A/N: So, I'm posting tonight because I've had this bumping around for a while. Unfortunately, I have an exam in the chemistry course which makes organic chemistry (the class that fells half the premeds in most years) look like cake on Wednesday, so I will be studying tomorrow night. Also... if you're bored, look up the similarities between the assassination of JFK and Abraham Lincoln some time. Kind of cool.
He rides a diabetic roller coaster for the next week. His blood sugars are as predictable and explainable as springtime in Ohio, which follows the adage, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes." He spikes up to beyond levels the meter can read, and falls just as quickly into the clutches of hypoglycemia.
He finds himself slipping in other areas, too.
His schoolwork takes just a touch more effort. He simply cannot muster the energy to care about Latin verbs, so on Thursday, he skips the class yet again. He is a touch confused by the integration constant, although a touch confused for him seems normal for most of his calculus classmates. One thing he will say for France is that he was taught math well. He may have also mixed up a few details about the Kennedy and Lincoln assassinations, but his history teaching is a conspiracy theorist anyway.
His half of the room descends into a state of chaos. Nick keeps looking at his growing pile of dirty laundry, and repeating, "DUDE!" He just can't be bothered, though.
He is irritable all the time. He has to force himself not to snap at the Warblers, especially the younger and clumsier ones, as they trip over their own feet in practice. Regionals is less than two weeks away, and the Warblers need to take first. He doesn't know how he will stand it if Brabra, Lady Face and their troop of misfit toys beat them out. He comes up with a plan to keep Barbra out of competition.
He also stops taking the little blue tablet in the morning. He isn't complying anywhere, why should this one matter? He barely feels it as his body changes. He ignores his developing dependence on caffeine. He pretends he doesn't feel the times when his brain and his body just shudder and skip. He doesn't allow himself to think about the image that sits in the back of his mind all the time, now: a razor blade cutting the delicate flesh on the inside of his forearm.
He starts staying up late, messing with Photoshop on one of the Dalton computers. Finn Hudson really shouldn't post so many pictures of himself in awkward positions, and Dalton really should improve their firewall.
He lets the Rollercoaster, and the irritability and his new sleeping patterns isolate him. He gives up on trying to be nice to anyone, and tries to keep them at arm's length. It doesn't matter; he disgusts them.
If only he knew that Nick, Jeff, David and Trent keep meeting in Trent's purple-paisley appointed suite to discuss him.
"I hate watching him self destruct," Jeff complains.
David nods in agreement. "Short of Wes Montgomery, though, I don't know of anyone who could stage an intervention. He's out of control."