Chapter Notes:

Wonderfully perfect reader,

Hello there. This chapter isn't my favorite, but it's not dreadful. Maybe you'll like it. Who knows? It's important, though, I'd say, and fairly gory. And don't worry, other people will get involved soon, but I'm trying to make it as realisitic as possible, and I think cutters are probably pretty good at hiding it, at least for a little while. That said, things will get tense because people will find out. I promise. I've got this shit organized, dawgs. Also - everything in here about the Google searching? Totally true. I Googled it all myself. You can even find the article I quoted if you do what Kurt does. Hell yeah. And how hilarious would it be if Kurt had a tumblr? Inorite? I am really, really tired and disoriented, so Imma just give you the chapter to read. And as always, reviews are like tangible happiness, and whenever you give me one, it adds to my collection of good emotions, so you should totes do it. :D

*Ahem* Enjoy!

Chapter 6

Of course Blaine noticed the gauze wrapped around his boyfriend's hands immediately, but thankfully Kurt had been expecting that. After reassuring him that, yes, "I just fell down – no big deal," Blaine's inquiries stopped, and Kurt was able to keep all the details of his fall secret, and the modifications to his own scrapes hidden. He was surprised at how composed he felt as ranted to his boyfriend again about his long sleeves. He seemed totally normal when he complimented his father on making an edible meal by himself when they were all seated around the dinner table. He was most proud of not warranting any suspicion from his family, even as he picked at his pasta, and tore his garlic bread into pieces to make it look like he had been eating it. Because, in truth, his stomach was in knots. Like the last time, the trip down from the adrenaline high had left him feeling ashamed and worried at his own reactions to the anxiety. For the second time, he had truly lost all control, and that scared him, but he wasn't about to risk mentioning his panic attacks to anyone, for fear of what that discussion might lead to.

He could handle it. Or so he told himself.

"What happened to your window?" Blaine asked when the two boys had headed up to Kurt's room after all the dishes from dinner had been cleared away and put in the sink.

"Uh… just some kids messing around, driving through the neighborhood. They through a brick through it. No big deal. It's not that hard to fix."

Blaine cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, 'that seems like a big deal to me', but he was put off by Kurt's nonchalant attitude, and didn't say anything other than, "Huh. Did you see who they were?"

"Yeah. Didn't recognize them." Kurt felt the familiar tug of guilt, as he made that bold lie yet again. Why did trying to keep the people he cared about, safe and unconcerned require so much dishonesty? He pushed the feeling down and reminded himself it was for the best, as he cracked the door open the slightest amount to obey his Dad's, "boyfriend over = door open" rule, and plopped on his bed, Blaine following in suit.

"How's your musical coming along?" his boyfriend asked with a smug look that said, 'I still think you're insane for writing that, by the way'. Kurt wasn't sure how to answer, thinking about his notebook, which was probably still lying in the dirt of the alleyway – untouched and irretrievable, containing all his notes and brainstorms.

"Fine," he lied, smiling sweetly at Blaine. "I've got a lot of good ideas." 'That I don't remember because they're all written down in my notebook,' he thought to himself.

"You're insane."

"You love me for it."

Laughing, Blaine put an arm around Kurt's waist and said, "Yeah. Yeah I do."

Kurt let himself become immersed in the coffee-mint-mouth flavor of Blaine full-heartedly, as his boyfriend reached over and pressed his lips to his in a passionate lock. Kurt was surprised that even after months of dating, his heart still fluttered when they kissed deeply like this. He appreciated the irregularity of his heartbeat now especially, as it was a very different kind of restlessness in his chest than the kind he got with the panic attacks. Kissing Blaine reminded Kurt that his body could release adrenaline in good ways, too.

Somehow, the boys found themselves horizontal, lying with Blaine stacked on top of Kurt on the cushion of the mattress, comforter and sheets getting tangled and twisted beneath them. Kurt was hardly aware of his surroundings, his thoughts consisting of 'he tastes so good' and 'how does he do that with his tongue', and then blushing a deeper red the more aroused he got. He was so entranced by their physical touch, that he was caught unaware as Blaine used his hand to slip underneath Kurt's shirt and explore the skin on his back, like they had done before.

It was fascinating how quickly good adrenaline could turn to bad.

Kurt's mind, flying to the bandaged gash on his stomach, caused his entire body to tense, and as hot as he was just a moment ago, he was equally cold now. He pushed Blaine's shoulders away from him to break the kiss, and was relieved when the other boy removed his hand from his bare skin and opened his eyes to look down at him quizzically.

"What's wrong?"

Kurt forced a grin, and said, with as much charm as he could muster, "Nothing at all. I just don't want to get too into it when my family could come up at any time."

"That's never stopped us before," Blaine pointed out, sticking his lower lip out in a mock pout.

"Yeah, and we've had some pretty close calls." That, at least, was true. The number of times Finn or Burt had come creaking up the stairs and the boys had to quickly pull apart and adjust their shirts and fix their hair in a mad rush was numerous, and Kurt was pretty sure Carole had actually seen them in the act once or twice, but was too nice to say anything. Thankfully, what Kurt was saying made at least a little bit of sense – he was getting pretty good at thinking up excuses on his feet.

Deflated, Blaine sighed dramatically and sat up, holding a hand out to Kurt, who tried not to flinch when his cut up hand gripped the other boy's, as Blaine pulled him up into a sitting position as well.

"No fair," he said in a singsong voice, reaching over to snag one quick peck from Kurt, who chuckled, but internally was breathing a gigantic sigh of relief, not wanting to have to think of another lie to explain why he had a scabby, gross looking cut adorning his stomach. He had been plenty dishonest for the night.

Perfectly content to just sit and be in each other's presence, the two of them popped in Sound of Music and watched until Blaine glanced at Kurt's alarm clock and said, "Oh crap, it's late. I have to go."

Thermos in hand, and one long goodbye kiss later, Kurt waved goodbye. Once Blaine was gone, he became acutely aware just how exhausted he was. He slipped on his pajamas and made the mistake of sitting on his bed to watch the rest of his movie until Blaine called to let him know he made it home. (He saw he had one missed call and a one new voicemail on his phone from an unknown number, which deterred him from feeling anything but instantly miserable and beat.) Within just a minute or two, he had passed out into a deep slumber, without doing a single facial treatment, without hearing back from Blaine, the light of the television flickering on his face until he woke up the next morning.

The chirp of birds out on the tree next to his shattered window was what finally roused him from his death-like sleep. The inside of his mouth felt like it was coated in some sort of sticky, gross glaze, since he had fallen asleep without brushing his teeth. He fretted about not doing his face treatments, and was almost afraid to look in the mirror. The red, block numbers of his digital alarm clock showed the time "11:21", telling him he had slept through most of the morning. For someone who was usually up and about by seven, he was certainly finding himself having trouble getting out of bed until late.

He checked his phone, which he was sure was almost dead since he hadn't put it on his charger. Seven unread text messages showed up on his screen, and he groaned to the empty room. He decided to just go through them all, knowing that if he didn't, the irritating mailbox symbol in the corner of his phone would drive him nuts.

He looked at the one from Blaine first, just to be certain he was alright. His, 'not dead, sleep well' text was confirmation that he was, in fact, just fine. Looking through the list of unread text messages, he saw that there were three different numbers, with two messages from each. He read all six of them, but really, reading just one would have been sufficient, since they all said the exact same thing – a repetition of the word, "FAGGOT" over and over again, filling up six times the 160 character limit of a text.

"Good morning to you too," Kurt mumbled, reaching over to plug his phone in. He was getting pretty sick of waking up to things like this.

Kurt stumbled out of bed, brushed his teeth lazily (but extra long) in the bathroom, and then found himself, still in pajamas, downstairs. Both Carole and Burt were at work, and Finn was either still asleep in his room or out with Rachel. He went into the kitchen and looked at the fridge where Finn had put his girlfriend's "What We Are Doing This Summer" list, and saw that he was, in theory at least, out at beginner's ballet class – yet another attempt to get Finn to dance, even though everyone else had long since given up, thinking it a worthless cause.

Blaine had an extra long shift at the Gap that day, and so he wasn't even going to hear from him until he got off, say for maybe a text or two during his lunch break. Mercedes was gone with her family on vacation to Florida, he didn't particularly feel like being a third wheel to the inseparable Tina/Mike pair, and he didn't really hang out with the other Glee club members unless it was a group thing. Therfore, Kurt had nothing to do that day.

Trying not to think of what had happened the other day when he had been left alone, he instead tried to think of this as a positive thing. He could try and put accompaniment to some of the few songs for his musical he had typed up from his notebook, but he shot that down, realizing that thinking about his musical just reminded him of the alley the day before. He could watch a movie, but nothing really struck his fancy – he generally saved the musicals to watch with Blaine, and romantic comedies were best shared with Mercedes, and everything else just didn't seem particularly enthralling. He could read, but read what? And going for a walk was so out of the question for more than one reason…

So what to do?

Kurt, although mature, unique, and not your average teenager in so many ways, still fell back on the most typical, teenage boredom cure when there was nothing else to occupy his time. Grabbing his laptop and taking it downstairs to the living room couch, he flipped it open, and opened a web browser, typing in "facebook" in the url address bar out of habit, rather than purpose.

After he had exhausted Facebook, all of his Pippa Middleton favorites, tumblr, fml, and even lolcats, he found himself staring at a plain Google page, not knowing what else to look up. It was one of those days where even internet seemed dull.

Whether out boredom, deep rooted curiosity, subconscious worry, or maybe even a little of all three, Kurt found himself typing the word "cutting" into the search engine, and hitting the enter button. 482,000,000 results popped up. 482,000,000. It seemed like too many. He scrolled down, looking at the links, which were things like, the "Self-Injury Wikipedia Page" and "Self-Injury/Cutting – ". Feeling a little overwhelmed, and not really ready to admit to himself why he was looking this up in the first place, Kurt simply clicked on the first result (appropriately labeled: "Cutting"), just to see what it said.

"Emma's mom first noticed the cuts when Emma was doing the dishes one night. Emma told her mom that their cat had scratched her. Her mom seemed surprised that the cat had been so rough, but she didn't think much more about it.

Emma's friends had noticed something strange as well. Even when the weather was hot, Emma wore long-sleeved shirts. She had become secretive, too, like something was bothering her. But Emma couldn't seem to find the words to tell her mom or her friends that the marks on her arms were from something that she had done. She was cutting herself with a razor when she felt sad or upset."

Kurt read through the first two paragraphs and felt like he was being talked down to like he was a kid. Part of him thought he should laugh at the childish voice the article was written in, while another part of him felt sick. He skimmed through the rest of it (five pages worth), not really sure what he was supposed to be taking from it. He read about why people cut, how they start, and how addicting it can become, but in true, "I don't have a problem!" fashion, Kurt eventually clicked out of the page, thinking to himself, "I'm not a cutter. I've only done it twice."

He checked the clock. It was nearly three, and he hadn't bothered to get the mail yet. Unenthusiastically, he sat his laptop on the coffee table and went to the mailbox and gathered up the small collection of mail inside of it, as per usual. He shuffled through it, and because his day hadn't been bad enough, he found a letter addressed to him in the usual fashion.

"Fantasic," he muttered to no one. Casting the other envelopes aside on the table where his laptop was, he ripped open his with little care, unfolding the paper inside of it. It was very much like the texts he had received that morning.

An entire lined piece of paper worth of the word "FAGGOT" written in blood red ink.

He couldn't deny their persistence.

Sighing, he took the letter upstairs, prepared to stow it away with the others in his bedside drawer, but when he entered his room he was distracted by the ring of his telephone – it went off of vibrate automatically when it was on the charger. He went over to it, looked at it, and saw he had 9 missed text messages, and 2 unheard voicemails. He was pretty sure he knew what they contained.

Sure enough, every text read like the ones that morning had. "FAGGOT" typed so many times it started to look like a string of symbols put together rather than an actual word. In a sickly Sesame Street-esque fashion, Kurt thought to himself, "this day brought to you by the word 'faggot'", as he dropped his phone with little care, barely even noticing the loud clunk it made when it hit the ground.

He wasn't anxious, but he was mad, and he was tired. He was mad and tired of all the hate that he couldn't do anything about. From down on the floor, his phone belted out a few notes to let him know another text had arrived, and he had just about had it.

"Fuck!" he cried, kicking the side of his bed hard with his foot, letting the word slip. He wasn't one to swear that harshly, usually finding it immature and barbaric, but he was feeling particularly barbaric at the moment, anger starting to fill him up to his very core.

Faggot, faggot, faggot – after all this time that was still his defining characteristic. It was still the thing that he was most hated for. It was his biggest burden, the thing that caused him the most misery – the one thing about himself he could never change.

"Some people cut because they feel desperate for relief from bad feelings. People who cut may not know better ways to get relief from emotional pain or pressure. Some people cut to express strong feelings of rage, sorrow, rejection, desperation, longing, or emptiness."

The information from the webpage he had browsed filled his head. Rage. He certainly felt rage right now. Maybe this is what Azimio and his gang wanted – to tear him up so completely on the inside that he became broken and scarred on the outside.

Fuck it. He was so sick of this. He was so sick of everything. He was sick of having to go out of his way to check the mail. He was sick of being afraid of phone calls. He was sick of adrenaline rushes making him feel nauseous – had he even eaten a full meal in one sitting in over a week?

So if this is what they wanted out of him, they could have it.

Fuming, mind as incoherent as if he was having a panic attack (and maybe this was some sort of form of that? he didn't know or care), Kurt marched back down the stairs, and went into the kitchen. He yanked open drawers, not thinking about which one he needed, until he happened upon one that held old steak knives they didn't use as frequently anymore. He rifled through them, trying to find the sharpest one, and when he did, he held it tight around the handle, and took it back upstairs with him.

Ripping his shirt off (he was still in pajamas), he looked down at his skin. The bandage on his first gash was starting to come off a little, and he could see the edge of the scab through the loose part. He paid no never mind, instead, focusing on the area just above his belly button. Standing up straight in the middle of his room, Kurt took the knife and began slicing up his skin. A particular design in mind, Kurt used the weapon to make cuts of various depths and sizes, letting the pain melt away his anger. He took the old shirt of Finn's that he had been using to keep his phone on, to mop up the excess blood so he could see what he was doing.

It took nearly a half hour, after going back over the cuts a few times, the knife too dull to make it work perfectly the at first, but finally, he had made his art piece. The word, "FAGGOT" gleamed up at him, blood drizzling from it. He smeared off some more of it with the t-shirt, and dropped both it and the knife onto the floor.

He went into the bathroom, where he ripped off the bandage on his old cut without any sort of hesitation, causing some of the scab to come off and reveal a light pink sore underneath. He unwrapped the gauze on his hands, piling all of it up on the counter. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hand scabs were patterned funny. He held them, palms facing the reflection, and looked at all his injuries together at once.

The bleeding FAGGOT, upside down in the reflection, stared at him, and he grimaced back.

Is this what they had wanted? Because they gotten their wish. Branded, bleeding, and helpless, Kurt dropped his hands, took a few deep breaths, and went to clean up all of his mess before his family got home, letting his fresh wound bleed freely as he did so. He didn't even bother to think of the implications of his actions this time, considering it a worthless endeavor. Apathetic more than anxious, frustrated more than scared, he didn't care. If they were going to keep harassing him, and he was going to keep it a secret, he was going to have to find a way to deal with it.

And maybe this was the way he was suppose to handle it all.