fourth interlude
Blaine had been here for years. Or, at least, it felt like it. Himself and the blackness and the chill and the damp and the roughness scraping at his skin and the voice.
He was probably going insane. He had thought, for some length of time, though for who knew how long exactly, that the voice was schizophrenia, insecurities externalised into another being. He didn't know what it was now, but it probably wasn't that.
Oh, Blaine.
Something touched his hair. Nerves throughout his body sparked with fire; Blaine couldn't move to scream.
You're all alone. You poor child.
He'd been thinking about his parents a lot recently. And his brother. Cooper had been fine when Blaine came out – But you hadn't come out to him for almost six months after you came out to everyone else. He didn't find out until you were in hospital, bloody and beaten because you couldn't fend for yourself. He wasn't around very much after he left, was he?
But Cooper had been fine with it. And he hadn't let Blaine dwell on the seniors who'd attacked him. He'd been wonderful. Their parents . . .
For how long did your father freeze you out? For how long were you subject to stares, conversations changed when you walked in the room, set up with daughters of co-workers?
Months. Years.
They're probably relieved you're not there anymore.
The voice was lying. Telling the truth. Lie.
I can see it all in your head, poor, pathetic, friendless.
He had friends. People who chose to love him. And his parents did love him. They weren't always very good at showing it, and they didn't understand that nothing had changed, but they loved him, he was sure of it.
How sure? How much money do you think they're wasting on you while you cling to life?
Life. So Blaine was still alive. His body was still alive somewhere and his mind was still alive here.
He could still wake up. Kurt could still come back and find him.
Pain again – agony – more than fire – pain pain pain pain—
Your hope is so delicious. So futile.
He couldn't scream – so much pain – everywhere – KURT—
You'll see it my way. One day.
The pain was gone. So was the voice. Blaine was alone.
No. No, he was never alone. The voice was gone but not gone, still at the back of his head. Waiting. For him. For Blaine. For Blaine to fail. Failure was giving in.
Blaine didn't give in. He ran away.
But if giving in meant running away from the pain . . .
What colour were Kurt's eyes?