Title is from "The Ghost Of You" by My Chemical Romance.
Please heed the trigger warning: suicide attempt and mentions of rape.
Tumblr is here (endofadream)
To Blaine (7:23PM):
Hey, are you okay?
To Blaine (7:25PM):
I just wanted to make sure you're holding up.
To Blaine (7:30PM):
I'm sorry.
Every message that Sam types out is deleted in one smooth motion, and the blinking cursor leaves him a little more frustrated each time. He and Kurt had left the coffee shop a few hours ago, and since then he's been staring at his phone, a blank text open with Blaine's number on the receiving end. But he has no idea what to say.
Which is ridiculous—Blaine is his best friend. They've talked about everything that they possibly could before, and never once has either of them been at a loss for words. This is what frustrates Sam most of all: he can't even be there for Blaine. In the face of it, while it was happening, he was, but since then there's been something halting him, keeping him away, and it makes him feel sick.
He knows it's because of what happened, where Blaine is now and how differently he behaves. In the choir room, Sam had held on to some fantasy that when it was all over things could be okay. Some part of him had dulled down the horrible reality of it all, made it part of the quotidian. He, like everyone else, had wanted to believe that it wasn't what it really was.
And now Blaine is changed, leaving Sam terrified that he's lost a best friend, and, more than that, an amazing person. It's why he can't visit Blaine and hasn't yet—he's scared of what he'll see. He'd only actually seen Blaine for maybe twenty minutes in school, most of it during his panic attack, and that had brought back the memories of the shooting, had made Sam feel so physically ill that once he'd called Blaine's mom he'd left, huddled in a corner stall in the boy's bathroom for half an hour while he retched, his body shaking with horrible dry heaves.
It's selfish. That's the conclusion he's come to after hours of staring at the ceiling. It's selfish to be like this when Blaine has ten times the reason to be falling to pieces. No one else in the club is behaving like this—but, then again, no one else in the club has bothered to go see Blaine, either.
Sam's stomach wrenches and he grimaces, rolling over on his bed and curling in on himself. He'd done what he could in getting Kurt down here, but even that doesn't seem to be helping. If anything, Sam chances a guess at it making things worse.
You're bringing in his ex-boyfriend at the lowest point of his life—of course it's making things worse. Blaine had already blamed himself for everything and this won't help him heal.
But what else could he do? He knows—he thinks—that the best thing is to let Blaine work through this on his own, give him independence and not tell him that it's going to be okay. That was as far as he'd got, at least, when researching, and he can kind of see the reason for it.
His mom had offered to pay for counseling, and Miss Pillsbury had asked all of them individually if they'd like to meet with her after school for a few weeks, but Sam had refused both offers even though most of the club was at least seeing Miss Pillsbury. Now, though, he's beginning to regret it: sleeping is hard, and concentrating is even harder. He keeps reliving that afternoon, but he tells himself that it's just because the memory is still fresh, that it'll go away with time.
Sam closes his eyes, swallows past the bile in his throat. He just wants everything to be back to normal, wants it to be Wednesday morning when he'd met Blaine as his locker and everything had been okay. He wants his best friend back, wants to not look at all his friends and see the echo of pain that will always be there from now on. He wishes that he wasn't a coward.
The funny thing about wishes, though, is the selfish amount of want in them.
Blaine doesn't want to be here.
The therapist, a woman in her forties with neat, graying-brown hair and a kind, well-lined smile, seems nice enough, but Blaine had seen her split-second surprise when it'd been him in the waiting area outside her office, knows exactly what she's thinking: it's a boy? It had been what everyone had been thinking in the hospital, when he was in that godforsaken room (too many memories, so much good and now so much bad pain pain flashes of what he and Kurt used to be and it's like torture) unable to stand.
It's a boy how could it be a boy boys don't get raped—
Blaine hadn't needed to hear it to know it was buzzing in the rooms like a pesky, pestilent fly. He knows its presence is here now as he grips at the thighs of his jeans, fusses with the rolled-up cuffs with the side of his Sperry's. It's the first day he's bothered to actually look presentable, but it's a front, a comfort that he needs if he's going to go out into public. His cardigan is cozy, over-warm for this time of year, but Blaine curls into it, drags the soft fabric over his body like a cocoon, a cage of wings to protect him from the outside world.
The couch he's on is long, a comfortable, worn-in brown leather that creaks when he moves. The office is small but breathable, and behind him is a neat set of bookshelves stacked with heavy, official-looking books and ceramic decorative cats. The window to his right is tall, opening to the bright blue of the sky outside and the spring-green leaves on the trees.
The therapist—Dr. Beaumarchais, Blaine reminds himself—clicks her pen and smiles. To anyone else it's probably friendly, reassuring, but Blaine eyes her skeptically, arms wrapped tightly around his torso. His fingertips rest on the yellowing, fading pain of his bruises and he grits his teeth, closes his eyes.
"So, Blaine," Dr. Beaumarchais says. Her voice is soft, gentle, and lightly accented. She crosses her legs, her chocolate brown pencil skirt hugging her thighs tightly. She's wearing a pair of sensible but stylish heels. All of this Blaine takes in as he counts his breaths, counts his heartbeats, and wonders how long he's been in here already. It feels like an eternity and yet not at the same time. "How are you today?"
Blaine laughs, harsh and barking. It's been a week, officially, and Blaine still feels like he did in the first seconds of the aftermath. His bruises may be fading but the flashbacks aren't. "My mom pays you to ask me that? Anyone could ask me that."
Dr. Beaumarchais doesn't react to the barb; she merely smiles, nods, and says, "That's true, Blaine, anyone could. But do they?"
No. Blaine opens his mouth, then shuts it and shakes his head. He draws his legs up, sits Indian-style and hunches so his elbows are resting on his thighs. The rug is a thick, fluffy white like the sheepskin rug at the foot of his parents' bed. The track lighting overhead gleams on the mahogany floors.
As much as Blaine hates to admit it, she's right: no one but Kurt has bothered to talk to him, to even try and glean what he's feeling—and he knows he's being uncooperative, he does, but asking every once in awhile doesn't help.
"That's what I thought." The pen scribbles across the notepad. Blaine still stares down at the floor, his mind a jumbled mess of incoherent, half-formed thoughts. He can feel the horrible faint edges of another panic attack and tries out the breathing exercises the nurse at school had told him.
"What are you feeling right now, Blaine?"
Blaine breathes in, out, slowly and deeply. He focuses on the oxygen going through his nose, the long, slow exhale through his mouth. "Like I don't want to be here."
Breathe in, breathe out.
"And why don't you want to be here?"
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
"Because I don't need to be."
Sharp pain bites through Blaine's thoughts, and he loosens the tight grip of his hands on his legs. Dr. Beaumarchais is quiet for a few moments, her brown eyes intent as she studies Blaine. The scrutinous attention makes Blaine's stomach twist uncomfortably.
"I know something bad happened," she begins slowly, "and I know that for a boy your age who's already so confident in himself this is hard, but you can't just brush this aside if you want to heal." A flash of pain flits across her face, deepening the creases momentarily, before it's gone and she straightens up, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.
Blaine shakes his head, bites his lip. He feels the sting of tears and closes his eyes angrily, turning his head to the side and pressing his chin against his shoulder. His back hunches as he draws his head down, his fingers gripping tightly at his cardigan as he wraps his arms safely around himself again. There isn't anything to discuss: he was chosen out of all of his friends and was raped because he deserved it. He came because he liked it.
"I don't want to talk about it," he replies, his voice small and childlike.
"You need to talk about it," Dr. Beaumarchais presses gently. "Blaine, none of this is your fault. "
Blaine's tried so hard all of his life to be strong, to keep a brave face no matter what. When he'd found out he was gay, he never let anyone know that he cried himself to sleep every night before he told his parents. When he'd been attacked—both times—he never let anyone see just how much he was hurting, how much it hurt him to be treated like that. He's always just told himself that sometimes the darkness has to get bigger before it gets better. And, for awhile, it had: Dalton and the Warblers and then Kurt, and despite nearly losing his eye Blaine had been happy, in love, and it hadn't gotten to him like it would have if he'd been at his old school—because he finally wasn't alone, wasn't constantly searching for that missing factor in his life.
And then he'd screwed it all up.
He doesn't want to deal with this anymore—the looks, the whispers, the pitied glances and the avoided looks in the hall. The choir room is dark, unused. There isn't a soul in the school who doesn't know. It feels like his entire life has become a reality show and that all of his secrets are just spilling out and spilling out in a ceaseless tide.
"I don't want to," he says, trying to quiet down that horrible voice. You deserved it you deserved it you're disgusting filthy a pathetic excuse for a human being and you should just die already— "Nothing happened. I'm fine. I don't know why my mom made me do this, anyway."
He forces his voice into a careful monotone, one he's perfected over the years to hide his true feelings from everyone else. Dr. Beaumarchais eyes him skeptically and opens her mouth, but when she takes a peek at her watch her lips thin and her eyes narrow.
"That's all the time we have today," she says. She stands, holding out a hand that Blaine takes as steadily as he can. "I'll see you Friday, same time?"
Blaine nods, his jaw set. With any luck he won't need that second appointment.
Kurt's been sitting on the Andersons' front step for fifteen minutes already when Blaine's car pulls into the driveway. He puts away his phone and stands, mustering up what he hopes at least looks like a genuine smile—he's happy to see Blaine, but he's stressed and exhausted.
He gives Blaine a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal, and Kurt's stomach flips pleasantly when they part and he sees that Blaine's smiling, his eyes glinting in the late-afternoon sun. He's hyperaware of the weight of Blaine's hands on his back, of the familiarity of this position and its closeness, and he flushes, ducking his head and stepping a few inches back. "Hey."
"Hey." Blaine's still smiling, but there's something hollow, something robotic about it, even though he looks more normal than he has since Kurt got here. Maybe the therapy session went good, Kurt hopes as he watches Blaine unlock the door.
Once they settle down in the living room, Kurt with his laptop and makeup assignments emailed by his professors and Blaine with a book, it almost feels normal again, like it had before they'd become boyfriends. The silence, though it stretches on, is comfortable, and whenever Kurt looks up and catches Blaine with something akin to pained longing and—regret?—on his face he's treated to a genuine smile, the kind he'd never seen Blaine give anyone else.
"So how'd it go?" Kurt finally asks, looking up from the screen. "It seems like it went pretty well."
Blaine shrugs, turning a page. He crosses his ankles on the soft fabric of the ottoman. "It went okay. Hopefully I won't need many more. I kind of just want to be done already."
Kurt nods, worrying on his lower lip as he looks down. After his first two disastrous attempts to try and understand Blaine's mindset he's decided that the easiest way is to agree and not wonder. He trusts Blaine to tell him what he's really feeling, and he also trusts Blaine enough to know that he'll follow his heart and gut and know his own needs.
It's none of his business, really. They're not dating anymore, and Kurt's obligated only as far as a friend would go, but Blaine had been—still is—his first love, and Kurt knows that, no matter what happens and if they get together in the end or not, he'll never forget him.
"I'm glad," Kurt says sincerely, giving Blaine a little smile. "I just want you to get better."
Blaine eventually relocates to the couch and sits on the opposite end of where Kurt is. He turns on the TV and Kurt puts away what's left of his homework and they sit and watch trashy reality TV like they used to. Kurt misses the warm, secure press of Blaine's body against his and yearns to runs his fingers over Blaine's hair, but he takes what he gets and prefers this over the screaming, inconsolable Blaine.
"I'm kind of tired," Blaine says when Real Housewives of Orange County ends. He turns, gives Kurt a playful pout that makes his heart twist painfully at the memories that look brings. "And my dad will be home in a half-hour, so you can leave if you want."
Kurt purses his lips and eyes Blaine skeptically. "I don't know…are you sure you're okay? if you're feeling bad I don't want to leave you."
Blaine shakes his head, runs a hand over his hair and fixes his cardigan. "I'm fine. Honestly. The session just wore me out and I really want to sleep it off."
Kurt sighs, stands. "If you're sure."
Blaine follows suit, steps over to Kurt and hugs him tightly. When he pulls back he presses his lips to Kurt's cheek, and the warm, damp press of them sends tingles down Kurt's spine. His eyes widen, and he stares, dumbfounded, at Blaine.
"I'm sure," Blaine replies, smiling.
As normal as everything had been, and as much as Kurt had felt like he and Blaine were back in their old element, when he pulls away, Blaine waving from the front step, Kurt can't help but feel like he's made a terrible mistake.
Blaine is steadfast in tying the rope, his fingers shaking even though they work quickly. His eyes are strangely dry, and for once his mind is clear and calm. The piece of paper he'd left out is blank, and the pen next to it is still capped. His phone is off and thrown onto his bed. A hook is still drilled into the ceiling, leftover from when the basement was being renovated and his punching bag had been relocated into his room, and it's there that he places the stool from his parents' room.
He checks the rope he'd found in the garage, tugs on the knots to make sure they're tight. He'd lied a little when he'd told Kurt that his dad was coming home in a half-hour—he'll actually be home in an hour—but he swallows back the guilt, shakes his head and tells himself that this is for the best, that this is what he needs.
He's sick of hurting; of feeling like everyday is a struggle, a fight against himself and what he refuses to come to terms with. He's been strong enough to handle bashing, hateful words, and friends turned foes, but this is beyond his reach, has injured him in places that won't ever heal.
Once Blaine would have died for his friends, for his family and for Kurt, but now he wants—needs—to die for himself, to end this nightmare, to stop seeing the stares and hearing the whispers and knowing that he's never going to be the same person again, no matter what he does.
The stool is sturdy when he steps up onto it, and the rope is smooth as she slides it around his throat. He remembers Karofsky, flashes back to the conversation he and Kurt had had afterwards, how they'd both promised to always be there to never try and do that no matter how bad it got.
Now Blaine laughs, and it echoes in the openness of the room, in the silence of the house. It reminds him that he's alone, that he did this to himself, that, in the end, he has no one.
He feels the first tear finally slip down his face, and he closes his eyes and whispers, hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Kurt."
He doesn't hesitate when he kicks away the stool from under himself.
Kurt's car isn't in the driveway when William Anderson gets home an hour earlier than usual, but he doesn't let himself panic over it: Kurt's a trustworthy kid, and more than likely he'd just left early for whatever reason and William doesn't blame him if he did. He knows that he and Stella are asking a lot of him, but they also both know that it's for the best. Kurt is who Blaine has always opened up to, and despite their recent troubles William hopes that this can mend what they've broken.
"Blaine?" he calls out when he steps into the kitchen. He sets the mail onto the counter. "I'm home."
There's no reply as William walks through the kitchen, through the living room. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, peers up into the second-story landing. His brow furrows, and though he tries to calm himself, tries to tell himself that he's just overreacting, his heart begins to pound. "Blaine?"
Still no answer. William grips hard onto the railing as he climbs and takes the steps as steadily as he can. Blaine's probably sleeping—the therapy session had probably just exhausted him, that's all. That's why Kurt's not here. Or maybe Kurt is and they're both just sleeping. William's sure Kurt has been sleeping as poorly as Blaine.
Blaine's door is slightly ajar as William stops just outside of it. He swallows hard, takes a few deep breaths. It's okay, it's okay. There's nothing wrong, everything is fine. He's just asleep. He has to be asleep.
William pushes the door open, staggering back. His hand flies to his mouth, and a choked sob rips from his throat in a guttural, primitive cry. Bile rises up, quick and fast and burning, and he feels his knees quake, feels his legs threaten to give out and drop him to the floor. The rope still creaks slightly on the hook, and it's a few seconds before William realizes that he's speaking and sobbing.
"Blaine, god, Blaine, no, please not this, son, no. No, no, no, nononono—"
Everything's a blur after that, Blaine's body warm in William's arms, the rope creaking and quaking as his pocketknife saws quickly through it. He easily hefts Blaine's weight over his shoulder when the rope finally gives, and he eases the noose off, eases Blaine onto the floor and doesn't pay attention to the red line around his neck. He checks for Blaine's pulse with trembling fingers, hovers his palm over Blaine's slightly parted lips for breath.
Faint, stuttered gusts of air—he's still breathing.
