A/N: I'm terribly sad tonight, and I don't know what they gave me to make me sleep, but it produced this. Please tell me if you like it or hate it, because I need inspiration it seems.

~~~OOO~~~

"Kurt, you're going to Australia."

That was the last thing he recalled his father and step mother telling him before he blacked out into a dreamland on a beach. What did they mean, Australia?

But he had woken up, and Burt and Carole had gone, left, visiting hours being over, and he was lost, and confused. Australia. No. Why.

Following that doze, he found it impossible to sleep again, and he was sick of all the thoughts (because he was a head case, he'd heard the psychiatrist say, and his thoughts were horrible). So instead, he picked up a book his father had left him, and began to read. "The Power of One." It was called. God, Kurt hadn't read this book in what felt like forever. But as the night grew on and the clock ticked, he could remember why he loved it so much. Because it reminded him that even the smallest person, if they had a dream to be somebody big, could make it, no matter what the world said.

To his fourteen year old mind, the first time he'd ever picked it up, it made him feel invincible. It made him believe that he could soar and fly and change the world with the flick of a switch and the dream of a dream. Because, it taught him that it was okay to be a little bit different, which Kurt had always known he was, but it was about the people you meet and the places you go and the choices you make that help you land whatever you want.

So Kurt dreamt a dream of flying. Of being somebody, more than just a small town nobody who never went anywhere. He dreamt of the bright lights of Broadway and the haze of London, the romance of Paris, and the happiness of Rome. He dreamt of love, of making mistakes and learning from them. Of smiling his way until the day he died and never looking back on anything. He dreamt a life of happiness, a long life of happiness.

But then he turned fifteen and he forgot how to dream. Because now he was a big boy and started four years of hell that made him stop and hate everything. David became his new best friend, and they spent most days throwing kids who weren't up to their standards in dumpsters, and smoking whatever Dave's brother had sold them behind the gymnasium. And Kurt's weekends began to be full of alcohol, and more drugs, and cigarettes (by sixteen and a half years of age, he'd reached three packets a day on the worst of them), and eventually sex as well. Because his eyes grew hazy at party after party after party, and he'd never known the girl's names, and sometime's; he never even asked the boy's names either. Because he was empty, he just didn't know it. And sex and money and drugs and booze just made the darkness go away for a little while so that he could breathe.

Kurt was confused, because Dave would kiss him when he was drunk, and they didn't remember that no; they weren't supposed ot, because they hated 'fags.' And no; Kurt wasn't supposed to touch Dave like that, and not remembering his name shouldn't be an excuse. And no; Dave shouldn't do the things he did because they were oth too drunk to know what they were doing, until someone would walk in and call them names that they would never remember the next morning.

And Kurt became confused, and smoked more pot, and skulled more vodka, and rolled a dozen too many cigarettes, and fucked far too many girls. Kurt didn't know who he was any more. Because he'd forgotten what it was to be fourteen and read a book that mad eyou feel invincible, and dream that you could fly. He'd forgotten that his father told him that he mattered and that he should never forget that. Sometimes, he forgot that he'd been in love with his step-brother once, and that he'd never really fallen for a girl. But Kurt got the most confused, when he was slipped something in his drink on drunken nights, and swept up by a car because he didn't even know he had legs any more.

The hospitals became too familiar, but none so much as the holding cell at the Sherrifs office down the road. His file became the size of the largest Harry Potter book (God, Kurt missed reading those) and his dad tried to send him to see someone, and he tried a variety of someone's. But Kurt always opted out to smoke instead, because he was a fucked up boy, this he knew, but he had just given up on living, sort of. Which was sad, because Kurt had lost the sparkle in his eyes, and the touch of wonderment he'd placed on the earth was long forgotten, and some nights were so empty that he would take it out on his poor wrists until there was nothing more to bleed, except for tears which no one else ever saw, because he was supposed to be top shit, wasn't he. The saddest boys are always the most screwed up.

Burt and Carole and Finn and his best-friend-from-childhood Mercedes watched him spiral out of control, piece by piece, until he was broken so much there was no salvaging the reeckage. But they did not know what they could do. Kurt wouldn't talk, he never talked. He just smoked and drank and fucked whoever he could find when he was lonely.

And he began to watch the ticking's of the clock. Because someone had once told him that somebody, somewhere in this world, kills himself every forty seconds, and most nights, Kurt would count to forty and take deep breaths and say that he would be the next victim, but he never was, because the ticks were too pretty to drown out that time.

Until he got hit by cars, and beat up by tattooed men who had no idea he was just a confused little boy, and touched, and gouged, and punched and hit and hurt over and over and over again until there was no going back.

Which landed Kurt in hospital for the second time in three weeks, back to staring at the cracks in the ceiling, wishing Burt and Carole would just tell him about why Australia.

Kurt was tired. Tired of having open eyes and counting cracks and cobwebs. Of doctors and blood tests and plaster and psychiatrists. Of feeling and thinking and hurting and being broken. But most of all, what was the saddest, was that Kurt was tired of living, because he knew he wasn't really living at all anymore.

~~~OOO~~~

The hours passed and trhe book became finished. Kurt felt a little better, a little brighter, a little more hopeful, which is a lot to think when you're stuck in hospital with so much damage.

But his father and mother drifted in, with a woman who looked like her smile was painted on, which scared Kurt; because he was sick of fake people.

"Hi Kurt."

Great, even her voice was a little bit fake.

"My name's Belle and I've been assigned to be your social worker."

Wait what. Social worker. What the fuck were they on about.

"Kurt, I know you must be confused, let me explain. A couple of months ago, your father and step-mother approached my office, with a large amount of concern for your condition. They never knew where you were, or who you were with or when you were coming home. I know you scared them sick, and it was horrifying to watch. I told them to wait it out, that maybe you would get a little bit better. However; you didn't. Your actions escalated, and now you're in hospital; again, with a vast array of injuries and psychological damage. Well; in conjunction with your parents, and a team of psychologists and psychiatrists, we have decided to try you on a new programme."

Then Burt interjected.

"Kurt, you matter, you know that right. And I love you. And you must be thinking 'why are they sending me to Australia, they hate me.' Well Kurt, we don't hate you. We just hate who you've become. We love you, so we're sending you to aa family in Australia, who have a fantastic reputation of being able to sort teenagers, like yourself, out. We've spoken to the Anderson's, and they'd be happy to help you fix yourself there, before you come back here."

Burt's words became entangled with sobs in the back of his throat, so Carole took over, patting her husband's hand.

"Kurt, we love you, I hope you know that. We just, we can't be that scared again. We can't think you're never going to wake up. Please don't hate us for wanting you to live."

Kurt just stared at the ceiling. What the hell was Australia anyway. And these Anderson's. He knew nothing about them. And they sounded strict. Ugh. He could tell there would be no cigarettes or drinking or sex. And he didn't think he wanted to deal with that. Even though he knew it would make him a better person.

"…you leave on Friday." He'd droned Belle out with his thoughts.

Friday.

Fuck.

That was, he counted, in five days' time.

"This Friday?"

"Yes Kurt, you need to be there before anything like this happens again. I'm leaving you some brochures for you to read, and I'll come back to see you before you're discharged tomorrow, just to clear up everything one final time. I know this will be the best experience for you Kurt, please don't hate your parents for wanting you to be a better person."

Belle left. And his parents tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. Australia.

"How long?"

Burt looked confused.

"How long will I be there?"

"Oh, um, a couple of months, maybe? However long it takes."

"Okay, can you please go no, I'd like to sleep."

And Burt and Carole kissed him on the head, told him they loved him more than anything, and walked out the door.

And Kurt curled up into a ball, and did something he hadn't done for the longest time.

He cried himself to sleep with no intention of ever stopping.