~Shifty eyes~ It's been 18 months and yes, I'm alive. Thank you to the recent reviewers who rekindled my desire to finish this. It's because of you that I realized even if no one else does, I still have interest in this. So, thank you lovely readers – especially those of you who took the time to tell me how much you enjoyed either this story or Devil or both. I really, really appreciate you taking your time to read my work and leave a comment or a message.
This chapter is for you. 3
Annnnnd...also not rated R. Yay. Although there is some minor references to drugs so if that's not your schtick, keep stepping.
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Dear Journal,
Berry came back from Chicago today with news of another hoax.
My basement is full of Schuester's junk. His mail is being forwarded to my house.
The Cheerios lost their last two tournaments.
I found a gray hair last night.
A student made eye contact with me this morning at CVS.
Is this what it feels like to be a failure, Journal?
Sue.
* … * … * … * … * … * … *
Will,
I'm getting a little overwhelmed with the amount of school work that I have to finish. It's summer now but since I missed a few months of classes, I don't get a break. I guess since I had an extended summer last year (you know all about it since you were there too), I don't need one at all this year. Anyway, like I said...overwhelmed...and so instead of writing this two page essay on holiday traditions in Spain for Ms. Holiday's Spanish class, I'm writing to you instead.
I finally saw my dad. He didn't come to visit or anything like that (of course) but he didn't run away or spit on me when we ran into each other at Whole Foods so...I guess that's something. I went with Santana to buy popcorn. It was late and I'm trying to get out more (mostly because my shrink told me I should get out more...) so we took a walk together which was nice. I'm still not sure I understand Santana. She comes over to watch movies but we never really talk about much. I'm not sure what she does when she's not with me except she got a tattoo of a cat on her shoulder so she must go out and do stuff. Unless she gave it to herself. She is kind of crazy after all. I don't know. We eat snacks and watch movies. We don't get tattoos together.
This is getting disjointed again, I really need to work on keeping a train of thought.
Tangent over, we went to the store for snacks. I decided that if I was already going to be eating garbage, I might as well load up so I went to find peanut butter cookies and there he was. He always buys Oreo cookies, ever since I was little, every shopping trip...Oreo cookies. So he was standing there with his cookies and I tried to sneak away before he noticed me but no such luck, I guess. He turned and saw me and the look that came over his face made me want to cry. It was anger and grief and joy all at the same time. I really thought he was going to leave without saying anything but he walked towards me and hugged me for the longest time. He still smells the same, feels the same, looks the same...is the same, I guess. It's me who has changed.
He gave me his phone number and told me that I could call him and to tell my sister and mom that he said hello. He never asked me how I was or about any of...IT. I didn't say anything except "bye, daddy" actually.
That was a couple of days ago. I haven't called. I don't know if I will. I wonder if he'd look down on me even more if he knew how...that man...touched me. No sex before marriage. I know his stance on that and on abortion and on teen pregnancy and on homosexuals. I don't know his stance on rape. It's probably not good whatever it is. I do miss him though. I miss him taking me to baseball games and daddy/daughter dances. I miss him reading to me before bed and taking me out for ice cream. I miss going bike riding and taking trips to Disney World dressed like Sleeping Beauty. I miss him standing on the side lines of football games with the camcorder to record my Cheerio's routines. I miss being my daddies little princess. I miss a lot of things that I know I'll never get back.
You're one of those things I miss too.
Would you miss me if you were still around?
Probably not.
I still love you,
Q.
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William,
So Quinn asked me to write you. I guess that's a thing that everyone is doing now...? At least she seems to think so.
What would one say to a corpse? Sorry that you're not alive anymore? Sorry that you killed yourself and no one did anything to stop you? Sorry that I didn't do anything to stop you? It's not like it matters because you're never going to see this. There is no Heaven. You aren't floating around leading a divine choir of angels to comfort us in our time of sorrow. You're rotting along side the river some where or your body has been dragged out to sea and devoured by crabs and fish. There's nothing romantic about what you did. You're just...dead.
Everyone grieves in their own way though, I guess, so if Quinn wants me to write a letter to a dead man, I will. I'd do anything for the girl which is completely insane if you stop and think about it since it was just two years ago that I was pretty much invisible to her and she was nothing but the bitchy queen Cheerio to me. Funny how an unplanned pregnancy, a mutual disdain for Rachel Berry, and a kidnapping will change your perspective on a person.
I guess I should tell "you" about Blaine since you were a big influence on me finally showing the world the true me. I met him at the coffee shop and I knew right away that he was like me. He was so confident and so funny that I was instantly drawn in by him. He has the most gorgeous smile that lights up his entire face when he laughs! He's funny, polite, level-headed, confident...everything that I wasn't last year. I'm learning to be though. He's helping me. My dad is helping me. I guess a lot of people are actually.
Blaine goes to Dalton Academy and sings for their acapella group The Warblers. They're great. I've been to several of their shows and they're so talented that it's almost scary. Think Vocal Adrenaline but with actual human beings instead of robots. Watching them sing and perform though makes me miss our glee club so much that sometimes my stomach aches at their shows. Blaine asked me once why I looked so uncomfortable sitting in the audience and I blurted out everything. I told him about you and about Quinn and about babygate and Rachel and Sue Sylvester and Karofsky and my disastrous crush on Finn Hudson and about that psycho killer that stole everything away. He listened – really listened – and when I was through he bought me a coffee and gave me my first kiss.
It was everything I ever dreamed of.
Quinn really likes Blaine too. She watches musicals with us and only complains once or twice per movie. I even convinced her to go to Sing Along Sound of Music with us. She hated it...but at least she went. She seems to hate most things these days and I wonder if a big part of that is because everything that she does she'd rather be doing with you. It's a weird idea and I get so sad thinking about it because as weird as a romance between you and she was, it's heartbreaking that it's over. She really, really loved you. She really, really loves you. She's lost without you.
So is Finn actually. And Sue. And Ms. Pillsbury. And by extension, Rachel. A lot of people miss you – I wish that you could have realized how much they would before you decided to kill yourself, Maybe that would have changed your mind.
Sometimes I wish that Rachel is right. That you're not dead but instead hiding out somewhere because of some sense of over-inflated protectiveness. That's what Finn thinks too. He thinks you ran away because you were afraid that you'd hurt one of us after that night but that you didn't kill yourself because you know that would be a betrayal to Quinn. If that were true though, how did you pull it off? Where did you go? Where are you now? How is disappearing forever not considered a betrayal in your book when she is so completely heartbroken?
The complete implausibility of it all boggles the mind.
I wish it didn't. For everyone's sake, I really, really wish that it didn't.
Kurt.
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On a Thursday afternoon, two days after moving in, Peter buys a king sized air mattress but no air pump. It takes he and Will four hours taking turns to blow it up and at the end, when it's as full and bouncy as a jumpy house for children, they are both feeling more than a little lightheaded.
Peter enjoys the feeling. Will does not.
Even so, Peter is pretty proud of himself because now they have something other than the hard ground and scratchy blankets to sleep on. He and Huck take a nap immediately and sleep for a long time.
Will thinks it looks sad as the only piece of furniture in their abandoned little house.
He doesn't tell Peter that.
Instead, while Peter is sleeping, he walks to the closest Walmart and buys a set of sheets, three pillows, and a couple of soft blue blankets. As soon as he gets back he shakes Peter awake and together they make the bed.
It still looks sad.
Sad but surprisingly comfortable for an inflatable mattress, he notes mentally, as he sits.
He flops onto his back and the dog crawls happily on top on him. Peter laughs and kicks Will's feet lightly, "Come on, dude. You missed nap time. It's time to hit the parks."
And they do. Will with his guitar slung over his shoulder – fedora and sunglasses firmly blocking his identity, Peter with his harmonica and a banjo he found at a thrift shop for six bucks.
They play Mumford and Sons. Peter bought their album from Barnes and Nobel and has been listening to it non-stop for nearly three days. Will's heard each song at least two dozen times and can play them from memory. Peter knows all the words and sings them with conviction.
Will knows them too. He doesn't sing them.
Nashville is the kind of place where you can play folk, country, pop, or rock. Everyone in the city knows music and appreciates the variety. And so they do. Tom Petty, Tim McGraw, Travis Tritt, The Killers, Elvis, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Bruce Springsteen, Gary Allan, and The Script. Enough songs to fill up at least four hours if they're having a good night.
On this particular Thursday, they're having a great night.
It's nearly midnight when Peter asks Will if he knows anything by Journey. He doesn't want to stop playing until the bars close for the night. Drunks are loose with their extra cash and he says so, expecting a laugh from his friend
He doesn't get it.
Will averts his eyes, tightens his jaw, and shakes his head.
No. Not anymore.
Except...yes. Yes, he does. He knows almost their entire catalog because once upon a time he was a Glee coach with an affinity for sweater vests and matching ties and a group of kids who could sing the hell out of Journey.
All of that is gone.
He looks down at his worn plaid shirt and ripped jeans and suddenly hates himself. Hates himself.
He puts his guitar aside and starts organizing the money in the hat beside his feet. They've already emptied it three times because it was becoming too full – tourists don't want to give out money if you're showing too much of it, even if they are drunk. He ducks his face away from Peter to keep hidden whatever distress might be written there. It's his pain, not Peter's. It's his fucked up mind, not Peter's.
He's not Peter's problem.
"You done for the night? We're making a killing, Tom. Don't you think we got another two hours in us?" Peter is a little tipsy, taking generous swigs from a flask of vodka he keeps hidden in a pocket inside his grungy jean jacket.
Will remembers the taste of scotch and the promise he made to Sue that he wouldn't get pissed drunk again.
His mouth tastes bitter.
He nods. Shoves the money into his backpack because Peter told him to keep it there earlier in the night, grabs up his guitar, and stands. He doesn't look back to see if Peter is following him although Huck is walking tight against his legs so he thinks he probably is. He needs to get away from music for a little while. From the crowded streets and nameless people who crowd around listening to their makeshift band. Needs to forget every memory that just clawed its way into his mind and ripped open old wounds.
Needs to be alone.
The walk back to the house should calm him down, he thinks. Clear his mind, stop the pounding in his head. It should but it's not. He picks up his pace until he is running – jogging and then sprinting down the street towards sanctuary.
Blood is dripping down his back – leaving crimson trails on the dead leaves beneath his feet. Becky's blood, Monster's blood, Quinn's blood, his own blood. It's chilly and the dead leaves crunch under his sneakers,
No. It's hot. He's in Tennessee.
His feet pound the pavement – there are no leaves. Cars zip by as he runs down the sidewalk.
He's in Lima. In the woods by a cabin that he never really left. A cabin where Becky died and Quinn nearly did too. A cabin where he became a monster.
No...no, no, no, no...
Peter is shouting behind him. The dog is barking behind him.
He reaches the house. Loses his footing and falls on his hands and knees in the grass.
He's laying on his back in a pile of litter and mulch and sharp branches that poke into his torn flesh.. Puck is sitting beside him, holding his hand, crying and shouting at him not to die.
NO. No, no, no, no, no, no...NO.
He can't breathe as he struggles to his feet. Makes it to the window that hasn't been boarded up properly and pulls himself through. Up the basement stairs and to the living room where he trips over the corner of the air mattress and falls again, crashing hard into the dirty wooden floor boards. Crawls into the corner and presses himself as far against the wall as he can get.
His knees hurt. His palms hurt. Both are sticky with bloody. He tries to focus on that and calm his breathing.
He can't.
Peter is there. On his hands and knees crawling towards the corner. Crawling towards Will.
No..no, no, no, no, no, no, NO!
He must say the word two or three dozen times aloud before he realizes what he's doing.
If you speak, someone is going to get hurt.
And then he's sobbing. Burying his face in his knees and sobbing and he can't stop.
He feels Peter's arm brush his own and then his body is being pulled sideways and an arm is wrapped around his head. He struggles for a moment – he doesn't want to be touched. He doesn't want to dirty anyone. He doesn't want comfort.
He doesn't want it but he needs it.
He wraps his arms around Peter and sobs against the other man's bent legs, practically laying on top of his lap as he cries loud and ugly.
Peter holds on tight.
Seconds pass. Minutes follow.
Eventually, there are no tears left in him. He slumps on to his friend's lap fully and tries to discreetly wipe his face with his hands. Peter rubs his hair, smoothing it down and then pushing it back up in order to do it again.
It should bother him. It doesn't right now. Everything else just hurts too damn much.
They're silent for a long time. Will's occasional sniffle is the only thing that breaks it.
After what is probably close to an hour, Huck stands and begins to pace back and forth. He has to go to the bathroom and Peter pulls himself up, an apologetic look on his face, and takes him outside. While he's gone, Will crawls across the floor to the mattress and lays across it.
The darkened, empty room fades and he's laying on a sheet-less mattress in his office at McKinley after his...not his...baby was stolen from him.
He cried then too. Alone...always alone...
He's not at McKinley.
He's in a filthy basement, on a blood-stained mattress, being doused with chemical cleaner because...
NO!
He's in an abandoned house in Memphis, sleeping on the floor in the dark...like the rat that he has become.
He's bites his fist to keep himself from crying again. Roughly pulls his own hair to cause enough physical pain to distract from the feeling of his chest caving in on itself.
It only works a little.
Peter is back without Will hearing him. Sitting on the mattress beside him and rubbing his arm up and down fast enough to create a little heat. "What is this, man? I don't know how to fix it. Tell me how to fix it and I will."
You can't.
"You can talk to me, I know you can. Man, you spoke to save my life. You need to open up that trap and let me help you save yours." His voice is very quiet and Will struggles to hear it over the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Silence stretches for several minutes. Eventually Peter clears his throat, "There was this one time, I was maybe 17 or 18, when I got into the worst fight with my girlfriend at the time. Man, she was bitching at me for something or other and I don't know why but I just snapped. I punched her square in the jaw. Blood everywhere, knocked her tooth loose, scary shit. I don't know why I did it and I've never done anything like that ever again but we all do shit we'd like to take back. It might help to talk about it."
It might.
Someone will get hurt if you speak.
It might not.
"There was another time when I was 10, right after my mom got remarried for the second time, that her shitty new husband came into my bedroom after she was asleep and shoved his hand down my pants. I told her and she didn't believe me or she didn't want to believe me because dude had money and we had a place to live on the side of town where you don't need to lock your doors and shit. Shit went on for two years before she divorced him because she caught him riding this other chick at some bar. Things happen that we can't control and some times it helps to talk about that shit too."
Will looks up at Peter then. His friend looks nothing but worried and that makes Will feel even worse. He tightens his jaw and pulls harder at his hair. Bites down on his bottom lip until he tastes copper. Peter's hand goes up to rest on his own on the top of his head.
"Let go, man."
And...it's too much. He doesn't want the concern, or the sympathy, or the sad looks, or the feel of another person's comfort...
"All I want to do is forget." He chokes it out and his voice sounds awful. Absolutely awful. He didn't mean to speak at all but it's true. He's never said anything that's been more true.
It would be so much easier to be what he is now if he could just forget what he was before.
Peter smiles wide. "I can understand that too, man. I can help you with that." He moves so that he's sitting cross-legged in front of Will's face. Pulls Will's arm into his lap and pushes up his sleeve. "All I wanted to do my first time was to forget too. It works for a while the first time...just try not to make a habit of it."
Peter fumbles through his pockets a bit, pulls out a syringe that Will knows is always there, and then smiles, "Ready?"
And God help him, he considers it. Considers it for a long, long moment.
And then Sue's voice is running through his head and she's calling him a failure and threatening to have him committed and telling him how much she hates him and...
He shakes his head no, pulls his arm back, and curls in on himself. Buries his face in the mattress to hide from Peter.
"Okay...that's okay." He's quiet for a minute and Will knows what he's doing and he hates him for it because Peter can feel nothing for at least a little while and Will still feels everything, "Talk to me, man." Peter's voice sounds very far away and Will isn't sure he's really there or if it's like the basement and the people who were there but not really there.
It doesn't matter.
"Maybe we should...I can take you to the ER. You don't give them your name or anything and they can't charge you for it. Free health care the American way."
Will shakes his head violently. The hospital is the last place he needs to be.
He's tied to a bed – shackled like a wild animal or a vicious dog. The doctor has a swollen left eye, he says that Terri has a broken wrist...
NO!
Peter sniffles, "Maybe I should find a phone and call an ambulance. Do you want me to do that?"
Will doesn't answer and Peter repeats the question. Will, afraid that Peter may actually do it, shakes his head no once again.
"Then you need to talk to me. Whatever it is, man, whatever it is...I'll try to help!"
He doesn't want to answer. He doesn't want to speak. The thought of a trip to the ER is what makes him clear his throat and open his mouth. He breathes out slowly, "I hurt everyone that ever loved me and then I ran away because I'm a coward."
Peter sighs beside him, "Sounds just like my story, man."
I doubt it.
"I...I was supposed to go to the hospital...back...back where I'm from." He keeps his face buried in the mattress as he speaks but he's aware that Peter is looking at him. Watching him with still sympathetic eyes. "I was supposed to go because...something bad happened...to me...and then because of me."
"I can't see you hurting anyone on purpose, man. I really can't. Whatever it was that you think you did..."
"I...almost killed the woman I loved...love." He chokes it out. He doesn't know why. Peter will hate him. He'll think he's disgusting and violent and wicked and a monster.
"What?"
"I...she...we...there was a man. There was a man and he took us and he...he did awful things to us and to...a little girl. Her name was Becky and she was so, so sweet and funny and kind and this man...this man he killed her and I couldn't stop that. I didn't even really try. He hurt me and...Quinn...that's her name...he hurt us so, so badly. I couldn't get over it and... my head is so fucked up and it's been so fucked up ever since and I...I thought everyone was trying to hurt me and so...so I hurt them." He whispers the entire thing. He's never really spoken about any of it to anyone.
"You killed them?" Peter sounds confused. Will refuses to look at him.
"No...I...I would never."
"Then how did you hurt them?"
"I...I didn't know where I was. I thought they were him and I fought back. I...I...punched and kicked and I..." He trails off. He did worse than that. If he stayed he would have done even worse. He doesn't want to tell Peter.
"You left your entire life because you accidentally kicked some people? Your friends and family, I'm sure they understood that it wasn't your fault. They probably miss the fuck out of you. I know I would."
"It doesn't matter. I'm dangerous. I'd hurt them...I'd...I...I don't want to talk anymore." He can feel his throat constrict and new tears stinging his eyes, "I just want to forget..."
Peter is quiet for a long time and Will is sure that he's probably contemplating leaving. Packing up his shit and his dog and getting the hell away from the crazy, disgusting monster that lives in an abandoned house because he can't be around people. He's quiet so long that when he does eventually speak, Will startles hard. "I can't make you forget the past, dude. I've been trying for years to forget mine with smack or a booze and nothing helps, man. At least not for long anyway. I don't want you to fall into that shit. It's too easy to get stuck. I'm stuck right now." He shifts slightly and then his hand is on Will's shoulder, hot and heavy and real, "I can be your friend though. I think we're good at that. You and me and Huck against the world. I'd beat the living shit outta anyone who tried to hurt you and I know you've got my back too. We can save up a bunch of cash and then go out west to California. Hit the beaches and boardwalks and be warm and well-fed and happy."
California is a long way away...
Will nods without really considering any of the words. Nodding is easy.
"It's a dream, dude. Focus on that instead of all that shit that happened that you can't change. We can play and earn money and get the fuck out of here. I ain't even going to ask what set you off tonight, man, but if it was anything I did then tell me and I'll never do it again. You scared the shit outta me."
Will debates whether to speak again. He shouldn't...he really shouldn't but...Peter is his friend. Peter wants to help him. "I...I was...before, I was a music teacher of sorts and we...the kids...they sang Journey for a competition and...I just...it's stupid."
"No. It's not."
They're silent again for a long time. Early morning light starts to filter in through the boards over the windows. Peter shifts beside him. Lays down and pats the space between he and Will in invitation for the dog. "Let's sleep it off, man. Sleeping the day away always helps with a new perspective." He yawns and Will feels the mattress dip as he turns onto his side. "Do you want me to keep calling you Tom or are you ready to tell me your name?"
Will bites his lip until the familiar taste of copper drips onto his tongue. He needs a friend...he wants a friend...he..."Will. My name is Will."
"Well, Will, I love ya bud but if we don't go to sleep right now Huck will probably fall asleep walking tomorrow and we can't have that. Cranky-assed dog won't be good for nothin' that way. Good-night my friend."
He should say it back. He wants to say it back.
He can't say it back.
Not yet anyway.