To make it easier on the eyes, the journal writings won't be in italics. Instead, there will be breaks when it changes from diary to present, from present to diary, and between diary entries. I don't want you guys needing super strong glasses like me.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. And I fear I bever will, unless it turns out I'm Ryan Murphy's secret daughter.
Rating Warning: Read at your own risk...
Previously on Gleephobia: You must be pretty lazy to actually read these things. On Blaine's birthday, the old New Directions came together and celebrated. While they did so, Felix stole Kurt's journal and brought it to Andrew's house, where everyone met on Thursdays. He presents it to everyone there...
They continued to stare, quite unsure of what to do with it. It was in exquisite condition; it almost seemed like a sin to touch it. Of course, someone had to. That someone was Jason.
"Hey! Don't do that!" Alex protested. Jason ignored her, flipping to the first page.
"I'll read it aloud. We only need to find what the hell's wrong with him." He cleared his throat. "September 2, 2018—"
"Oh my God, that was four whole years ago!" Julia gasped.
"Four years and five months ago," Miles corrected her.
"Yeah. Let me finish..."
I've never written in a journal before. It feels like I'm talking to myself. But Blaine said it might help. You know, writing down experiences. I guess I could try.
We just moved into a dorm! It feels like I'm finally getting to connect with real life again. We're going to become teachers. It's going to be so rewarding in the long run. I hope
"Blah blah blah, where's the juicy stuff?" Jason complained, flipping pages. Alex cried out in protest, but again he ignored her.
"Maybe we should read it in order, just in case?" Felix suggested. Jason grunted, moving on to the next date.
September 3, 2018
First day of classes was rough. Everyone stared and glared and jeered and jerked away when I tried to poke them. It was even worse in the halls. I know I'm not doing that again. I told Blaine as much (though he was there the whole time, and probably realized it on his own), and he relayed the message to the teachers. We now get all our lectures live as they happen, but from the safety and calming atmosphere of our dorm room on our laptops. I love technology.
Oh, right, I forgot. You're a journal! You don't know what I'm talking about! See, have this compulsion to poke everyone and say the word "Bink" whenever I enter a room with new people or whenever new people enter the room I'm in. I think Blaine's adjusting to that well.
Well, what do you know? It did feel good writing it down. Right now I have to finish this essay. It's not due until next week, but what else am I going to do with my life?
September 4, 2018
I wondered how they would get food to us. You know, considering I can't go to a cafeteria or grocery store. Turns out they actually thought ahead on that one! Food is going to be delivered to our dorm room door every week to keep us fed.
But they also thought ahead to my little habit of painting and setting up! They granted me the closet just across the way. Within fifty feet of the room, even! I'm going to go and start painting it now. The delivery guy from earlier even gave me some paint! Guess they don't want a scene.
By the way, "they" is the Board. I'm not sure what they're the Board of, but they're running the experiment that safely allowed me to leave the Ward. But I'm just a pawn. Blaine's just a pawn. The other patient and his (her?) keeper are just pawns. Like boxes in a cage. What's the point in the end?
September 6, 2018
Sorry about not writing yesterday. There was so much noise everywhere. I now officially hate Fridays. Everyone in the dorms go completely crazy and loud and make funny moaning noises. I asked Blaine what they could possibly be doing. He didn't answer. He really didn't have to, I'm not dense. But it was still the slightest bit of fun seeing him so uncomfortable. Even if it made me uncomfortable, too.
I think it was the first bit of fun I've had in a while. I could get used to it.
September 10, 2018
I've taken notice that these journal entries are quite short and have revealed very little. It's not that I don't trust you, I do. You actually seem pretty therapeutic. I just don't trust whoever could sneak in and read it. I wouldn't put it past any of those brutes who would like to call themselves students. It's a sad, sad day when a pencil is used as a... well... I don't want to talk about exactly what it could be and is used for around here. I feel sick. I'm going to stop writing now.
"This is taking too long," Jason said again.
"How about we choose random dates and see what the hell we get?" Carla suggested. Others nodded. "Alright, go to October 31, 2018."
I hate this. I hate this so much. It's not fun. It's not funny. We can't keep the door open with the door screen keeping the hallway out, like we usually do. Boys (and girls, even) run past with terrifying masks, thinking it's an exciting time. We had to close the door. I sat by the open window for a while, clearing my own nerves. Not a good idea.
They started egging the window I was sitting in. I wasn't hit, thank Gaga. They would've really heard a blood-curdling scream then. But our carpet was hit with one before I could close the window. I managed to get the stain up, but now there's nothing distracting me from this hellhole I'm in. I'm shut in a room. There's no way out. Blaine called it Cleithrophobia. I call it a new torture method.
It feels like the door is never going to open again. I'm going to go cry now.
"That was depressing," Carla admitted.
"I never thought of Halloween like that before." Andrew added, "Especially not what it might feel like to Mr. Hummel. I guess it could be kind of scary. And not in that usual, fun, Halloween-type way."
"Whatever," Jason brushed off. "Next date?"
"Christmas!" some chorused.
"Christmas Eve, first!" Julia suggested.
December 24, 2018
December 24, 9pm, Eastern Standard Time. I had to. I don't know why, but I had to.
Christmas Eve. Like every other day, isn't it? Blaine said something to me earlier today and it had me thinking. He said, "We are never alone. That is the message of Christmas." And it had me thinking into some Broadway plays. Into the Woods, mainly. Not well known, but it had a song entitled No One is Alone. And now I can't get it out of my head.
Is it true? Is someone on my side? I know for sure there are people who aren't. I guess Blaine's on my side. Yes, I suppose Christmas is a time to remember that we aren't alone. But Christmas can still be awfully lonely.
December 25, 2018
It's very peaceful. It's very quiet. No one in the dorms but us. Everyone went home to their families. I honestly don't know what became of my family. I should ask, shouldn't I? But I just don't want to know. I'm going to go paint.
"Any others?"
"Can we skip to 2020 Valentine's day?"
"What? Why?" Jason turned to Ashley. "Why not 2019 or something?"
"Because we'll be here all day!"
Jason flipped to the page. "No input for that day. I'll check 2019, anyway."
February 14, 2019
I don't know why I'm writing. I don't like today. They're making those horrible noises again, almost as if it was a joyous time. I'm trying not to hurl. I think I'm going to go sit in my closet. I finished painting already. Yes, the closet was that small.
"Hey, let's check my birthday!" Jason suggested. He flipped ahead.
"When's that?" Kyle asked dumbly.
"June 21! Represent!" he whooped. When he made it to the page, he stopped. "Man, no entry for 2018. Let's try the next year."
"Well, the diary started in September of 2018..." Link pointed out.
He flipped more pages. "None for 2019, either? What the hell!" He flipped more and more pages, making a disgruntled face at every point where there was no entry. He stopped. "Finally! 2022!"
"Last year?" Mira gaped, having stated the obvious.
"Seven and a half months, I think," Miles correct quickly.
"His diary held four years of entries?" Andrew gaped.
I've never written today. I never could. It hurts too much. I can't go on without letting something out, though.
It was a dark and stormy night. I'll never forget the way the drops bombarded the window panes. I'll never forget anything about that day. It was five days after our graduation and we were still celebrating our freedom from that place. We ate, laughed, and remembered the good times with Mr. Schue and each other before we would inevitably go our separate ways. I don't know why everyone was constantly at my house; Puck's had less rules. But regardless, we had run out of candy and chips, which is what everyone had lived off of for the past week. Everyone drew straws to see who would go out in the pouring rain to grab some more.
Turns out there were two short straws.
After a few innuendos about me getting the "short stick", they all waved goodbye and told me to be careful. I remember Brittany bursting into tears and begging for her dolphin not to go out in the storm. I reminded her that dolphins could swim before I slipped out of the door. That would be the last time they saw us as who we used to be.
We rode in silence. Looking back, I wish, more than anything, that we had spoke. If we knew what was coming, we probably would have.
I pulled into the parking lot. It seemed like no one else was crazy enough to leave their homes. But this corner shop was only down the street from where we lived, and much less of a hassle. If it wasn't raining and dangerous, we would've gone down the road more to an actual grocery store.
We bought many bags of chips and even more packs of candy. I knew the guys would thank us later. The cashier just handed me my bag and went right back to sleeping. We left without a word to the guy.
When we made it back out into the pouring rain, I realized: this dolphin could not swim. If it were possible, the rain was falling even harder. I could barely make out my car. But we never made it back to it, so it's not like it mattered.
I heard a scream. It was a shriek really. Not quite a squeal. I turned to her, was she alright? But I didn't get to see. Someone's knuckles collided with the side of my forehead, just over my temple.
When I awoke, at first I was amazed I wasn't dead. I knew getting punched in the temple could kill someone, but there I was, waking up. I wish I hadn't. I ached everywhere, but somehow I managed to roll myself over from my faceplant on the dirty black floor. There was no light in the room and now that I had gotten over the shock of being alive, I began questioning where on earth I was.
I eased into a sitting position. It felt like I had been hit with a baseball bat instead of a fist. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and when I turned my head I saw the outline of a person in the far corner. It was like something out of a horror movie. A shadow person.
"Easy, kid. Don't strain yourself. If we're lucky, it'll all be over soon," the figure—a man—cooed.
"What do you want with me?" I asked. It didn't come out as forcefully as I had hoped.
"Me? I want nothing with you. I'm in the same situation as you."
So at least I wasn't alone in the godforsaken place. I found out his name was Jack, he was twenty-seven years old, and he was a teacher. He had two daughters, ages fifteen and sixteen, who were here as well, but not in the room. I asked where "here" was. He replied with a simple "Hell".
I never used to believe in Hell, nor Heaven. If God didn't exist, why should Satan? It helped me feel a little bit better. No good, no bad either. Only life. There was no afterlife, not for the atheist. But in a span of just thirty minutes, I ate my own words. Satan existed. God still didn't.
I told him that I wasn't alone either. He nodded, and told me that my "friend" (I'm still not sure why he made air quotations) would be where his daughters were being held.
Ten minutes after meeting Jack, a door opened somewhere on the far side of the room. The darkness was covered with light and it burned my eyes. The second the door opened, I heard a sound much like a light coming on. It was strange, almost like a bink. Jack and I both squinted in order not to kill our retinas. We heard a subtle "oof" and a "gah" and a collection of groans. The door shut and Jack swiftly moved over to his daughters.
"Kurt, buddy. Is this your friend?"
I was up in a heartbeat, regardless of how much it hurt. I kneeled beside her. I tried to brush hair from her eyes, only to feel something very sticky. I thought it was blood, but I couldn't tell where she was bleeding from. It didn't bother me at the time; I was only worried about whether or not she was breathing.
And she was. She was even groaning in pain.
I tried to brush her hair away again, but she jerked up and smacked my hand violently. She was gasping and panting while Jack tried to comfort her with words. "It's over." he said. "They aren't here now." and "You're safe."
I examined my fingers. I couldn't see them being red. In fact, the blood was awfully jelly-like in texture. I sniffed it. That was certainly not blood. It smelled like bleach. I was ninety percent sure it was semen by this point.
The door opened again. The light came on and the bink sound was heard again. I looked above the door. A little green sign was there. That was what binked on whenever the door opened and turned off when it closed.
Two hulking figures entered. Men, for sure. I thought they had come back for her, and Jack assumed the same. He clutched protectively to his daughters, who appeared not to have much clothing left. She was the same; ripped, torn, and bloodied. With real blood this time.
But they weren't there for them. They were there for me.
Knowing exactly what was coming only made it harder. The two held me down while a third...
It seemed to last for hours. They had an endless amount of stamina. My brain was working on overdrive, taking in as much information as possible, but I was emotionally numb at the time. I could feel the pain, knew what they were doing. Blood came from places that blood simply shouldn't come from. But it all seemed to insignificant.
Instead, I kept hearing things. Songs, mainly. Don't Rain on My Parade, we win Sectionals our first year. Blackbird, Pavarotti was dead. Somewhere Only We Know, the Warblers were saying goodbye. But most prominently, to the point I can still remember the xylophone, Pure Imagination. But I didn't remember Jean's funeral. I was in the present, as it was happening; I was just standing to the side and watching. It was as if my subconscious was telling me it was all a dream, and it would be okay.
But the moment my face collided with the dirty floor for a second time, the music stopped. It felt like hours later, but it couldn't have been more than one. I could hear Jack's voice. His daughters. Her. The memories of what just happened flooded my mind in flashes. I couldn't hold back the tears as they mixed with blood and semen. I couldn't bare being touched or physically comforted.
It went on like that. It seemed like every hour they hungered for more. Sometimes they didn't even use themselves. They used whatever they could find. Wrenches, a beer bottle, the handle of an antique sword, whatever. Sometimes they would take one or two. Other times they would take all four of us. Jack was never taken, and I didn't know why.
But one time, that changed. They wanted her and Jack. But she had had enough. She had to have been taken at least a dozen times. The damn fool just refused to go, kicking one of them clangers. It sounded like a fantastic idea; I had nothing more to live for, right? We'd never get out of there, so why not go down fighting?
I got up to help when the other punched her in the jaw. I heard a sickening crack, which only served to ignite my fury. She got back up and we both headed for the one not currently handicapped. But we were forced to stop when he pulled out a gun.
He chuckled. It almost made me want to puke, thinking that thing—not even a human, for what human would do such a thing?—had been so close to me. But she was only deterred for a moment. She went on and plowed into him. He was too surprised to shoot her. The gun fell a ways away. I dove for it, thinking that maybe we would get out of there. I held it up and pointed it at the one she was tussling with.
She climbed off of him. Even in the dimness where the only light came from the ajar door, I could see the smug look on her bloody face. Her mouth was slightly agape, probably because her jaw was fractured. Jack and his daughters stood up. He came over to me with a smile on his face. We had won. I didn't think it was possible.
Jack made the reasonable argument that I could run faster than he or his daughters, who were still in shock, which would hopefully wear off soon. I handed the gun off to Jack and bolted out the door and up the stairs. We must've been in a basement of some kind. I ran down a straight hall to what looked like an exit. The fresh air hit me hard, but it felt so good.
It was nighttime. Of course it was. I had no idea how long I had been there, but it was far too long. I ran to find a phone booth to call 911. I passed many evening pedestrians. I must've looked quite the sight with no shirt and mangled capris that used to be pants. They must have thought many things like "What happened to him?" and "Holy shit, did Halloween come early?" and "Those damn gays, running amok!" I know the last one for sure, because he said it aloud.
I finally found a payphone. It's amazing how few there actually are nowadays. I pressed the three numbers I needed so desperately. I didn't know where I was, and told them as much. They said they could trace the phone and to hold tight. They were on their way.
They were taking so long. In reality, it couldn't have been more than ten minutes. They showed up, took one look at me, and told me to lead the way. I ran at top speed back to where we were held. I memorized the path without realizing it. A back alleyway was where I exited and where I reentered. They were right on my tail, guns out and securing the area. I led them down the stairs. I heard the bink as I opened the door. Strange, I didn't remember closing it.
When I looked inside, Jack wasn't holding the thugs at gunpoint. She wasn't glaring at them using that "bitch, please" look I helped her perfect.
Instead, the burly men that were so intent on holding me down were on the ground, bleeding and most likely dead. Both were shot in the head. Jack was also on the ground, his bullet hole somewhere on the roof of his mouth and gun still in hand. And there she was. A little hole and blood pouring from between the eyes. Eyes that were still open. Eyes that were a beautiful dark brown.
The next thing I know, I'm surrounded by white. White, so much white. Too much white. White like the sclera of an eye. Of eyes. Of her eyes.
It was odd. My memory is impeccable of that day (or rather, days), yet I don't actually remember losing consciousness the second time. But the nurse that was there checking my IV bag noticed my attentiveness. She asked if I was fully awake and I managed a nod. She asked if I wanted an immediate rape kit done.
Of course I did.
Four hours and a very uncomfortable experience later, I was back in the hospital room. It was still so white.
The door opened. I expected it to go bink, but it didn't. It just creaked a little bit. A man peered in. I was absolutely terrified. They had come back for me! I screamed and tried to get away, but the door opened fully. It was just my father. I relaxed slightly, but he looked so worried and guilty.
I wouldn't let him touch me. Nor Carole. Nor Finn. Nor anyone else in New Directions that came. Not even Blaine. I didn't want to be touched. The doctors—female doctors and nurses, never male—touched only as much as they had to. I screamed whenever they did.
I wanted to see her. She was certainly alright. I told my father as much. He was there almost constantly. When I asked him where she was, he excused himself and got a doctor. The doctor asked me where I thought she was. Of course, she was in the hospital, too. The doctor took my father outside. I never did get to know what they were talking about.
I started getting headaches. They gave me Ibuprofen, but it didn't help. I could remember every little detail of what happened since the rain fell on the window panes just three days ago. I had the problem of not being able to forget anything. And it hurt.
Eventually they found something to subdue that, adding to the pile of medication I was on.
I was able to go home a week later, if I wanted. Of course I wanted. I wanted something to be normal. The moment I stepped into the house, I gasped. Everything was dirty. Thick, black grime. Sludge. Dust. Blood, even. My father asked what was wrong. He couldn't see the filth. I immediately went under the sink and pulled out the strongest cleaning solutions we had and went to work.
I only got worse and worse from there. My mind couldn't stand not hearing that bink sound, so I began to supply it myself.
I talked to people that no one could see, having conversations with Jack and asking him what I should do now. I refused to go to NYU, it was too late. He said I should become a teacher, like him. I wasn't so sure.
I wake up every night, screaming and thrashing. Never quite remembering exactly what I had been dreaming about.
I demand that every door be at least cracked and that some windows had to be open. It felt like less of a prison when there were many escape routes.
I fear sex and anything to do with love. I used to enjoy those romantic comedies. Now I can only see the downside, what could happen behind the scenes. What they don't expect. Mostly about heartbreak, rape, and death.
I started fearing my own medication. I felt like it was making me the way I was.
I couldn't stand being home alone. If I ever was, I violently destroyed things while I cried and screamed. It was like someone else had taken over and was doing it against my will. When everyone else in the house was at work, someone from New Directions usually found a way to make it over so I wouldn't be alone. Usually it was Blaine, who didn't have to support himself with a job quite yet.
The most worrisome actually had me brought into the hospital. I was experiencing respiratory difficulties and felt like I was going crazy and was about to die. I was nauseous and trembling and feared I might be having a heart attack. The doctors diagnosed it as a panic attack, and warned that it will most probably occur again in the future. It did.
A month after the initial taking of it, the rape kit results came back. I was negative for the STDs they scanned for. They found that the semen matched those of two of the dead males found on sight. A third remained unmatched.
Three months later, I had to take the STD tests again. HIV positive. Someone screwed up and didn't give me the prophylaxis that could've prevented the infection. It doesn't matter much, though. It's virtually under control.
There came a point when I was so horribly held together that the doctor suggested a psychiatric hospital. My father was hesitant, but I begged him to check me in. I couldn't bare the thought of doing it myself, yet I wanted a safe place. I wanted to get out of that house most of all. Everywhere I turned was another place that I had a panic attack and I had to get away. He obliged.
I found myself asking for paints of a grey to black shade. I settled on gunmetal black and asked for a room or a closet. They allowed me access to a spare room. I painted it entirely, top to bottom. I asked for a big, rectangular green light. Thirty by ten inches. I wired it (I do thank my father for teaching me basic mechanics) to turn on when the door opened and off when it closed. But I could never recreate that bink sound. Other than that, it was perfect.
I still do the recreation. It's just another obsession.
Six years pass that way. Every year, I redo the room. Every day, the exact same. I helped the maids that clean my room daily. If it meets my standards, they're free to go. It was a pitiful existence. My friends stopped visiting and my family eventually gave up.
I hear his daughters are still out there. That they ran, too, after I had left. I hope to one day meet them again. Just to see if they're as broken as I am.
I know that third man is out there. He'll be caught, for sure. But I don't know how much longer I can wait for Olivia Benson to come up to me and tell me "I want you to know that he's dead. He was murdered in a cab last night." Sometimes, in the deepest pit of my desires, I wish I could be the one that does it. The one that snuffs out his flame. I know she wants to, and I just might have to do it for her.
The dead tell no tales, and if they do, no one listens. Only the dead who haven't died yet can unleash their fury.
"That's the end of the entry," Jason announced solemnly. He turned the page and scanned it. "The next day just continues on as if the other one never took place."
"Wow," Mira said, speechless.
"Yes, 'wow'," her twin agreed.
"I-I never thought that..."
"I don't think any of us thought that, Julia," Link sighed.
"D-Do you think any of the teachers know? The Principal, maybe?" Ashley asked.
"Oh yeah, I can see Figgins now!" Ryan impersonated, "'But Mr. Hummel! I do not understand why you would want to be a teacher when you have your condition!'"
"That... wasn't funny, but okay," his girlfriend mumbled.
"If anyone knew, it would be Principal Figgins, because he did the hiring; and Coach Sylvester, because she knows everything. And Mr. Schuester, because they're so close," Miles added as an afterthought.
"'Kurt, buddy, why are you doing that? Brad doesn't need his piano dry cleaned!' Get it? That was Mr. Schue!" Ryan explained his joke, making it that much worse.
"Better, but still no."
"Whoever knows about his condition probably wouldn't know the full reasons behind it," Jason said, steering the conversation back where it belonged. "And if I knew one thing, it would be that if Hummel found out we had his journal, he would kill us."
"Yes, I would."
"Hey, that's much better!" Julia praised Ryan.
A look of sheer horror crossed his features. "That wasn't me."
Slowly, the eyes in the room turned to face the speaker who stood with his arms folded in the threshold of the kitchen and living room.
"Hello, children. I think you have something of mine."
Shit's going down! So... How was your day? Your weekend? Do anything special? Well... Um... I'd like to thank the one person who voted on my poll. Yeah. So I guess I'm going to stop this author's note now. Or not. I actually have to tell you: Kurt's story should be summed up in two non-consecutive chapters. What does this mean? There will be at least three more chapters (at least, the very minimum) and an epilogue.
*sips imaginary soda and puffs imaginary candy cigarette* Yep.
