Chapter Eleven

"You can't pretend you're just watching the actors. Someone a little further away will see you acting the part of the watcher."

Kurt wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing. He fidgeted as he sat on the too-squashy sofa that was provided. Where was the classic psychiatrist trademark couch that he always saw in the movies? Instead, this particular shrink chose to lure his patients into a false sense of security with a loveseat that sunk far more than a few inches whenever someone sat on it, while the doctor himself sat in the matching armchair on the other side of the coffee table. This wasn't an office, it was a parlor, Kurt thought with disdain.

"Remember, I'm here to help," Dr. Kendrick said again for what had to be the hundredth time. Kurt had been there for only twenty minutes and already Kendrick was proving himself to be a quack.

"I just don't know what you want me to talk about," Kurt said, slightly exasperated.

Kendrick shrugged. He was a man in his thirties, with longish black hair and a goatee. "This session, we don't have to talk about anything serious. Just get to know one another."

"Uh-huh," Kurt said slowly as he tried to ignore how sketchy that statement sounded.

"So, what do you like? Any hobbies?" Kendrick twirled his pen deftly through his fingers.

"Um, fashion, singing…" Kurt said. "I help out my dad in the shop a lot."

"Do you enjoy that?" Kendrick asked. "From what I understand, fashion and mechanics don't often go together well."

"There's no conflict."

"Ah, good," the doctor said, scribbling on his notepad. "Did your dad explain to you why you're here in the first place?"

"He said he didn't know how to help me."

"Help you with what?"

Kurt rubbed his knees in agitation. "You already know," he said nervously.

"I'd like to hear you say it."

The boy shifted anxiously. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to do here, but—"

Kendrick held up a hand to stop him. "I've said before, Kurt, I'm just here to help. You're suffering from what's known as survivor's guilt. You think that because you lived to tell the tale, the shooting at your school is somehow your fault, when in reality you've nothing to do with it. And I can see by your expression that I'm correct, so why don't you tell me why it is you think you caused the students' deaths?"

Kurt stared at him.

"It's okay, you can tell me. I don't have to tell your dad if you don't want me to."

There was a long silence, in which Kurt held Kendrick's gaze, unwilling to open his mouth and give the doctor the satisfaction. "I think we're done here," Kurt said at long last, briskly standing and exiting the office. He brushed past his dad in the waiting room, who jumped up and asked him where the hell he was going.

"I'll be in the car," Kurt stated without turning around.

When Burt finally climbed into the driver's seat beside his son after apologizing to Dr. Kendrick and paying for the shortened session, Kurt was leaning silently against the car window.

"Listen, Kurt…"

"I'm not going back in there," Kurt said flatly.

"Well, you're not giving me a lotta options here, kid. So, unless you can think of something else, you're gonna be back here next Monday same time."

Kurt's head shot up in horror. "No, Dad, please don't make me—"

"You were screaming, Kurt," his father interrupted. "And don't pretend like it didn't happen again at least twice last night. You were screaming, and you're jumpy, and you're scared. So you tell me what to do, and I'll give it a shot. But if your answer is to just leave you alone, then I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna do that. Because no father in his right mind would sit by and watch his kid kill himself from the inside out."

Kurt sighed and closed his eyes, fighting back tears of anger and frustration. After a few minutes of waiting for his son to speak, Burt finally took the silence to be lasting and drove them home.


Mercedes and Quinn had stopped by the grocery store on their way home from another hospital checkup on the baby to pick up a few necessities, and Quinn had wandered off in search of pickles (one of her stranger cravings) when Mercedes had run into Puck in the canned goods aisle.

"Puck? Whoa, what'd you do to your hair?"

He shrugged, obviously a little uncomfortable, though Mercedes couldn't figure out why. "I got rid of it. It was really a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing."

"Oh," Mercedes said. "How are you holding up?"

He avoided her gaze. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "I'm doin' fine. You?"

She sighed. "I don't know. You do what you have to, I guess. I spend more time worrying about Quinn than I do about me."

He perked up at the mention of Quinn. "Is she here?"

"Yeah, she went to get something. She should be back in a sec." Mercedes studied him for a few moments as he made a show of studying the cans of tomato sauce on the shelf in front of him. Her eyes ran over the healing gash on his head. "What happened to your head?" she asked softly.

He looked down, growing more uneasy as their conversation progressed. "I, uh, got run into the wall during the…during the stampede." Mercedes frowned, her eyes full of concern and, yes, even a shred of fear for him. This was not the Puck she knew. The familiar Puck was brash, rude, blunt, sneering, and a little bit condescending. Mercedes swallowed as she realized that this new Puck scared her far more than the old Puck ever had.

"Puck? Hi," said a voice from behind them.

Puck's head shot up to see Quinn approaching with two jars of pickles. She placed them in their cart and smiled at Puck. "What'd you do with your mohawk?"

"Shaved it," he said simply.

"Looks good," she said, smiling again. Puck frowned. Quinn's smile was…off. Something wasn't right. "How's your vacation going?" she asked.

"Vacation?" he echoed. He glanced at Mercedes in confusion; she looked down sadly. He looked back to Quinn, and something clicked in his head. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. "Quinn—" He was about to say something to try and jolt her out of her stupor, but the look that Mercedes shot him was full of warning, and he said, "It's going fine," instead.

"Good," Quinn replied. To Mercedes, she said, "I'm going to go give Finn's cell another try." Mercedes simply nodded and, for Puck's benefit, Quinn added, "We're thinking of meeting up with him for burgers after we finish shopping. You can come if you want." With that, she turned and walked away, pulling out her cell phone as she went.

Puck stared after her in shock. "Mercedes, how long has she been actin' like that?"

"Since she found out who got killed," Mercedes responded, pressing her lips together. "She's convinced herself that school's out because of a vacation, not a shooting. And it's not just Finn. She keeps trying to call Tina, too, and Hayley, that girl who was on the Cheerio squad." Mercedes sighed and shook her head. "She's in denial, and I don't know what to do."

"Jesus," Puck said again. "You think she'll come to the memorial?"

"I'm hoping she'll snap out of it by then. If not…" Mercedes trailed off. "I don't know. She's in pretty bad shape. Every time we drive by school, she looks somewhere else, she doesn't watch the news or read the papers…she doesn't listen to me, either."

"Maybe you should call a shrink," Puck suggested, still stunned.

Mercedes sighed heavily. "I might end up doing that. I can't think of anything else."

"I know how you feel," Puck said, and Mercedes was surprised at the amount of feeling beneath his words. "Good luck, Mercedes. I'll see you around."


A/N: So, I felt a little bad about waiting so long and then posting a short chapter, so I decided to post TWO short chapters in one day. Hope you liked it, please review. Reviews help me write better and faster.