It will get better
Chapter Two
By Kurtofsky4eva
A/N: I had not ever planned to continue this but I got a couple of PMs in which I was begged to do Denise Karofsky's side of the whole thing, post 'On My Way'. Here it is and please, please, guys, review and let me know if it's worth continuing, okay?
Disclaimer: I do not nor will ever own anything Glee; you know who does.
Journal Entry:
My life is a sepia landscape with dollops of color.
C'mon, David, how gay can you sound? My life is like a dull painful sensation, like a toothache that's pretty annoying but occasional moments of peace or agony are like splashes of color. There's burnt orange for the happy moments (few though they are) and an eye-searing red for the agonizing moments.
Burnt orange: It's a glowing, delicious color and I see it mostly when I'm talking to Kurt. It reminds me of that moment just before the sun sets and it's all red and orange before the purple streaks invade it and then the black closes in. It's beautiful and when I hear his voice on the cell phone I close my eyes and pretend.
Yeah, I pretend I'm with him somewhere beautiful where those colors surround us in the evening. The best part of that dream is that we would have spent the whole day together and the burnt orange signifies the transition to night. What that night would hold I can't even think about without my heartbeat speeding up.
God, I sound like a twelve-year-old girl! Or what I figure a 12-year-old would sound like because I have no freaking idea about anything. It would have been easier had I been born a girl but then I would have been one butt-ugly girl. Not like Kurt: he could have been born a girl and I don't know if it would have made a difference. He is beautiful.
Kurt Hummel – my victim and my crush. How pathetic is that? It's a good thing this Journal is private. I'd die – well, feel like dying anyway – if anybody read this word-vomit.
I'm pathetic. I know I shouldn't say that; that's what my counselor says. I shouldn't reinforce negative thoughts or words but I really do. Feel pathetic, that is. Even if Kurt has forgiven me, I don't think he could come to love someone like me – sweaty, chubby, bald by thirty.
Extraordinarily ordinary. That's me. I could get a tattoo but my dad would probably kill me.
As to the red, the painful moments that make me wish my dad had been too late, they don't come often but when they do they leave an afterimage.
My mom – that's the red in my life now.
I don't know what to say to her and I don't think she even wants to talk to me… or look at me… or remember that I'm her child.
I think I embarrass her. All her friends at church know about what happened; hell, it was all over Facebook and at school, just all over. She says she can hardly show her face in this town and I can see the resentment, the hurt I've caused her because of my 'sinfulness'.
I tried to talk to her; I tried to tell her I didn't choose to be this way. She stared at me as if I were a stranger she was forced to be polite to and that look hurt more than if she'd got mad and cursed me out. I could have dealt with that, I think. I just can't stand when she looks at me like that. I'm not her son anymore. When she talks to dad she says "your son". If we were millionaires or something she would have written me out of the will, taken away my inheritance.
I'm a disappointment, a shame and a disgrace. God, I don't know how many of those clichés I've heard over the last two weeks. The red bleeds over me when we are in the same room and I don't know how to ignore it, how to build a dam to hold it back or something.
My dad, though, he's like this really great blue color. I can't quite pin down what shade it is but it has a little red in it making it more interesting than just azure or aquamarine _
No – aquamarine is Kurt's eyes. I can't think about that. I'm not allowed to because he would never_
But my dad is great, though I can't say what that color he is but he's been there for me every step of this crappy existence. If he hadn't been here, him and Kurt, I don't know what I would have done. I have to tell my dad I love him and that he makes me feel better just being there. We don't say much but it's like I can feel his love for me, it's just he's a macho guy and saying that stuff is too sissy for us. We're guys, we don't go around saying pansy-ass stuff like that.
But I will tell him one day though, just not yet.
End Journal entry
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"Does he know you're reading that thing?"
Paul Karofsky jerked at the sound of his wife's cold voice. He tightened his grip on the blue-covered Journal and swallowed his tears. It took him a minute before he was composed enough to answer her, his voice cool.
"If you say anything about it, he might never be 'healed'," he said, his mind choosing the right word for his religious zealot of a wife. He thought of her that way, religious, not Christian. There was a distinct difference and many people didn't realize that. He knew the Bible himself and he knew that haters would never meet Christ's standards. And his wife was a hater. She hated her own son and she was too blind to even see it.
Denise Karofsky sniffed disdainfully at her husband's reply. David was fighting the healing she was praying for every Wednesday and Sunday with her church sisters. They all looked at her pityingly and she knew, she just knew some of them were wondering if it was her fault. Maybe she had babied him for too long, eh? Maybe she hadn't been firm enough. Maybe, maybe, maybe… the word just kept running around in her mind, tormenting her with her past actions and decisions, making her second-guess her every interaction with the boy.
How could a son of hers, a God-fearing woman, be… be… uh, she couldn't even say the dratted word!
And there was his father, sitting on that bed, holding that Journal and weeping like the weak-kneed fool that he was. Maybe it was his fault; maybe he hadn't been a manly enough role model for their child. It was probably his fault not mine, she thought, a red haze of anger descending on her.
She spun on her heels and left the room, that man and that God-forsaken journal. She tried to calm herself; it wouldn't do to show anger, it wasn't godly and she was nothing if not a godly woman.
Heading into her bedroom she sat herself down and reached for her Bible. Lord, don't let that boy's sinfulness be laid at my feet, she prayed. I did everything right, you know that! It won't be my fault that he's going to hell; if You must blame anyone, blame Paul. I did nothing wrong. Nothing.
Her Bible fell open to an often overlooked section, her eyes widening as they fell on the words. Her heart quaked as she read the lines:
One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: "Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment.
And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."
Denise Karofsky was no fool: this was a sign. She had always used this particular method of finding Scriptures to suit or help in a situation she couldn't handle. Now, it had happened again but this time, she had clearly been in the wrong. She had been wrong and not just that, she had wronged her husband and her son.
The tears came, slow and painful as she clutched the book to her. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Who she was apologizing to was unclear in her mind; she just felt the overwhelming need to say it: I'm sorry…
Dave, having come up the stairs had been trying to tiptoe past his mother's room. He hadn't wanted to draw her attention; he couldn't take the coldness around her when they met. Now, though, he stood in the doorway watching his mother clutch her Bible and cry and tears came to his own eyes.
He turned away to his room, trying not to make a sound but he couldn't hold back a sniffle. She really hated him and now he'd made her cry. Man, he just couldn't catch a break!
Suddenly, a small, quavering sound reached him and he froze, ashamed of the wetness on his face. His shoulders tensed but he didn't turn around until the second time he heard it…
"Davey?"
The End… Maybe
A/N 2: For those who need to look it up, the Bible quotation is from Matthew 22: 35-40, New International Version. Personal observation: not all church-goers are Christ-lovers, for real. Drop me a line if you agree… or even if you don't.
