There was a box full of letters in Blaine's suitcase, letters that nobody would ever read, nobody but him.
Blaine couldn't remember when he had started writing them, but he had come to rely on them over time. He could write out how he was feeling and it's almost like he's actually talking to somebody, but he's not. It's comforting, it's like he's taking control of his life, but without actually telling anybody anything. He can't tell anybody anything, he can't be vulnerable. If he's vulnerable, people will actually see him, and if people actually see him, they'll leave. It only makes sense.
Why would anybody want to stay if they actually saw him, actually knew him?
Why would anybody need just another fucking whiney bitch in their life, who had the time to deal with his constant neediness or his clingyness?
The only reason that any of his friends talked to him was because the head of school had told everybody what had happened to him at his old school, it only made sense. There would be no way anybody would hang out with him if they hadn't been asked to; he wouldn't want to spend time with him.
At this point, his letters were the only thing that kept him holding on.
Holding on just one more day.
Every single day.
These letters.
They were a distraction, something to do with his hands, something to keep his mind occupied.
Just something.
They were dark and so fucking messed up; he would never let anybody read them, but they had helped him so many times.
Blaine had three favorite letters, he would read them almost every day. He can remember writing all of them, can remember exactly what he had been feeling when he wrote them; rereading them made him feel human.
From Blaine to Wes:
I'm feeling it again, it never stops. I just love it so much, I love it so fucking much, but I just want it to leave. I love it, but i want to be free from it. I just can't live without it. How fucking sick is that. It's not like it's just one part of it. There's so much that I love about it.
There's the most obvious part, the pain. There's a little shiver that goes through my body and I can actually feel, even if it only lasts for a little while.
Then there's the distraction aspect, I need to be paying attention to what i'm doing, it's better when I do. I don't think about those things when i'm doing it.
There's also the goal, to see some blood. It doesn't usually happen, but when it does I just, I don't really know how to describe it. I guess I can see some color in the world for once, and I caused it, which just makes it better.
When I do see the blood, it's like I've finally done something right, I'm proving to myself that I can actually do something.
It's just so aesthetically pleasing, the marks, when they're a couple days old, they look like they should be bleeding, but they're not.
Even when they are bleeding, as annoying as cleaning it up may be, the blood looks amazing against my skin, just so bright, almost like the sun.
I'm sorry, I need to go cut.
There was no blood on this letter, it was fucked up that Blaine wished there were.
From Blaine to Wes:
Sometimes it doesn't feel like it's worth it, you know being alive.
It feels like I'm drowning almost all the time
Like I'm flailing around yet so silent
Like I can't breath,
Like I could swim if only I had just a little bit more energy
But do I really want to swim? Is there any reason big enough to swim?
I could just leave.
It would be so fucking easy.I know where I would have to cut to just get out.
I was strong for so long, I stopped myself from researching where the most vital veins are, but I guess I'll always be this weak motherfucker who can't doing anything right and who just fucking sits here writing these letters that I will never fucking send. I simply can't stand myself. I can't fucking stand to see myself in the mirror, I can't stand the sound of my voice or the way that I always but into conversations and make everything awkward. I hate that my hair always looks like absolute shit, I hate that all I do is sleep all the time and never get anything done. I can't stand anything about myself, why can't I just take a break from life for a couple weeks.
I guess I'll continue looking for an answer.
There were tears all over this letter, the words were big and messy and smudged, it was a mess.
From Blaine to Wes:
I can only find one reason to stay alive at this point.
It's that one thing that you said a few days ago; you told me that you would be very mad if I died. It was a joke, but it meant so much to me. I've just been looking for a reason to stay for so long, and you just gave it to me.
I'll stay for at least one more day.
One more day.
One more day.
One more day.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, holding a bloody razor, Blaine decided that if he repeated it enough times, it may just be true.