Sorry I haven't updated in forever! I had a bit of writer's block. Most of this isn't really canon, so for the next chapter I think I'm going to go even further from the canon. I'll try to keep it in the same realm though!
WARNING: This chapter gets a bit intense. Triggers for child abuse, bullying, self-harm, slight past drug and alcohol abuse, and descriptions of past non-graphic suicide. Nothing in the fic is very graphic, and I don't plan on making anything too graphic, but if you find any of these things triggering, you might not want to read. Be warned!
He needed to find something to do. It had been days since he had returned from New York. Days since he had arrived back to school and was greeted by a slap from Tina and a huge fight with Sam. God, he hated himself even more because of that. Sam was just being himself, the sweet, caring, oblivious guy that had become Blaine's really close friend. But Blaine had screwed that up, just like he screwed up everything else. Sam probably hated him now, just like everyone else. He hadn't shown up to Glee Club at all this week, and he avoided the rest of the New Directions. They always gave him dirty looks when they got the chance. He didn't talk at school anymore, he usually just spent the day zoning out in class (his grades were obviously suffering) or listening to depressing music. His other friends seemed to get the message that he didn't want to talk, and frankly, Blaine didn't think they really cared. They were school friends, not real friends. After school, he went straight home, which was beginning to grow into a serious problem. His dad wasn't used to having him home so often, and he certainly didn't like him there. He had never admitted to anyone, not even Kurt, how abusive his father was. He'd always been able to avoid the worst of it. When he attended Dalton, he'd boarded there, preferring not to go home on the weekends like most of the other guys. But he'd been happy then, and he'd still had company there. When he was forced to go home during holidays, there had always been the odd family member in the house, so his father could never touch him for fear of being discovered. He even managed to avoid home during the summer by hanging out with the Warblers or getting a job. But then he had met Kurt in his second year at Dalton, and they'd become friends and then boyfriends. He'd made the change to McKinley, a difficult decision on his part. He'd have to live at home, he'd see his father more often. But it was totally worth it to be around Kurt. Things ended up turing out okay though. Blaine was always able to get out of the house. He'd stay after school for hours, practicing choreography and vocals for Glee or going to his Student Council and Debate meetings. If he didn't have anything school-related to do, he'd hang out at the Lima Bean or Between the Sheets with Kurt, Rachel, and Mercedes. He'd spend his weekends at the Hummel-Hudson house, watching football with Finn, Burt, and Sam while Kurt buried his face in a copy of Vogue. He loved to eat Carole's home cooking, since he never had that luxury at home. Even after Kurt and Finn had left for college, he'd still stop over every once in a while. As his friendship with Sam grew, he found himself there almost as frequently as he had when Kurt had been there. They would play video games and watch awesome superhero or sci-fi movies. They'd just have guy time, something he, regrettably, lacked with Kurt. He'd even hang out with Tina sometimes. They would watch classic movies and talk about fashion, the kind of things he missed doing with Kurt. But he had none of that now. Now he was stuck at home, to ashamed to go out to his old haunts for fear of seeing someone he knew. Staying home was definitely a problem. He heard the door slam downstairs and winced. No more leaving the room now, too risky. Even though he'd been rather brutally abused ever since coming out at fourteen, the beating still hurt in more ways than one. There was, of course, the physical pain. His father always made sure not to do too much damage, never anything that might require hospitalization, which would raise a lot of questions. But his father was a master at causing him pain without resorting to physical damage. The names he would call him. Fag. Freak. Disappointment. He heard them all the time, whenever he walked in the door. It was always worse when his father was drunk, that's usually when the physical beating occurred. But the names usually hurt more. He got them at his old school too. Everyday. None of the teachers seemed to care, and the students were unusually cruel. He lingered in a sort of depressed limbo. Not truly living, walking around everyday like a zombie. No friends to worry about him. All his friends had deserted him after he came out shortly before the start of freshman year. Anyone that might have been his friend was too afraid of being bullied. That's when he started cutting. He hadn't done it often at first, only when the pain became too much. When he got twin beatings from the kids at school and his father, when his mother sat watching his father scream abuse and never did anything, when Cooper didn't call even though he promised he would. Just a few cuts, nothing more, just enough to relieve the pain and make him feel better. But it got worse and worse. Soon it was happening every day. He needed more and more cuts to feel the sense of relief he'd felt in the beginning. But nobody cared, nobody noticed. His self-destructive behavior reached its peak after his beating after the Sadie Hawkins dance. He'd spent several weeks in the hospital for his more serious injuries, and was sent home later with a small bottle of painkillers for the headaches that often accompanied a concussion as serious as the one he'd received. He started abusing the pills, he started sneaking his parents booze, he needed five or six cuts to achieve the euphoria that one cut had given him months previous. He just wallowed in his own self-hatred. No one cared about his well being. Four months after the Sadie Hawkins encounter, you'd barely recognize him. He was a ghost of his former self. He'd lost a ton of weight, he had seemingly permanent dark circles under his dull, lifeless eyes, and he practically lived in long sleeve shirts to hide the angry, red marks on his arms. He never sang anymore, never played the piano or wrote music. He wanted to die, his life was so hopeless, so he gave up and tried to kill himself. He'd almost succeeded too. Cooper found him only minutes after he'd overdosed on some sleeping pills he'd found in his parent's bathroom. He'd wanted to surprise Blaine with a visit, his parents had told Cooper he'd been having a rough time. Cooper hadn't had any idea it was this bad. He called the ambulance, and they'd gotten there in time. He spent some time in the hospital, and then in a rehab facility after Cooper found out about the drugs and alcohol. He wanted to get better, he really did. Cooper helped out a lot, he made Blaine feel better, convinced him his life was worth living. Cooper was the one who convinced his parents to send Blaine to Dalton, where he'd be safe and happy even if it cost them more money. After he got out of rehab, Blaine started his freshman year over at Dalton. He was happy. He found new friends, got good grades, and started singing again. He brought the Warblers to a 4th place National title that year. He was popular with everyone, the Glee Club there was cool. Then he met Kurt, and life got even better. Even as a friend, Kurt brought an end to the lingering doubts about if his life was really worth living. Kurt was the most incredible, talented, compassionate, and caring person Blaine had ever met. He was the light of Blaine's life, his sun and stars. And Blaine had betrayed him. He'd hurt him so badly. Tears leaked down Blaine's face as the images from the god awful night flashed before his eyes. He was alone now, just like before. Alone with the world hating him and abusing him at every turn. Getting up slowly and painfully, Blaine crossed the room to his dresser. He removed all of the soft, warm cardigans and vintage t-shirts in the drawer, revealing a false bottom. He hadn't had the courage to clean out the drawer after returning from rehab. He'd been afraid that seeing all his old vices would push him back into their icy grips. He removed a small wooden box, and returned to his bed, where he sat cross-legged. Pulling out the few razors he still had, and laid out a small towel. His hand trembled slightly as he brought the razor to his forearm, a few inches above his wrist. Should he do this? It wouldn't really help him, he knew that. But he didn't know how to cope anymore. He brought the razor down quickly, making three short, shallow cuts. He watched the blood bead on the pale skin of his inner arm. Feeling satisfied, he wrapped the towel around his arm, and fell back on his bed, a tiny smile forming on his face for the first time in a long time.
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