up. It wouldn't do to look like he'd just been hit by a car when his dad came home. He opened the drawer of his vanity and froze.
The black plastic handle of the knife stared up at him, and he forgot to breathe.
The knife. He'd completely forgotten about it. He gingerly picked it up. The blade was still out; he'd never bothered to close it after he'd stolen it from his father's bookcase. The metal gleamed in the dim light.
A knife. He'd never thought of it before. He tucked the blade back into its cover and clutched the thing to his chest. A knife. A knife would keep him safe.
He unzipped the smallest pocket of his bag and tucked it inside.
Just in case.
Author's notes: Arrgh, quit messing with my format, you stupid site. Stop adding things in and taking things out. It's really getting irritating.